The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [104]
Ramses hadn’t spoken much either. He had been remembering Nefret’s caresses and loving words. If he had to break his promise to someone—and he obviously did—that someone ought not be his wife. And yet, mingled with his feelings of guilt was that ungovernable curiosity. Damn it, he told himself, this was an opening not to be missed. His mother would have jumped at it and lied through her teeth if she had to.
He had overlooked one little problem. Several of the suffragis greeted him with knowing grins as he walked along the corridor toward Harriet Petherick’s room. They would spread the word, Nefret would find out where he had been, and she would know he had deceived her.
Harriet was some time responding to his knock. When she opened the door he stood frozen for a moment.
He wouldn’t have believed she had such a garment in her wardrobe. It was more like the sort of thing her stepmother would have worn, flowing and feathery, ruffled and beribboned. And pink.
Involuntarily he looked over his shoulder. There, only a few feet behind him, was Abdul, grinning and bowing.
“Thank you for coming.” Harriet threw the door wide, giving Abdul an excellent view of her dishabille.
Ramses indulged himself in a curt, explosive suggestion to Abdul, stiffened his spine, and went in. He was in no mood to be polite. The fat was in the fire, and he intended to make sure she would sizzle too. He gave her a long, insolent survey, from head to foot and back. Color brightened her cheeks. He doubted it was embarrassment. Rage, more likely.
“Is there anything you won’t do for him?” he asked.
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “What makes you suppose I wouldn’t do this for myself?”
She came closer and put her hands on his shoulders, tilting her head back to look directly into his eyes. The line of her throat was long and smooth, the tanned skin fading into cream between her breasts. Her full sleeves had fallen back, displaying rounded arms. Ramses knew he ought to turn and walk out, but the damage was already done and there was still a chance she had something sensible to say. He took her hands and led her to a chair. “All right, you’ve made the effort. Why?”
“I told you—”
“Forget that. What’s he done that you feel obliged to go to such lengths to protect him?”
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Her hands tightened on the arms of the chair. Then they relaxed, and she looked up at him.
“You were attacked last night.”
“By Adrian?”
“No! I said I wanted to talk to you, and I do. I will. Please stop looming over me like that. Would you like a drink?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Then will you be good enough to get one for me? Brandy.”
No poison in the drinks, Ramses thought, as he went to the table. He didn’t take one for himself. At least he would go home without liquor on his breath. Moved by an embarrassing but irresistible impulse, he opened the door of the bath chamber and looked in after he had handed her the glass.
When he came back she was herself again, bolt upright in her chair, the ruffles drawn closer over her breast. She raised her glass in a sardonic salute.
“First round to you,” she said coolly. “What were you looking for? A journalist with a camera?”
He hadn’t thought of that. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.
“Have you anything pertinent to say, or shall I go?” he asked.
“I have a good deal to say. First, it could not have been Adrian who waylaid you last night. Oh, yes, I know all about it. The hotel servants gossip incessantly, especially with the help of a little baksheesh. They saw Adrian go to his room before midnight and will swear he did not leave the hotel.”
“I’m afraid their testimony won’t carry much weight.”
“Baksheesh.”
“And our European prejudices. However, there are points in his favor. I can’t see him forging a note in Arabic and laying such an elaborate trap. The fellow had some knowledge of the terrain. Adrian doesn’t.”
“You’ll tell that to the police?”
“If it comes to that, yes.