The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [162]
Though I was not feeling quite my energetic self that evening, I insisted upon joining the others. I confess I felt like some heroine of fiction when I entered the saloon, reclining gracefully in the respectful grasp of my friend Cyrus and attired in my most elegant dressing gown. It was the same one I had worn that night in Luxor when Cyrus came to my room with the telegram from Walter, and as I fastened the clasps and tied the bows I was reminded of the extreme mental anguish I had suffered during that endless period. It was a salutary reminder. No matter what dangers yet faced us—no matter how doubtful my success in winning back Emerson’s regard—no torment could compare with those terrible hours when I had not known whether he lived, or would ever be restored to me.
The faces of those who rose to greet me were wreathed in smiles of welcome and (if I may not be considered immodest for mentioning it) admiration. The face I had hoped to see was not among them. He was not there.
“Curse it!” I said involuntarily.
Cyrus paused in the act of lowering me onto a sofa. “Did I hurt you? I am such a clumsy old—”
“No, no, you did not hurt me. Just put me down, Cyrus.”
René hastened to me with a glass in his hand. His expression indicated that he at least appreciated yellow silk and Chantilly lace. He was French, of course.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I don’t care for sherry.”
“Here you are, ma’am.” Kevin pushed René aside. “Just what the doctor ordered. I took the liberty of making it good and strong. For pain, you know.”
The twinkle in his eye as he handed me the glass brought an involuntary answering smile to my lips. I knew he was remembering a certain occasion in London, when he had entertained me in one of those curious establishments known, I believe, as public houses, and had choked on his own drink when I ordered a whiskey and soda. Not Kevin, I thought again—not the young man who had fought at my side against the masked priests, who had stood by us—when he was not writing insulting stories about us—during the Baskerville murder case.
“And may I say,” Kevin went on cheerfully, “how well that yellow frock becomes your sun-kissed cheeks and raven locks, Mrs.—er—Miss Peabody.”
“Never mind,” I said. “He is not here. Where the devil has he got to now?”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Glances were exchanged.
“Not to worry, ma’am,” Charles said. “Abdullah has gone with him.”
I put my glass carefully down on the table before I spoke. “Gone,” I said. “Where?”
All eyes, including mine, were fixed on Charles. He was saved from his difficulty by the advent of Emerson himself. As usual, he left the door open. Glancing at me, he remarked, “A hair of the dog, MISS Peabody?” before heading for the table and pouring a stiff whiskey and soda for himself.
Several replies came to my mind. Dismissing them all as unnecessarily provocative and unproductive of information, I said, “What luck?”
Emerson turned, leaning against the table with his glass in his hand. His expression roused the direst of suspicions. I knew that look well—the brilliance of those sapphire-blue eyes, the tilt of his brows, the little quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Smug” is perhaps the wrong word. It always suggests, at least to me, a certain primness which could never under any circumstances apply to Emerson. “Self-satisfied” is closer the mark.
“Luck?” he repeated. “I suppose you would call it that; I prefer to think of it as the result of experience and training. I have found another boundary stela. I thought there must be another one along the northern perimeter. It is in sad condition, so it behooves us to copy the inscription as soon as possible.”
Charles choked on his sherry. “I beg your pardon,” he gasped, pressing a serviette to his lips.
“Quite all right,” said Emerson genially. “Contain your delight, Charles; I promise you will be the first to have a go at it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Charles.