Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [104]
Abdul produced not only the chairs but another table, which he managed to fit in, to the great inconvenience of persons nearby. Once we had settled ourselves, I asked, “Whom were you expecting?”
“Not David.” Margaret offered her hand to him and favored him with a friendly smile. “I didn’t know he was here. How are Lia and the children?”
“Never mind the amenities,” said Emerson. “Miss Minton, we have reason to believe that our adversaries are still active. You would be wise to take extra precautions.”
He drained his cup, slammed it back into the saucer, and rose.
“I do admire your style, Professor,” Margaret said. “Brief and to the point. Is that all?”
“Certainly not,” I said. “Sit down, Emerson, do.”
Abdul, who was well acquainted with Emerson’s manners, brought another cup. I filled it.
“What else is there to say?” demanded Emerson. However, he sat down and took the cup from me.
“Have you had any—er—unusual encounters, Miss Minton?” I asked.
“Don’t let us be so formal,” said that lady. “Our little disagreement is forgotten and forgiven, I hope?”
“By you?” I inquired.
“Ah, well,” said Margaret pensively. “Forgiveness is a conscious act. One cannot so easily forget an incident of such import, can one?”
I rather enjoyed fencing with a skillful opponent, but Emerson and his brother were showing signs of annoyance. Sethos, who had been pointedly ignored by his wife, expressed his sentiments without reserve.
“You refuse to take Amelia’s warning seriously?”
Margaret’s chin protruded. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“As you did in Hayil,” Sethos snapped. “If I hadn’t got you out of there—”
“Nothing would have happened to me.” She turned on him, eyes flashing. “You told me that yourself.”
“Perhaps I was lying.”
“It is a habit of yours.”
“Now, now,” I said.
“She only cares about her damned story,” Sethos said violently. “Didn’t you understand that she was threatening to accuse you, in print, of abducting her? Margaret, if you dare—”
“Then give me something else to write about!”
“Kindly lower your voices,” I ordered. “People are staring.”
Among the starers was Kevin O’Connell, red hair rampant, face sunburned, freckles blazing. He hadn’t been in the room when we arrived, so he must have followed us. Catching my eye, he raised his cup in salute.
“You see?” Margaret demanded. “He’s been on my trail all day. You promised you would keep me informed.”
His countenance almost as flushed as that of Kevin, Emerson rose in all his majesty. “And you, madam, were the first to break that agreement by perpetrating a physical attack against my wife—your friend. Come, Peabody. She has been warned. If she fails to heed that warning, on her own head be it.”
“Now, Emerson, don’t be so hasty,” I said. “I feel certain Margaret would never print such a story.”
“Not without inviting a lawsuit for slander,” Ramses said. “Everyone involved would deny the accusation.”
Margaret’s lips moved, as if she were silently going down the list of persons involved. “Hmmm,” she said. “Including you, Nefret?”
“You cannot possibly suppose otherwise,” Nefret said coolly.
“No harm in asking, was there?” Margaret said.
Her bland smile was too much for Emerson. His inherent chivalry even under such extreme provocation protected Margaret from his wrath; instead he turned on his brother. “Only a poor excuse for a man cannot control his own wife,” he hissed, and he would have said a good deal more, I expect, had I not interrupted with a loud “Good afternoon, Miss Minton. Come, Emerson.”
The reminder was sufficient. Silent and subdued, Emerson allowed himself to be led away. “Honestly,” I whispered. “You might as well have made a public announcement introducing your brother and his wife.”
“No one except ourselves heard me,” Emerson muttered. “And it was a—er—a generalization.”
“A very rude and improper generalization,” I said. “An insult to all womankind, especially your wife.”
“Come now, Peabody,” Emerson protested. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was