Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [87]
“Not your father?”
“No. But I assure you, the manager will give me the key if I ask for it.”
“Damn,” said Margaret loudly and clearly. The key turned in the lock and the door opened.
She retreated at once to the far end of the room and stood at bay, her hands clenched. Except for the boots, which she had removed, she was still wearing the stolen garments. Not that she had any choice; she had had to leave her own clothing behind. There was room for only a few toilet articles, and her notebook, in the handbag that rested on the table. Her hair hung loose, below her shoulders. She does look like Mother, Ramses thought. Even to the set of her jaw.
“Don’t try anything,” she warned. “I’ll scream my head off if either of you lays a hand on me.”
“Now why would we do a thing like that?” Sethos asked.
She glared at him. Some women might have felt at a disadvantage wearing ill-fitting clothes and with bare feet. But not Margaret. The sight of her, defiant and unrepentant, did nothing to calm Ramses’s temper.
“We brought your suitcase,” he said, dropping it on the floor. “I see Mother’s boots have raised blisters. I hope they hurt.”
He sat down, without waiting to be invited, and Sethos followed suit. Margaret relaxed a little, but she kept her distance. “How did you find me so quickly?”
“Ratiocination,” Sethos drawled. “Sit down, why don’t you?”
“I prefer to stand. What do you want?”
“An apology, to begin with,” Ramses said.
“She’s all right, isn’t she? I didn’t hit her very hard.”
For sheer effrontery, Sethos had nothing on his wife. Trying to match her coolness, Ramses said, “That was a filthy trick. You took advantage of her goodwill and trust.”
“All’s fair in love, war, and journalism—isn’t that one of her favorite sayings?”
“Damn you,” Sethos said with sudden violence. “Do you ever think of anything except your bloody career?”
“Unlike you,” she shot back with matching passion. “You’re the one who is responsible for putting your beloved Amelia in danger. You’re responsible for this whole mess! And what are you doing about it? Hiding out in the bosom of the family, putting them at risk, letting me walk into trouble without so much as a word of warning!”
She had some justice on her side. Ramses was tempted to say so, but he decided to keep his mouth shut. It was between the two of them now. Neither so much as looked at him. Sethos had risen to his feet. He returned her glare with interest.
“I am doing something about it. I had matters well under way when you pulled this idiotic stunt. Change your clothes. You’re coming back with us.”
“Like hell I am!”
He took a step toward her. Eyes widening, she retreated till her back was against the wall. “Ramses,” she exclaimed. “You won’t let him strike me?”
“Er—well, no,” Ramses said feebly.
Sethos gave Ramses an astonished look, as if he had forgotten he was there. “For God’s sake,” he stammered. “I’ve never raised my hand to her. Though heaven knows I’ve been sorely tried.”
“Maybe I’d better go,” Ramses said. Her appeal had been pure playacting; Sethos wasn’t a wife-beater, and Margaret wouldn’t have put up with physical abuse for a single second. The emotional temperature was so high he wanted to crawl away.
Sethos threw up his hands. “Have it your way,” he said. “I’m not going to drag you out of here kicking and screaming. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Just try…” He hesitated, and when he went on his voice was several decibels softer. “Try to stay out of trouble. You know what to do, and what not to do.”
“How touching.” Margaret rolled her eyes heavenward. “I’m better at taking care of myself than you are.”
Breathing hard, Sethos flung the door open and stalked out without another word.
“Good night,” Ramses said. “Lock the door.”
“But of course,” said Margaret. Her smile was infuriatingly smug.
Ramses caught his uncle up at the foot of the stairs. Sethos didn’t stop or speak until they were seated in the boat.
Ramses was absorbed in his own thoughts. He had seen a new and fascinating side of his impertubable uncle. He had no doubts as to the