As You Desire (21 page)

“There was another vision, closer at hand, that arrested my attention,” Blake said. His voice whispered in her ear. “You are surpassingly lovely.”

“Oh, my.” Her hand fluttered to her throat.

He made her forget patched dresses, ledgers that wouldn’t balance, street orphans, and her grandfather’s debts. He’d strode right out of the pages of the wondrous Ouida’s romances and he found her,
her
, appealing. And yet she couldn’t still the inconvenient thought that her value wasn’t limited to her looks. She could translate—

“I see I am precipitous.” His magnificent eyes abruptly clouded. “I am a bold man, Miss Carlisle,” he said. “But I have never known a woman like you. You are unique. If I am too forward, forgive me. I would not offend you. Some would say that life had dealt cruelly with me. Perhaps that may account for my manner.”

She stopped and turned, her unease evaporating in a rush of sympathy. “Miss DuChamp?” It slipped out before she could stop herself. Shocked by her
audacity, she covered her mouth with her hand, staring at him in dismay. “I am sorry, Lord Ravenscroft.”

“No matter.” His expression grew shuttered, tense. With an effort he made himself smile. “And please, call me Blake. And I would like to call you Desdemona.”

“Why, yes. I’m sure no one will think it untoward. We are a close little community here.”

“So I gather. And how close are you”—his eyes glinted—“to my cousin?”

“Harry?” She blinked. “Harry is … Harry and I don’t … he doesn’t regard me as … we’ve never …” She stuttered to a halt, feeling her cheeks grow hot as memories of frantically kissing Harry crowded her mind. “We are friends,” she finished lamely, realizing that she spoke the simple truth and yet the word didn’t seem nearly intimate enough.

“Good,” Blake said firmly. “Harry’s years here have only made more pronounced the undesirable aspects of his nature. I wouldn’t want to think you’d become overly familiar with him. He has, I believe, for all his shortcomings, considerable charm.”

She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I suppose you could say that. What do you mean ‘undesirable aspects’ ”

He looked down at her, his face solemn. “Yesterday afternoon he got into a street fight with some peasants. Undoubtedly he’d swindled them. He told me to run rather than face his adversaries. I did not like it, but I was even more unwilling to physically
harm men I was unsure deserved it. And indeed, my worst suspicions were confirmed for afterward, rather than seeking me out and explaining the situation, Harry disappeared. I assume he was ashamed to face me. Harry would not have an easy time admitting culpability to me.”

Desdemona’s brow furrowed violently. “That doesn’t sound like Harry.”
But did it?
she could not help wondering.

“What would you know about Harry, Desdemona?” Blake asked not unkindly, and she could not help but think that she’d just been asking herself that same question. “I assure you, he is not that man you think. He’s not anything like the man you imagine he is.”

“But—”

“I won’t say more.” Capturing her elbow, he led her down toward the palace garden’s gate. A small Arab boy dressed in rags scurried up toward them.

“Sid! Sid!”
The child tugged at Blake’s jacket. “You buy scarab. Nice
antika
. Very old. Belong pharaoh.”

Desdemona stopped. It was Salik. Though thirteen years old, Salik looked like he was eight. Every bit of him was covered with filth.

She bent, examining the grubby palm holding up a cracked clay blob. It had been painted a startling blue, but the paint was chipping and the incision marks were sloppy.

“The lad wants
baksheesh?”
Blake asked, digging in his purse for a coin.

“No.” Salik scowled at Blake. “I am no beggar. I sell
antika
, relics. Good relics. Very ancient.”

“Well, this certainly doesn’t fall under that heading, Salik,” Desdemona said sternly, dropping the little beetle back into the boy’s open hand. “Put your money away, I beg you, Lord Blake.”

The boy grumbled.

“I have told you before, Salik. You should listen to me. Find Matin. He will teach you how to make a proper scarab.”

The boy’s grimy face turned thunderous. “I do not need Matin. I sell many, many scarabs.”

“You would sell many, many more if you’d just swallow that oversized—and completely unwarranted—lump of pride stuck in your throat and learn from a master,” she returned.

“Bah!” Salik grumbled, turning his back on Desdemona and jabbing a skinny, bony little digit at Blake. “You then, Good Master. You buy
antika?
Bring home to ladies, make a good impression,” he said, sidling closer.

“My lord, Miss Desdemona,” Blake said, “do you actually know this urchin?”

“Yes,” Desdemona said, eyeing Salik darkly.

“Well,” Blake said, holding out the coin he’d extracted, “we must encourage such an enterprising lad.”

Salik snatched the coin from Blake’s hand and scooted away.

Blake turned and beamed at her. “Resourceful little imp.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem very pleased, Miss Desdemona. Should I have given him more?”

“No.” She sighed. “I have been trying to convince Salik to join Matin for months. That boy could be learning a useful skill and making a real living rather than subsisting on pennies for those atrocities he’s trying to foist off as scarabs.”

“Matin?”

“A true genius at producing fake, er,
faux
scarabs. Most people can’t tell them from the real ones.”

“You’ve certainly come into contact with some interesting people here in Egypt,” he said.

“Actually, I bought quite a few of Matin’s facsimiles before I realized they were not authentic.”

“You?” Blake asked in surprise. “But you’re an expert.”

“At languages,” Desdemona answered. “Oh, I’m no Egyptologist. I know a few things, I have an adequate eye, but I am certainly not an expert in the leagues of my grandfather or Harry.”

At the mention of Harry’s name, the severe expression returned to Blake’s face. Desdemona gave up trying to fathom the rivalry between the two men. And rivalry it undoubtedly was. What else could cause such taut animosity? She sighed. “Anyway, Matin now has his own workshop.”

“Workshop?”

“It’s actually a small turkey farm. The boys make the scarabs and then feed—” She stopped. She couldn’t possibly explain to Blake that the turkeys’ digestive juices added just the right patina of age to the carvings. And that then the aged scarabs had to
be harvested from the droppings. And that she had helped Matin find a market for his wares—for a small percentage. It was not at all the sort of thing a young English lady did.

He was waiting, his grave handsome face puzzled.

“It’s not all that interesting,” she said. The words felt like a betrayal.

“M
rs. Douglass, please try the fruit. Very sweet. Very nice,” said Jabbar, the khedive’s secretary, cutting Simon Chesterton off in midsentence. Marta inspected the heaping silver platter one of the legions of silent servants offered her.

The desperation on Jabbar’s dark face had grown as the evening wound toward an end and Simon’s harangue on the uneven distribution of relics between French and English archeological factions hadn’t. “Or some cheese?”

Marta plucked a slice of melon from the platter and dangled it inches from Cal Schmidt’s mouth. “Would you like some?”

Cal’s eyes crinkled appreciatively at the corners. Instead of taking the ripe, moist-looking fruit from her fingers, he encircled her wrist, guiding her hand and its offering to his lips. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

In many ways—certainly the most important ones—the tall American was as mature as she. Over
the past few days he’d pursued her with a singleness of purpose that had at first amused her and finally charmed her. His directness and unapologetic materialism were refreshing contrasts to English posturing. And if he lacked sophistication, he possessed a native shrewdness that made up for it.

Cal released her hand and winked.

Of course, Marta thought, no matter what his attractions, he still wasn’t Harry, whose intelligence was flavored with such a piquant irony, whose sophistication was underscored with an element of ruthlessness. Harry had
lived
. It was unclear how or in what way life had marked him, but marked he was. The scars were subtle … and provocative.

“Please
, Colonel Chesterton. Eat!” Jabbar insisted, interrupting Marta’s thought.

Georges Paget, attending the party as France’s representative, paid no attention to Simon’s diatribe. He’d heard it all before. Besides, he was too busy eating.

“If your sultan were to give England the directorship of the Cairo Museum instead of those French—”

“Here, Colonel Chesterton, you must have a fig.” Jabbar popped the wrinkled brown fruit into Simon’s open mouth. Though an act of fond familiarity in keeping with Turkish etiquette, Marta was certain it served a dual purpose. It was a big fig.

With obvious satisfaction, Jabbar relaxed in his ebony-and-malachite inlaid chair. He clapped his hands and a troop of servants appeared. Smoothly, snowy Irish linen was whisked from the table as
crystal bowls were slid in front of each guest. In each bowl of warm, scented water floated a single water hyacinth. Earlier they’d dined on solid gold plates.

Despotism had its rewards.

“I have heard extraordinary reports of your great linguistic abilities, Miss Carlisle,” Jabbar said, dipping his fingertips in the water and waiting while an attendant dabbed them dry. “Are they true?”

The others politely turned their attention toward where Desdemona Carlisle sat beneath Blake’s possessive gaze.

“You must be very proud,” Jabbar prompted.

A frown turned Desdemona’s lips. A woman had to have a care not to frown in front of men, Marta thought. Too bad the girl’s mother hadn’t lived long enough to impart such basic wisdom.

“As I have never striven for this accomplishment,” Desdemona said slowly, “it isn’t something I expect I have the right to take any pride in.”

“You are too modest.”

“No,” she insisted. “I am not. Reading languages comes naturally to me.”

“But how interesting,” Jabbar said. He flicked a fingertip and another troop of servants swept in to replace the wine goblets with champagne flutes. For a despot’s lackey, Jabbar had unusually European tastes.

Desdemona smoothed her muslin skirts. At one time—at least three seasons ago—the gown might have been termed champagne colored. Now, however, it was simply “not white.” Marta gave a shiver of distaste. No matter what one’s financial situation,
a woman could
always
afford a new dress. And really, Desdemona should reveal more flesh if she was to keep Lord Ravenscroft’s interest. A happenstance Marta had every intention of encouraging.

“That’s real fascinating, Miss Desdemona,” Cal said. “Is it true you can read a full dozen languages? Every word? Even the pronouns?”

She colored. Good. Men like Blake Ravenscroft loved pink girls.

“Yes,” she said shyly.

“Even the ones like Latin?” Cal prodded.

“Yes. And Greek, Hebrew, Swedish …”

“How bizarre!” Marta exclaimed, and Blake shot her a glare. “Charmingly so, of course. I’ve never heard of the like.”

“She can do it.” Simon nodded, his beard bobbing up and down. “It’s the Anglo-Saxon blood. Much better suited to scholarly undertakings than the fevered blood of”—he shot a look at Georges—“other cultures.”

“Come now, sir,” Cal protested with a laugh. “You don’t really believe that.”

“The blazes I don’t! How many French chits do you suppose knew five languages by the time they were eight? How else do you account for her?”

“Intelligence?” Blake asked dryly.

Marta smiled. It was all going very well. She settled back preparing to give herself over to Cal’s attention when she noted Georges’s demeanor. Apparently his long-suffering silence had finally found an end. He drained the last of his wine and set the flute down with a bang.

“Intelligence is not the soul province of the English—”

Simon ignored him. “Intelligence coupled with British cool-headedness,” he declared. “The khedive ought to see these attributes more properly recommend the Eng—”

Jabbar poked another fig in Simon’s mouth.

“I’m all agog, Miss Carlisle,” Cal said. “How can someone speak a language that hasn’t been heard for thousands of years? Could you demonstrate?” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together expectantly.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. You see, I can’t actually speak the language, I can only translate them.” She shifted uncomfortably.

Drat the girl. She should take advantage of every opportunity to pique Lord Ravenscroft’s interest. Especially here, now, when Harry wasn’t present, Marta thought. There was nothing for it, she would have to step in.

“My dear,” Marta said, “a demonstration of your abilities would be a delightful interlude in … the conversation. I’m sure we’d all be thrilled to have an insight into the mind of the Egyptian.”