Heart of Light (7 page)

Nigel stepped carefully toward the doorway. And stopped again, directly underneath the stone arch. His hair felt as though it were pulling on his scalp, attempting to uproot itself. And his mouth tasted acrid, as though he'd been sucking on a mouthful of ashes. His mage-sense tingled.

This was no natural fire. Magic out of control had ignited this. Out of control or—worse—controlled and directed to attack.

Poor Lord Widefield, killed. And now the safe house in Cairo was destroyed, burned by a great power. But what power? What army? What great mage?

Nigel forced himself to step into the house, his once immaculate shoes crackling over unidentifiable burnt bits on the floor. The smell stung his nose and the feeling of magic tingled so strongly that he could barely breathe.

The front room showed signs of a sudden conflagration. The wallpaper looked largely intact—an innocuous design of pink roses tied with blue ribbons climbing coyly up the walls of this alien building proclaiming it as clearly as if a sign had hung on it, the abode of a British expatriate.

Only here and there, marks of soot and darkened stains showed that fire—or magic—had passed by in great, hurtling force.

The furniture around the room also looked largely unscathed—still polished, still varnished, its pulls shining brass. A vase of marigolds upon a carved wooden table stood fresh and intact. In the center of the room, where a round table must once have occupied pride of place, destruction reigned. The table retained its rough shape, but was hollowed out and burned as black as the door. And around it . . . six skeletons sat at the table. Or at least they were mostly skeletons, but in the way of magic fires this one had burned unevenly. Here half a face remained intact, showing a wide-open, surprised blue eye, a pale lip drawn back from pearly white teeth, a thatch of blond hair above it all. There a hand, manicured and clean, rested upon the black hull of the table, its tapered finger displaying the signet ring of a noble house of England.

Nigel recognized all the men sitting at the table, could name them all—Jones, Tarfoil, Castairs, Michaels, Knighton and Brightly. All of them belonging to the magical secret service. All of them come to Africa on the same mission, to support first Carew and then Nigel in finding the ruby for the queen of England.

A cold chill shot up Nigel's spine and he became aware that sweat soaked his shirt.

When Carew had disappeared, these men had been ordered to help the younger son of the Earl of Oldhall upon the same mission that had consumed the older and better brother. And now these men were dead. A piece of charred ceiling fell just in front of Nigel. It crashed against the table, sending dust and fragments into Nigel's hair and face.

Nigel was in Africa but he had no help, no support, no aid, no direction. His mouth felt dry. His hands shook.

Nigel's quest could change the shape of the world and set power firmly in the hands of Queen Victoria. It could stop all anarchists, the massing forces of destruction and chaos. For hundreds, thousands, of years, it could freeze them in their tracks. If only Nigel could accomplish his mission.

He was the man his sovereign had chosen, so Nigel would stay in Africa. He would find the ruby for the queen. He would find Carew for his parents.

But Emily had no business in a game that had just turned deadly. She must go back to England and bide her time at her father's house, till news of Nigel's death released her to make a more suitable marriage. Or till Nigel returned, in triumph, to claim her.

A LADY ALONE

Emily looked perfect—except for the shimmering
wetness in her blue eyes and the way her lips insisted on quivering. She bit her lower lip to punish it for showing her weakness, and told herself how much of a fool she was being.

What juicy stories the expatriates in this hotel must be cooking up, even now, while they sat around the marble-topped tables and reclined upon the velvet settees in the palm-dotted reception area. She was a married woman, arriving alone . . .

Emily bit her lip harder, till the marks of her teeth stood white upon it. She wished she knew how to explain her strange marriage. Perhaps Nigel didn't want to touch her because she was not properly English. Or perhaps her stepmother had been right and English men and women embraced only when they meant to have children.

But no man in the world left his bride alone for her honeymoon. Or did he? Alone in an alien city where he could have no other business? Had his marriage to Emily been only a blind, an excuse to come to Cairo? Did he have a paramour waiting here? It made a certain sense. Too much sense. It explained his lack of ardor.

But it did not explain his insistence that they both pack sturdy clothes. And it did not explain why Nigel would need such an elaborate subterfuge. So many men—most men—had mistresses in the open. Besides, why had Nigel not taken his clothes with him now if he meant to leave? Surely the deserted wife would need only return to England. What need would she have of extra clothing?

And how could Emily's father, in his investigation of Nigel, have missed a paramour of such importance in Nigel's life? None of it could be true.

The hotel was the best in Egypt, and perhaps the best in the world. At least, that was what the gentleman at Cook's had told Nigel. It managed a combination of the best features of an English hotel with the exoticism that tourists necessarily expected in the place to which they traveled—particularly a place resounding with ancient lore. Thus, the hotel was built in a square, each of the walls bordering streets of Cairo, but opening to them no more than three doors—well guarded by porters—and a series of narrow windows, high up on the walls of each of the three floors. The third door, on the inner side, faced a vast garden, at the bottom of which was a tall, locked gate. Each of the rooms had a wide balcony overlooking the street and another facing the lush, verdant inner garden of the hotel, well away from the dust, noise and excessive strangeness of the Egyptian street.

Outside the rooms, a long, broad hallway followed the external walls of the building, and staircases at each end connected the floors. The walls were white, and a permanent twilight, lit by windows high up on the walls near the ceiling, gave the space a restful feeling. The staircases and railings were dark, polished mahogany. The effect was a feeling of being in both England and abroad.

To add to it, one was as likely to meet with Arabs as with well-dressed British gentlemen and gentlewoman in this shaded, protected atmosphere. Men in caftans and men in suits, women in fashionable dress and women in a profusion of veils all passed by Emily, going in both directions.

Emily ignored the stares of the other guests and adopted the expression she had often worn when meeting new girls at the boarding school, or when new staff was hired at her father's home. This helped control the trembling inside and the feeling that at any minute she would burst into tears.

Where was Nigel? And when would he return?

The dining room, at the lowest level of the hotel, was a vast, square room, outfitted with a row of English-style windows facing the courtyard garden. Mahogany partitions and frosted glass protected the privacy of white-draped tables, turning each into a little, sheltered niche. Potted palms throughout added to the illusion that this was a civilized and partitioned jungle. An attendant led Emily to a table by the window, where she could look out at the garden.

At the nearest table, a tall, dark-haired man was being served. He appeared be holding his head up with as much forced pride as Emily's own. From the back, she saw a slender neck emerging from an ice-white shirt collar. His hair was dark and tumbled, as though he'd combed himself carelessly. He wore an immaculate white linen suit.

“Will you be waiting for Mr. Oldhall?” the server asked Emily.

She shook her head and was given a list of the available foods, from which she selected a suitable succession of courses, starting with some crudités and ending with cheese—the bouillabaisse and the roast lamb and curry being served in between.

The server departed, but the tall, dark man who'd had his back to Emily pushed his chair away from the table and stood. When he turned, his face looked so extraordinarily handsome that her breath caught in her throat and for just a moment her thoughts stopped. He called to Emily's mind the Greek and Roman statues she'd glimpsed in her trips to London museums.

Dark, deep-set eyes lit his chiseled features, surmounted by just slightly unruly black curls, all of it set above the broad shoulders of an athlete, narrowing to a waist almost as small as Emily's own, though the man stood a good two heads taller than her. His creamy coat and pants highlighted a long-legged, muscular build.

His gaze met hers and Emily realized that she'd looked him in the eyes. Then his craggily handsome features opened in a dazzling smile.

Averting her eyes, Emily fixed her attention upon unfolding her napkin and laying it across her lap. As she did, she was aware that the man approached her in decisive strides, arriving at her table so close that he almost touched the tablecloth. Emily continued to look down in embarrassed confusion, a painful heat burning in her cheeks.

He could not be thinking of accosting her. It was most improper. They had never been introduced.

Emily had heard that in outposts of the empire and in far-flung lands, when Englishmen met they often dispensed with the customary courtesies observed as a matter of course in the motherland. Perhaps the man thought she was single.

Emily twisted her linen napkin in her lap, refusing to look up, lest she encourage the man to do the unfathomable. But he cleared his throat and when she glanced up, involuntarily, she found herself staring into the darkest pair of green eyes she'd ever seen. They were so dark that at a distance she'd assumed they were black, save for the glistening currents of color that moved within like a vast, frozen, unlit ocean.

His eyes reflected increasing amusement, and Emily realized she'd been staring again. Before she could look away, the man assumed a military posture, clicking his heels together—not so much on purpose but as though long years in the army had formed his manner of standing and being in the world.

“Mrs. Oldhall,” he said, and bowed, polite and respectful like any gentleman in any receiving room.

Emily looked up, puzzled. How would he—? Of course, the waiter had said her name, but how did he dare use it, as though they'd been introduced?

She lowered her eyebrows and pursed her lips just as her stepmother did when she wished to freeze someone out. But his lips stretched in a slow, ironic smile, and—within his eyes—the glacial currents of a primeval ocean swirled and spun, betraying amusement and something else—something she couldn't even imagine, much less put into words.

“You'll forgive my introducing myself in this way,” he said, polite and composed. He spoke with a highbred accent, a lot like Nigel's. “You'll forgive me if I trample upon those rules of courtesy that I normally would strive to observe.” He again straightened himself and appeared to stand at attention. “It is just that I heard the servant mention your name, and I used to know the Oldhalls passingly well. I wondered if you were Mrs. Carew Oldhall or . . .” He hesitated and looked away from her. She was aware of it, though she did not look directly at him, but ostensibly at her hands gathered on her napkin. He cleared his throat. “Or perhaps Mrs. Nigel Oldhall?”

Surprised at the names, Emily looked up. Because she was fairly sure there was no other Oldhall family with two such an names amid its offspring. She met the man's gaze and saw that he was embarrassed, though he seemed to hide it under a faint veneer of amusement. A high color tinged his prominent cheekbones and he looked away from her, even as his lips tried to form a smile.

“I am Mrs. Nigel Oldhall,” she said, emboldened by his shyness. This man—with his athletic build—was doubtlessly one of Carew's friends. Carew was, after all, the athletic one who excelled at all games, or so Nigel had told her.

But the man smiled wide at the name. “Excellent. If you'll forgive me, my name is Peter Farewell, and I am one of Nigel's school fellows. Indeed . . .” His grin stretched, amused and gregarious, transforming his handsome face into the picture of friendliness. “Indeed, I would own that I was Nigel's best friend in our boarding school days. We were like brothers, he and I. Companions in a dozen escapades and mad breaking of the rules.” He clasped the back of the chair across from hers.