The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (8 page)

Flanders dropped his voice. "Because the sight of a table ... leg ... is known to excite men. They simply are not shown."

Good God. Englishmen became aroused by table legs? Truly this was an odd culture. Humiliated from months of being poked, prodded and instructed, Kenneth strode from his dressing room to the adjacent sitting room, with its silk-lined walls and gleaming furniture. He bent over, staring at his satinwood secretary desk.

His entourage shuffled after him, like a cluster of very proper black-coated bugs. Flanders’s worried voice sounded behind him. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but what are you doing?"

"Studying the desk legs." He straightened and glanced down at his groin. "No, doesn’t quite work for me. I’m not excited."

Suppressing a grin, he returned to the dressing room, resigned to more torture. The cook’s assistant strode in, looking self-important. Kenneth bit back annoyance. His French cook created heavy cream sauces he found difficult to digest. One did not entertain without a highly regarded chef, and Pomeroy came highly recommended, hired personally by his cousin Victor.

"Beg your pardon, Your Grace, Chef Pomeroy wishes to know if you desire the chicken or the beef for dinner tonight."

Kenneth locked gazes with Flanders.

"Tell him I desire the breast of the chicken."

Flanders winced.

"Yes, indeed. A nice, plump, white breast. I very much desire the breast. The bigger the better."

Oblivious, the cook’s assistant nodded and left.

Kenneth stood in his sumptuous dressing room, amazed at how his life was arranged into neat pieces: A butler to answer his door, an undermaid to light his fires, a chef to give him indigestion.

The tailor took out a long string. "With your permission, I shall take your correct measurements, Your Grace."

In total surrender, Kenneth removed his shirt and stood clad only in his white silk underdrawers. He stretched out his arms, feeling like a damn fool. The tailor ran the string from the curve of his throat to his wrist. No dignity. No privacy.

"This should be a woman’s job. I know the perfect one," he grumbled to the tailor. He closed his eyes.

He thought back to the black tents in the Egyptian desert where a man was allowed to indulge in the pleasure of a woman undressing him. Badra. Dark eyes sparkling like a black velvet night’s blazing stars. His heart thundered as he remembered the sun kissing her cheeks. The graceful sway to her hips that made men’s heads snap around in admiration as she passed. The kiss they’d shared in the cool desert moonlight ...

Blood rushed to his lower region.

Kenneth glanced down and bit back a groan. His swelling member bobbed and nodded in reaction to his thoughts.
Badra
, it said.
Oh
yes, yes, yes—we liked her very, very much
. Like a disobedient child, it had a mind of its own.

Flanders looked ready to drop into a horrified faint; the rosy-cheeked tailor looked impressed.

"Oh my," the tailor said faintly, putting a hand to his face. "Er, now I know the trousers will never fit."

Kenneth’s cool gaze snapped to his instructor. "And what exactly is the protocol for a moment like this?" Without waiting for an answer, he waved an imperious hand. "Out! All of you! Send in my valet with clothing that fits, damn it! Then get the man an old suit of mine and take your measurements from it!"

Everyone fled with the speed of a pack of yipping dogs. Kenneth collapsed to the floor, sitting Bedouin-style. Closing his eyes, he began breathing deeply and let the tension ease from his shoulders. He was so tired since his grandfather died. And the rich, creamy foods the French chef served did not help. In the past two months, he had become very well acquainted with one particular item in the large mansion: his extremely modern, lavish "necessity."

A few minutes later, a knock on the door sounded. He called out entry and opened one eye. His new valet timidly entered, bearing clothing.

"Beg your pardon, Your Grace—are you feeling well?"

"I like sitting on the floor," Kenneth said calmly.

Blood flushed the valet’s face. Kenneth stood. "You’re the new valet. Hawkins, right?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Just don’t measure me and you’ll do fine," he muttered. The young man offered a hesitant smile.

Curious about the servant’s background, Kenneth asked Hawkins about his roots, discovering the valet came from a large family in east London. The man chattered about them as he cleaned up the discarded clothing from the floor, then beckoned to Kenneth with a new shirt. The duke stood, turning again to the length of gilded mirror mounted to the dressing room wall. He held out his arms so Hawkins could slide on the shirt.

"That certainly is an odd marking, Your Grace."

Kenneth glanced at the muscles of his right arm. The small tattoo of an uncoiling cobra hissed in blue-inked fury. He touched it reverently, then drew his hand away as if burned.

"I’ve never seen the like. What does it mean?"

"It’s a symbol of my past," he said briefly.

Avid curiosity shone in Hawkins’s eyes as he helped Kenneth shrug on the crisp white linen.

"Your past in Egypt? I heard something of that. You lived with an Egyptian tribe of warriors?" Hawkins fastened on the strange, tight collar Kenneth still found restrictive after a year of wearing English clothing.

Familiar pain tightened his heart like a squeezing fist. Flanders’s suddenly useful advice rang in his mind.
Do not be familiar with servants
.

"Just help me dress, Hawkins. You’re not paid to ask questions," he said, his gaze meeting the valet’s in the mirror.

Hawkins swallowed hard. "I ... I apologize," he stammered.

Kenneth felt a wrench of guilt at the apprehension in the young man’s eyes. Hawkins probably feared dismissal for being familiar. It was his fault Hawkins had dared ask questions. Accustomed to the casual familiarity of the Khamsin, Kenneth still found it difficult adjusting to the strict English social classes. But his natural friendliness must be curbed.

You are Duke of Caldwell now. Khepri no longer
.

But he was lonely. In one year, he had gone from living casually among two thousand people to living alone, with only servants for company in a massive house. His life felt purposeless—until he’d received the cables from Egypt.

Kenneth’s gaze roved to the highly polished furnishings of his enormous sitting room. On the satinwood desk, two cables lay beside a brass well of India ink and a gleaming gold pen. One revealed exciting news: One of the necklaces of Princess Meret had been found.

His father’s greatest dream was coming true.

For years, Kenneth’s father had sought the legendary jeweled necklaces of Princess Meret. When Kenneth was four, his father sponsored a dig at Dashur, certain he would find the entrance to the pyramid and the underlying tombs. Wanting his family to be present at his moment of glory, his father had taken them to Egypt. They’d first crossed the desert to the Red Sea on a tourist jaunt to explore the ancient land.

That was when the Al-Hajid attacked. The excavation plans had died with him, along with the dream.

But two months ago Kenneth had allocated an enormous amount of money to continue his father’s work. Jacques de Morgan, Egypt’s Supreme Director of Antiquities, had been excavating. He’d found the entrance to the hidden tombs, and one of the necklaces. Ecstatic, Kenneth had started planning to visit Egypt to witness the dig himself. Then he’d stopped.

When he’d left last year, he’d vowed never to return. Too many bitter memories lay in sandy Egypt. Resolved to receiving news from afar, he’d ordered his trunks unpacked.

But now he’d received the other cable. It informed him someone had stolen the necklace. The news released the warrior inside him. Ancient cries handed down through two thousand years resonated through him. The Khamsin war call. His blood rode that fever, clamored for retribution.

Hawkins finished brushing down his charcoal gray coat and striped trousers. Kenneth reached down to his waist and recoiled. Habits die hard. No scimitar.

No, he was no longer Khamsin. He felt naked without weapons.

But at least his goal of finding the thief charged him with fresh purpose. England had the world’s best black market for stolen antiquities. He’d quietly search the shops and look for the missing piece. He relished the challenge. Hell, he needed one.

Kenneth gave his anxious valet a smile of approval and quietly thanked him. Relief shone visibly in the man’s face.

"Summon Zaid to me," Kenneth ordered, speaking slowly.

"Yes, Your Grace." The valet gave a respectful nod.

Touching the stiff cloth covering him, Kenneth stared at the stranger in the polished mirror. He had everything: wealth, title, respect.

Yet he had nothing. Emptiness pulled at him. He stiffened his spine, ignoring the hollow feeling in his chest.

"You asked for me, Your Grace?"

His secretary appeared in the mirror. Kenneth whirled, confused. He hadn’t heard Zaid approach. Had he lost his legendary ability to hear a grain of sand spill to the ground? His priorities had shifted like sand on Egypt’s dunes. Attuned now to English lifestyles, his warrior alertness had faded.

He studied the middle-aged man standing before him. His grandfather had met this man during a jaunt to Egypt and had rescued him from poverty. Zaid’s skin was the color of rich Arabic coffee lightened with cream. Literate in English and Arabic, he possessed a controlled, intelligent manner. Zaid ran the duchy’s business affairs with quiet efficiency; his grandfather had trusted him absolutely.

"I told you, Zaid—when we’re alone, I’m Kenneth."

"Yes, Your Grace." A smile touched the secretary’s mouth.

Kenneth brushed at his jacket lapels. "Any more wires from Egypt?"

"One arrived this morning." Zaid offered the cable.

Kenneth’s chest sunk. He busied himself with adjusting his tie. "What’s the latest news?"

His secretary read aloud de Morgan’s report from the Dashur excavation. Kenneth’s hands stilled on his cravat as he digested the information, a scrap of fabric found in the sand where the necklace had been stolen. Indigo fabric from a desert tribe called the Khamsin. De Morgan said four Khamsin had visited just before the necklace vanished. Jabari, Rashid, Elizabeth and Badra.

He held his voice steady as he dismissed Zaid. Then, lost in thought, Kenneth paced restlessly.

Could Jabari have stolen the necklace?

Perfect revenge for how he’d insulted the sheikh upon leaving Egypt. But Jabari honored ancient Egyptian ruins. This made no sense. Deeply disturbed, he reached for a china bowl filled with lemon drops. He popped one into his mouth. It was quickly gone, and hunger still pulled at him. He descended the polished staircase and headed for the kitchen. At the door he paused, remembering Flanders’s instructions. Ring for anything he wanted.

To hell with the damn bell. Why couldn’t he simply get a piece of fruit instead of all this pomp and ceremony? He wanted to peel an orange with his own fingers, inhale the citrusy tang, feel the juice spurt into his mouth as he bit down, not be handed it quartered into delicate pieces.

Kenneth pushed open the kitchen door and stopped cold.

His French chef stood at the trestle table, glowering at a sobbing kitchen maid. A large section of raw red beef lay on the cutting board like a sacrifice. He wanted to heave. Instead, he stared at the cook, who suddenly noticed his presence. The man snapped an order and everyone else in the room bobbed their heads.

"Why are you screaming at her?" Kenneth inquired evenly.

A nervous tic showed in the cook’s plump cheek. ‘Truly, Your Grace, it is nothing for you to be concerned over a mere matter of personnel. I was dismissing the girl."

Instinctively, Kenneth assessed the matter as he spotted the girl’s rounded belly. He studied the maid. Her red-rimmed gaze held his, pleadingly.

Kenneth thought of the legions of servants standing ready to do his bidding, tailors measuring his private parts, and a social secretary fussing over proper protocol for a duke. His thoughts turned to London, the frozen mist and this girl wandering those dank streets, begging for work, her feet shuffling slowly, her cheeks growing gaunt, despair in her eyes.

Anger simmered inside him. How could this society so easily dismiss a woman carrying an illegitimate child when far greater sins existed on their very front doorsteps?

"You will not dismiss her," he said with quiet authority.

Pomeroy’s beady eyes bugged out. The little hairs of his thin mustache quivered. He sputtered like butter on a hot skillet. Kenneth watched with interest; the effect was quite comical.

"But Your G-Grace," the cook stammered.

"Simply because the poor girl is in an unfortunate circumstance, you would toss her out on the street?"

Pomeroy stuttered some more. His face grew more crimson than the beef sitting on the carving board.

Kenneth went to the maid, who scrubbed her face with her stained apron. "You’re not leaving. I won’t lose good help."

"Thankee, Yer Grace," she whispered, twisting her chapped hands. "’E said ’e would marry me—and then ’e run off."

"Everyone makes mistakes." Kenneth thought of Badra, his own bitterest mistake, and of her refusal of marriage.

Hot blood infused Pomeroy’s face. He looked ready to explode. "Your Grace, I must insist ... you must not allow her to remain here. It sets a poor example for the staff."

Kenneth turned to the kitchen maid. "Can you cook?"

She bobbed her head. "I cooked for me family, Yer Grace. Simple fare, but—"

"Good. Simple sounds delightful. You can start with dinner tonight. You’re now the new cook." Kenneth shot the French chef a cool, calm look. "Pack up your things. You’re dismissed."

Pomeroy’s jaw dropped. "But, but ..." he spluttered.

"Today," Kenneth said in a quiet tone.

Then, feeling much more cheerful, he left a blustering Pomeroy screaming in French and escaped to the quietness of his library. There he sank into an over-stuffed wing chair and propped his chin on his fist, staring at the flames crackling in the white marble fireplace. Every room had a roaring fire. He was wealthy and could afford the coal. And yet he was so damn cold.