Where the Library Hides (Secrets of the Nile #2)

Capítulo Nueve

CAPíTULO NUEVE

It infuriated me that the only place I could return to belonged to Whit. It was his hotel room, because I had no money to acquire another. No money, thanks to my scoundrel of a husband. My uncle’s face crept to the surface, and I flung the image away. He would be intolerable once he found out what had happened. Not because he’d be cruel, but because he wouldn’t be. He loved me—I knew that deep down—and seeing me brokenhearted would tear at him. And his kindness would ruin me because I had no one to blame but myself. Not only had I been wrong about Whit, but I’d been incredibly stupid.

How many times had he warned me not to trust him?

I hated that a small part of me understood his motives. It would have been easier to hate him outright if he’d taken the money for himself like a proper villain. My own heart would have slammed the door, given up fully. Instead, I felt as if it had been rent into two halves.

Two sides that warred against each other.

He had saved someone he loved, one half said.

That person had not been me, said the other.

“What about an annulment?” Isadora asked, breaking the tense quiet.

The cab lurched, and my hand immediately shot up to brace myself against the sudden movement. “It’s too late for that.” If I thought about that night, I’d shatter. It had meant something to me, but to him it was all an act. The next step in his plan. A way to secure my fortune for his use.

“Ah,” Isadora said without a trace of a blush. “Then what about a divorce?”

Frustration laced my blood. “I’d be worse off. Not married, no money, and my uncle would then have grounds to become my guardian again. Especially since I was robbed within days of my marriage.”

“Technically speaking, your fortune became Whit’s once the marriage contract was signed. He was within his rights to do whatever he wanted with his money.”

I glared at her.

“I’m not saying I agree with the law,” Isadora said hastily.

“I don’t want to talk about the law and how biased it is against women,” I snapped.

Isadora nodded. “Fine. Is there no other family you could ask for assistance?”

My lip curled. “I have an aunt, but she wouldn’t help me through this, either. She’d force me back on that boat to Argentina.” Horror gripped me. “In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if she was on her way to me now.”

My sister sighed. “Mr. Hayes might return to England.”

If only he would. I never wanted to see his face again. It was too painful, too raw. He made me feel foolish. A young girl playing at adulthood. “Now that he has money, he very well might.”

“So you’re penniless,” Isadora mused.

“It would seem so.”

“And your uncle won’t help?”

I shook my head. “My uncle wants me safe. And to him, that means far from the life he leads here in Egypt.”

“And what do you want?” Isadora shifted in the seat, tucking her full skirt demurely around her. I was amazed at her ability to appear unruffled when the slightest gust of wind would ravage my own appearance. Despite the steady rocking of the cab as it crossed the street, veering away from the numerous donkeys and horses and carriages crowding the path, Isadora didn’t have a hair out of place. There was magic involved—there had to be. I marveled at her. As a girl of nearly eighteen, she was remarkable; as a young lady she would be formidable. If I could keep her safe long enough from her horrifying parents, that was. The idea of failing her sobered me immediately.

“Elvira died because of Mamá,” I said. “I want her in prison. She knows what happened to my father. He might still be alive . I want her to tell me the truth.”

Isadora studied me for a long moment. “I have another idea. What if you went home?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she laid a hand on my arm.

“Listen to me before you dismiss the idea outright. Removing yourself from the situation might help matters. Your uncle might calm down, and distance from Whit might give you perspective. Without means, how effective will you be against our mother?”

My conversation with Whit came back to me. Spoken softly in a moment of vulnerability. I’d never put myself in that position with him ever again. But I held on to what he had communicated—I didn’t need money to move against my mother. To track her down and force her to confront me.

I only needed to know the right people.

“I have first-class tickets,” I said slowly. At Isadora’s confused expression, I elaborated. “One is a train ticket, the other a passage to Argentina on a luxury liner,” I explained.

“I’m not following,” Isadora said.

“I can return both tickets,” I said. “And I’ll still have some money left over. Enough for food and perhaps a couple of nights of accommodations.” The driver pulled up at Shepheard’s entrance, the terrace overflowing with tables and chairs filled with hotel guests, surrounded by potted plants and large trees. “Though, perhaps not here .”

“All right,” she said in her cool voice. “And then what?”

“I have no idea,” I admitted, my mind spinning as I tossed one idea over another. “But there must be some trace of her. Someone must know where she lived, who she spoke with, where she frequented. Mamá isn’t a phantom. She had contacts, friends. She traded artifacts. There has to be—” An idea slammed into me. “Isadora! The artifacts . We need to think about the items she stole.”

Isadora stared, her lips parting in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mamá can’t hold on to them for too long—it isn’t safe, and word will only spread that Cleopatra and her cache have been located. People will find out. It’s the discovery of the century.”

“This is sheer idiocy,” Isadora protested. “If we don’t know where Mother is, then it follows we have no idea where the relics are, or where to look for them.”

A square card printed with the image of a gate leapt into my mind. That card was an invitation to Tradesman’s Gate. “She’d fence the items.” I nodded, buzzing with excitement as a plan formed in my mind. Finally, a way forward. “And she’d do that by attending the next auction.”

“And do you know when that will be?”

“No,” I muttered in frustration. “But someone has to. Maybe we can sneak into one of the clubs in Cairo?”

Isadora narrowed her eyes at me. “You like to rush headlong into situations before really thinking them through, don’t you?”

“I’m told it’s one of my more exasperating traits,” I admitted.

“And you have a habit of doing things on your own.” Isadora studied me frankly, her eyes seeming to miss nothing. They didn’t match the softness of her face. They were too old for someone who was so young. “I was their child, too.”

A part of me had known she would offer to help me, and I recoiled at the thought. It was Isadora who stared at me expectantly, but all I saw was Elvira’s destroyed face.

There’d been so much blood.

“We ought to work together,” Isadora insisted.

“You’d see your father in prison?”

She pulled at her lip, and for the briefest moment, her eyes watered with genuine regret. “I can’t believe he’d do such a thing.” She shook her head, as if to clear it from any doubts. “He’ll end up dead if he continues on this road—I’m sure of it. I’d rather visit him in prison than at his grave.”

I opened my mouth to tell her that I’d manage this alone. It was too dangerous, and I’d only just found her. I had every reason to forbid her from doing this with me—but the words stayed put. Past conversations with Tío Ricardo swept through my mind. He, too, had tried to tell me what to do, to send me away, to not participate. It struck me how much I’d sound like my uncle or Whit, and everyone else who wanted me to leave Egypt, if I told her to stay away.

I couldn’t do that to Isadora.

In one act, her father had upended her life and made her an accomplice to his criminal activities. At least, that’s what everyone would think. I only had to think of Whit—that was his first conclusion, too. Could Isadora’s reputation survive the gossip? The implied accusations?

I didn’t think so.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m having second thoughts on how to proceed,” I said slowly. “It’s not like me to feel so undecided. Usually, I can make up my mind quickly—but there are too many unknowns. I’m not a soldier; I can barely shoot. I’ve slapped someone exactly one time. Even if I were to discover the location of the next auction, what can I do to defend myself against any of these people?”

“I know how to shoot,” she said.

A protective feeling swelled in my chest. Elvira was irreplaceable, a human being I had adored with all my heart. And now here was Isadora, a sister that I’d always wanted. The family I could hold on to for the rest of my life.

If something were to happen to her…

“I have been taking care of myself for a long time,” she said, eyeing me shrewdly, accurately reading my thoughts. “It seems to me that you have two options. Stay in Egypt with hardly any funds and complete the daunting task of locating our mother and work with the authorities in charging her for her crimes with the ultimate goal of her landing in prison. Or you can return home and regroup. Perhaps there are ways for you to acquire more funding. I’m assuming you own property, yes? Well, then. Hope is not lost.”

“If I go, what happens to you?”

“Well,” she said slowly. “I’ve always wanted to visit South America.”

I raised my brows, struck by the idea. I’d fought for so long to stay in Egypt—I’d gotten married to ensure that—and it hurt my brain to consider another option. But I wouldn’t be going home alone. I’d have a sister who could help me reassess and calculate a better plan.

“Think about it,” she said. “I’ll support you in whatever you decide. For now, return the tickets and give yourself time to think about what you want to do.”

“If I stay, I’d be risking both of our lives.”

She reached over and clasped my hand. Her voice was warm, rich like honey and just as comforting. “I know. But it’s my decision.”

I met her eyes. Hazel to her blue. “Yes, it is.”

I hoped she wouldn’t come to regret it.

“Here’s your change, Se?orita Olivera,” Salaam, the hotel manager, said, handing me an envelope near bursting at the seams. “The concierge was able to return your train tickets, and your passage to Argentina was refunded in its entirety.” He smiled. “I’m pleased you’ve extended your stay in Egypt.”

I nodded, unable to match his pleasant tone. “Shokran.”

As I turned away, a tall figure leaning against a granite pillar caught my attention. His arms were folded tight across his chest, as if he had to physically restrain himself from drawing near. I pivoted and marched toward the stairs, but moments later, his footsteps thundered after me. I looked over my shoulder as he took hold of my arm and swung me into one of the alcoves off the main lobby.

“Please sit,” he said.

I remained standing. “I thought I told you I don’t want to speak to you. I don’t want to be near you. I don’t want—”

“You’ve been very clear,” he said in an even tone.

“Apparently not,” I muttered.

“I can chase you,” he said in a chillingly soft voice, “or you can take a minute and listen to what I have to say and then decide never to speak with me again.”

“Say what you have to say, then,” I said, pulling free from his grasp. I sat on the low-backed chair and drew my legs as far from the opposite chair as possible.

Whit settled across from me. “You want to find your mother.”

It wasn’t a question, so I remained silent.

“I have some ideas where she might be.”

My lips parted. “Where?”

“She has a cache of artifacts,” he began. “It’s too risky to hold on to them for too long, and so she’ll have to—”

“Sell them at Tradesman’s Gate,” I broke in smugly. “I’m aware.”

Whit pinched his lips, the only sign I’d annoyed him. But I didn’t care. He wasn’t relaying anything I hadn’t figured out for myself. “If that’s all,” I said, rising. Once, I would have talked to him about the choice I had to make. Back then, I would have trusted him to give me his honest opinion and advice. But he had ruined that for the both of us. There was no way that I could tell him I was considering leaving. I couldn’t bear to see the relief on his face.

“ Sit down .”

I dropped back into the chair, startled.

Whit leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. “The gate always moves, from one location to another. I can find out where it will be next.”

I narrowed my gaze. “How will you come by this information?”

He only looked at me blandly. “Recall what I do for a living.”

“You still work for my uncle?” I said in surprise. “I thought he was too furious at our—” I faltered, unable to continue. We had tricked Tío Ricardo, and then Whit had tricked me. All I’d done since arriving in Egypt was to plot and scheme until I had gotten my way. I’d disguised myself, stowed away in my uncle’s dahabeeyah, lied to everyone—including Whit—when I snuck the artifacts from Cleopatra’s tomb and into my mother’s hands. I had allowed Elvira to dance at a ball, when I knew it was dangerous.

What hadn’t I done to get my way?

A sickening pit yawned deep in my belly. Whit and I were the same kind of human. People who maneuvered chess pieces on a board, aiming to win. Whit stared at me broodingly, seeming to understand every nuance to my expression. He looked primed for action, his shoulders tense, readying to chase after me if I so much as moved. His being here at all confused me. He’d taken my money. What else did he want?

“Why are you still here?”

“I know it’s hard to believe,” he said softly, “but I meant every word of my vows.”

“Did you?” I said, in what I hoped was a biting tone. To my ear, I sounded breathless. I forced myself to lean away from him.

“Yes, I did.”

I thought back to the promise he’d made me, said in his confident and arresting voice—the one that made others sit up and listen or get out of his way. That night, he’d spoken vows of protecting me. That had been the gist. Disappointment clouded my vision, and I turned my face away so he wouldn’t see my watery eyes. At no point did he promise to love me. He had been warning me, even then.

I was too much of a besotted fool to hear the words he didn’t say.

Papá used to say that whenever I felt lost, it was because I wasn’t telling myself the truth. He explained, in his soft, breathy voice suitable for libraries and churches, that people were often afraid to tell themselves the truth. They would rather lie, would rather deny, would rather ignore what was right in front of them.

I vowed to myself that I would always deal in truth. No matter how much it cost me, or weakened me, or even if it killed me.

One, I couldn’t count our wedding night as some kind of declaration on his part. It had been my choice. He would have waited, but I was the one who convinced him it had to be done.

Total ruination. That had been my intent.

Two, he had needed money and I was there for the taking. That, and he knew how badly I wanted to stay in Egypt. In proposing marriage, he was offering a solution—one that benefited him, but a solution nevertheless.

Three, he had told me never to believe a word he said.

A small voice whispered against my skin, a lie pulling me toward that moment in the tomb when he had kissed me in the dark. I thought we were finally laying bare our feelings, our souls. We were dying—slowly but surely—and I had stupidly thought the time for honesty had finally come.

Here was truth number four: Whitford Hayes would have kissed anyone.

And the last, most devastating truth: Whit was still in Egypt, not because he was honoring his vows, not because he wanted to help me, but because he wanted to find Cleopatra’s Chrysopoeia. He might have some misguided sense of obligation toward me, some sense of the responsibility that lay on his shoulders. He might even pity me. Either way, that was what was motivating him now.

I shuddered.

I couldn’t stand the idea of him feeling that way about me when I had been prepared to give him my life. He was here because our goals ran parallel to each other’s, and it gave him an opportunity to atone for what he had done. No—atoning for something meant that there was regret, there was remorse.

Whit felt neither of those things.

“Do you know that you never apologized?” I whispered.

“I’m aware,” Whit said in a flat voice. “And I never will.”

I could only gape at his ruthlessness. I couldn’t believe how much I’d misjudged him.

“I am sorry for the way it happened,” he amended. “That wasn’t what I had planned. But I can’t apologize for saving my sister, because I would make the same decision all over again,” he said quietly. “Arabella means a great deal to me.”

And I did not.

The implication hurt, but I refused to let it show.

It would be profoundly foolish not to accept his… expertise. But we had gotten off topic, and the sooner we discussed the parameters of our partnership, the sooner I could walk away from him. There was only so much of this I could handle. My heart was the one that was broken. Not his.

“I’m not accepting your help without conditions.”

He nodded in resignation. “I thought so.”

“No more lies,” I said. “No more scheming, no more half-truths and omissions.”

He made a noise at the back of his throat. “I’m not going to volunteer information that you don’t ask for— Will you let me finish, Inez ?”

I snapped my mouth shut and glared at him.

“But if it pertains to you, I’ll share what I know.”

“Fine,” I said icily. “Tell me the real reason why you’re still here. Is it to find the Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra?”

Whit’s jaw tightened. “It’s part of the reason.”

“And the other?”

“What are your other conditions?” he countered. “I know you have more.”

“No more leaving me behind. Wherever you go, I go.”

His brow darkened. “I’m not risking your life. Next.”

I went to stand and he flung out his arm, snarling. “ Fine . What else?”

“We are through,” I said, fighting to keep the tears at bay. “You can’t kiss me.”

Whit regarded me stonily and dipped his chin.

I stood, and this time he didn’t stop me. I walked three paces, when another condition pressed hard against my chest, robbing me of breath. Isadora had suggested it, but I’d dismissed the idea outright. Except she was right, it was the best course of action to take. For my peace of mind. For my heart. Once I said it aloud, there was no going back. But it had to be done—I would grieve afterward when I was far away from this place. Slowly, I turned, my heart racing. “And Whit?”

He regarded me warily. “What else?”

My lips trembled, but I was reasonably proud when my voice didn’t crack. “When this is all over, you will let me quietly divorce you.”

His eyes burned into mine. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Understood.”

WHIT

Hours later, I was already lying to her.

The streets were quiet this time of night, but even so, I was not going to bring Inez to an opium den. I could only imagine her expression the moment she crossed the threshold, swirls of smoke covering every inch of her, her face turned toward mine, alchemical eyes burning gold in disapproval.

No, thank you.

I kept my feet light on the dirt street, having turned off the main thoroughfare and away from the fancy buildings with their Parisian arches and elegant doorways. The road narrowed, and overhead, shutters were closed. Only the soft sounds of others milling in darkened alleys disturbed the sharp quiet. My revolver was a sure weight against my hip as I glanced behind me once, twice, three times.

Someone followed.

I couldn’t hear them, but my intuition sparked under my skin, raising the hair at the back of my neck. Whoever trailed after me was silent and no stranger to the streets. They knew where to step; they knew what shadows to embrace. I could guess who they were—I’d killed a contact since arriving in Cairo, and word would have spread.

Peter’s associates would be none too pleased with me.

At last, the nondescript entrance to the opium den I sought loomed ahead, a narrow doorway flanked by men lounging on the front steps. I passed through without comment, knowing they’d recognize my face under the harsh moonlight. Inside, low couches were filled with officers, diplomats, effendis, and beys, all enjoying the dancing women and drink, and the potent siren of the crushed poppy seed. I found a stretch of the wall unoccupied and leaned against it, tucked into the shadows and behind a half-drawn curtain separating one small room from the next. The low chatter of conversation became a constant thrum as I waited to see who would walk in after me.

I expected it to be my stalker, but a group entered—three, no four, people dressed in dark clothing, laughing quietly, already at their second or third establishment of the night. Frustration pricked—I didn’t have all night to see which of Peter’s friends was after me. I wanted to know where the gate would move next. My attention flicked to the adjoining room, and I slid inside, immediately noticing the man I needed to see. He was an antiquities officer by day and a curator for Tradesman’s Gate by night. He’d know where the next auction would take place. And fortunately for me, he knew who I was.

I sat down next to him, and he looked at me through bloodshot eyes.

“Bonne soirée, mon ami,” he said in a thick French accent. “That is, if we still are.”

“à vous aussi,” I said, accepting a drink from one of the women carrying a tray. “And we are. Why wouldn’t we be, Yves?”

He arched a blond brow. “I know at least one friend whom you have killed.”

I held up both hands, smiling. “I was provoked.”

“Hmmm.” Yves placed a cigarette between his lips and struck a match. He inhaled once and then held out the lit cigarette to me, which I took. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you around.”

“You know how it goes,” I said after a long inhale. “Different jobs, different cities.”

“What brings you tonight?”

I dropped my voice, acutely aware of the people surrounding us, sitting at adjacent low couches, standing along the wall, walking through the small room. The conversations mixed together, like several ingredients in a beaker, impossible to parse through who spoke what and from where. “I’m representing a buyer.” I exhaled through my nose, and I watched the plume drift upward, swirling in his face. “He’s heard of a cache from upper Egypt that will become available at the next auction.”

Yves flagged for another drink, his present one only had one or two sips left. “Dis m’en plus.”

I hesitated and then shrugged. Lourdes would have moved fast, and doubtless Yves already knew. “Cleopatra.”

He froze, his hand holding the glass halfway to his mouth. His eyes flickered over the room. “I wasn’t aware many people knew of the discovery. Très intéressant.”

“Quite,” I murmured. “Where will it be? The buyer is keen on attending.”

“Why wasn’t he sent an invitation?” Yves narrowed his gaze. “You haven’t gone clean, have you, mon ami ?”

“I just killed a friend.” I flicked the cigarette against a silver tray on the low coffee table. “Does that sound clean to you?”

Yves studied me. “Answer my question.”

“He’s new.” I finished the last of the cigarette and craved another. “Wealthy American.”

My companion rolled his eyes, but his shoulders loosened. “He needs to be vetted.”

“In process,” I said. “But he doesn’t want to miss the next one until then.”

“Hmmm,” Yves said. “I suppose I can’t deny you, can I? Or you might follow me down an alley and force it out of me.” He looked at me for confirmation, but I gave him nothing. Then he shrugged. “I’d rather have a pleasant evening. It’s the old government building this time. Le savez-vous?”

I nodded. “I know it. What day and time, s’il vous pla?t?”

“You know, I heard the strangest rumor about you.”

I tensed. “Date and time, Yves. I don’t care for gossip, especially about myself.”

“I think you’d care about this one,” Yves said. “I heard you married.”

Nothing in my expression changed, but ice crept over my skin, creating goose bumps.

“In secret,” he continued. “Quite the story, don’t you think?”

“I pity the broad, whoever she is,” I said with a laugh. “I thought you wanted a pleasant evening? I’m not going to ask you for the details again.”

“I gave the location for free,” he said. “If you want more, it will cost you.”

“How much?”

Yves’s eyes dropped to the gun, nearly concealed by my jacket. “I’ve always liked it.”

The revolver had not left my sight since General Gordon’s death. It was the only thing I owned that belonged to the general. The only physical link I had. I reached for it daily, unconsciously, as if it were an extension of myself. I hesitated, knowing there’d be no way I could get it back. But I had nothing else to offer in exchange, and while I could force him to tell me what he knew, I would not kill him for the information. He was, unfortunately, a useful contact. I let out a hiss and handed it over, taking care not to look at the initials carved in the handle. “Bastard.”

“Nothing comes free,” he said mildly. “As you’ve told me many times before.”

I waited, practically having to sit on my hands to keep myself from snatching the weapon back. Yves tucked it away, and I knew I’d never see the gun again.

“The day after tomorrow, four in the morning.” He drank his whiskey down to the last drop, set the glass on the table. “I hope your buyer gets what he wants.”

Then with a small salute, he stood and left the room.

A server immediately appeared, a man dressed in a floor-length tunic, and told me what I owed—for my drink and the incredible amount Yves had consumed. “Fucker,” I muttered as I rummaged through my pockets, searching for the last of my bills. Maybe I would follow him down an alley. From the corner of my eye, I sensed a figure brush past, dropping coins as they went. The money clattered against the wood of the coffee table, and I glanced up sharply in time to see the shadow of someone slinking out of the room, nearly made invisible by the curls of smoke and patrons crowding the entrance.

I jumped to my feet, quickly counting the amount, realizing a moment later it was exactly what I owed. Without another glance at the server, I rushed forward, leaving that room and then the next, bounding out into the night. I reached for my gun before remembering I’d traded it for information.

“ Shit ,” I hissed.

Both ends of the street were unnaturally empty. Nothing and no one moved. I backed up a few steps, my heart thundering wildly, until my shoulders hit a stone wall. I waited, sure my stalker would appear any second from their hiding place. Whoever they were, they had been close enough to hear my conversation with Yves—every word. Why else would they drop the exact amount of money we owed?

Onto the damn coffee table.

Right in front of me .

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. My breathing was even and soft, and I thought of reaching for the knife hidden in my boot. I sensed they were watching for any movement, waiting to hear the brush of clothing. Another ten minutes passed, and I remained coiled tight, ready to spring at the slightest provocation.

But no one materialized in the dark.

The room was quiet when I returned, both women sleeping on the bed, ensconced in the mosquito netting. I barely managed to keep from knocking into one of the stacked boxes surrounding the narrow cot. Quietly, I sank onto the bed, peeling off my jacket, unlacing my boots, before slumping backward, forgetting that my makeshift sleeping arrangements didn’t include a pillow. The back of my head hit a spring.

“Ow,” I muttered.

I tried to sleep, but the glimpse of my stalker stayed with me. I’d felt, rather than seen, them walk past the table. By the time I’d looked up, they were walking out of the room—a black coat, hat. I replayed the moment over and over, but no other details came.

The lack of them kept me up for the rest of the night.