It was the sort of match every woman apparently desired, and yet, when Onora thought of the man to whom she was promised, she felt foreboding. He was a mystery to her, as much as she was a mystery to herself, and she couldn’t imagine, even for one moment, how it would be to be married—to him, or anyone else.
“In any case, the marriage shan’t take place until you reach one and twenty. Your betrothed is a patient man and if, when the time comes, you are so very much against the idea, he has sworn to release you.” Sir Montague gave a small frown. “Though I hope you’llbe sensible, my dear. You are but seventeen and have led a strange life, I’m aware. Believe me when I say such an opportunity is unlikely to come again.”
Her father was safeguarding her future, as was his duty, and she knew she ought to be grateful. If his motivation was also stirred by the thought of some as-yet-unborn grandson one day holding the title of marquess, she could hardly hold that against him. Their own lineage was the most watered-down sort, hailing from a minor Irish viscountcy.
“Come, we both should be asleep.” Her father handed her one of the lanterns. “I hope you may pardon me, Onora, for any…curtness.” He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I do my best.”
“Forgive me too.” She kissed him lightly upon the cheek. “It was impetuous of me.” Truly, she wished she’d never left her tent this night.
At her father’s gesture she walked ahead, toward the gateway and the ramp, leading out of the submerged dig site. Reaching the top, she waited for him,making his way slowly across the wooden planks.
As the sand rising steeply either side began to crumble, there was no time to shout warning. Even had she done so, there would have been no escape.
The first trickle swiftly became a deluge. If the man who fell beneath that torrent uttered any last words, they were buried with him.
CHAPTER 1
Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo
Late September, 1892
Four and a half years later
Sitting in the far corner of the terrace, tucked behind a conveniently placed fern palm, Onora sipped her cordial, enjoying the luxurious evening warmth and some moments alone.
The air was laced with sweet acacia and jasmine, masking some of the earthier scents from thestreet. Even at this time of the evening, the thoroughfare was busy, with hawkers peddling their wares just beyond the hotel steps. The traffic upon the avenue that separated the hotel from the Ezbekiyya Gardens made for interesting watching—camels and oxen and braying donkeys, alongside the merry jingle of one-horse carriages.
Traveling with Aunt Clodagh had proven a challenge, first by train to Dover, then across the Channel before resuming on the railway to Marseilles. The steamer to Alexandria had followed, then the final train, depositing them in Cairo. Days on end of Clodagh lecturing on what would soon be required of her—not only as a wife, but wife to a marquess, as Lord Seton’s father had died late the previous year. A certain period was obliged to pass before a wedding could be conducted, but that time was ending.
Aunt Clodagh was inside, with Seton and the strange assortment of guests who were accompanying them on hisdahabeya—the traditional way to travel the Nile,newly refurbished and renamed in Onora’s honor.
As Lady Seton, she’d have a great many duties in the way of hostessing, as her aunt kept reminding her, regardless of whether they were in Egypt or London, or at the Seton ancestral seat up near the Scottish borders.
Seton had told her about the villa he’d built down at the dig site. It would all be very pleasant, no doubt; a great deal more luxurious than the tent in which she’d been used to living during her father’s time.
She took another sip of cordial, rather wishing it was champagne. She’d had some for the first time the night before, when Seton had surprised her by presenting a ring, making their engagement official, announcing the event to the whole gathering. Being in the public dining room, people at other tables had swiveled to look, bestowing benevolent smiles.
Onora had been given no choice but to allow Seton toslip the diamond solitaire upon her hand and to accept the good wishes of all. Her aunt had been almost as surprised as her, but delighted, naturally.
Feeling for her ring finger, Onora twisted the diamond back and forth. She wasn’t used to how it felt, this family heirloom. The size of the gemstone was such that it rubbed slightly either side. Aunt Clodagh said she’d become accustomed to that, and soon wouldn’t notice. The ring was like this new life, and the new role she was stepping into. Not yet a perfect fit, but one that Onora was determined to make work.
In truth, she was exhausted. She rarely slept well or, at least, she couldn’t remember a time when her dreams hadn’t troubled her. Lately they’d become more intense, and she’d no doubt of the cause. She was anxious about marrying Seton, and her life changing in ways she couldn’t yet foresee. That was enough to disturb anyone’s slumber.
Nonetheless, she was glad to be in Egypt for, though it pained her to think of her father, it was where she’d grown up. This wasthe place she thought of as belonging to, despite much of that early life having been transient and makeshift, moving from dig to dig.
Slouching lower in the chair, Onora pinched her eyebrow between thumb and forefinger. The technique, for the easing of tension, was something she usually only indulged privately, but she felt very much in need.
You’re going to make the best of this, and you’re going to be happy.
If she told herself enough times, it would surely make it true.
“Excuse me, but are you all right?” A smooth, masculine, well-educated and absolutely English voice interrupted her thoughts.
Onora bolted upright. Had one of their party been sent to fetch her? It certainly wasn’t Seton.
“Apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The fellow leaned over her. “I thought you might be…well…crying, and that might mean you needed assistance—or maybe a cocktail.” The last he uttered with a roguish grin, though it dropped quickly enough when Onora gave him one of her stares.
She’d perfected them during the crossing to Alexandria, when an inordinate number of Frenchmen had attempting flirting with her. The trick was to keep one’s lips firmly compressed, then to sniff as if something particularly foul had wafted under your nose. It sent even the most persistent scurrying away. However, this one was still standing there, a drink in one hand and a newspaper in the other.
