His lips flattened to a pale slash. “Bastard.”
I stared at him, aghast. Slowly, he was becoming someone I could call a friend. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It would be easier if I didn’t like him at all. I cleared my throat. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“If he’s wearing it, then retrieving it might be impossible. I’m more concerned that he’s flaunting it.”
I didn’t understand his point. “Why does it concern you?”
“With the ring in his possession, he’d know that his best chance in finding Cleopatra’s tomb would be to let the magic guide him, as each kind attracts and recognizes its own. Mr. Sterling will have told everyone of his findings and he’ll secure a firman—”
“I don’t know that word,” I broke in.
“A license to excavate. Monsieur Maspero evaluates everyone’s applications, and he decides who digs where. Your uncle is under constant threat to lose his for the season.”
I shook my head, trying to make sense of the situation. “But with only the ring to guide Mr. Sterling, he’d have to visit every site up and down the Nile. That would take months.”
“How much do you know of Cleopatra’s life?” he asked.
“Very little,” I admitted. “I’ve read Shakespeare.”
“And you shall see in him, the triple pillar of the world transformed into a strumpet’s fool,” Mr. Hayes quoted, and I blinked at him in shock.
“You’ve read it?”
He rolled his eyes and continued. “Cleopatra commanded a fleet, battled insurrections, controlled Egypt’s vast wealth, and survived famines. All that and history likes to portray her as a mere slip of a woman, a saucy vixen luring men to their downfalls. It’s a shame Romans never bothered to understand her. They were guilty of so much worse. Waging war, plundering what they found, and ruling without compromise.” Any good humor fled from his face, leaving behind a subtle wary bitterness. “And it’s happening all over again in Egypt. Everyone wants something, the French and Dutch, and imperial Britain.”
“It was awful to read about,” I said, remembering how I used to scour some of the newspapers my parents had brought home with them from their travels. “Even worse to see it in action. Knowing something in theory is nothing compared to the real thing.”
Mr. Hayes nodded, his eyes intent on my face, and then they widened in shock. “Did we just agree on something?”
“An anomaly, I’m sure,” I said with a little laugh. “As long as we don’t speak about your countrymen, I think we’ll be safe.”
Mr. Hayes twisted his lips into a scowl. I was used to seeing his smirk or smug smile, the mischievous glint barely hidden in his direct gaze. His expression of real distaste took me by surprise. “They are my countrymen in the loosest sense of the word. I’m sure they’d love to kick me out entirely. Not that I’d complain,” he added in a whisper.
“And be a man without country? Family?”
He stilled and then fixed me with a flirty grin. “Why, do you want to take me in?”
But I refused to allow him to change the subject with a glib comment. He might think to distract me, but he’d said something that piqued my curiosity. “Why would Britain want to kick you out of the country?”
“Perhaps I was too wild.”
I eyed his wrinkled shirt, the unbuttoned collar, and the unpolished leather of his boots. A sharp contrast to a soldier’s pressed uniform, trimmed hair, and gleaming shoes. But nothing could detract from his brawny frame, honed by years of activity and training, his face tanned from the outdoors. The gun at his hip. He might have left the army, but the evidence of his time there was certainly present. “So, you disobeyed them?”
“Tell me,” he said slowly. “What do I have to do to get you to stop asking me questions?”
“Answer one of them.”
He laughed. “Your curiosity has no sense of decency.”
I leaned forward and the corners of his mouth deepened at the invasion of his space. He remained motionless, perfectly at ease to see how far I’d go.
“You have no idea, Mr. Hayes. How long were you in the military?”
“Since I was fifteen.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“Two; I’m the youngest brother.”
“Fated to be a soldier.”
I struck a nerve. The sharp line of his jaw hardened. “We seem to have strayed off topic,” he said. “I was telling you about Cleopatra. Unless you’d like to ask me any more invasive questions?”
I’d learned enough. Mr. Hayes was the spare in his family, probably twice over if the wary bitterness that had crept in his eyes were any indication. He had quit the army—to the displeasure of the people who counted on him to uphold reputation and duty.
“According to the ancient historians Herodotus and Plutarch, she spent most of her time in the palace of Alexandria—”
“I didn’t know there was one,” I interrupted.
“No one knows where it is,” he said. He threw me a sly look. “Cleopatra might very well be buried there. But she claimed a kinship with the Egyptian goddess Isis, wife to Osiris and mistress of the sky. There are a few temples still standing today that venerate her. My point is that Mr. Sterling won’t have to search every known site.”
Realization dawned. “You’re saying there is only a handful of places she might be.”
He nodded grimly. “He might very well find her, and with the ring he stole, his way was made that much easier. That’s if the magic latched on to him.”
The carriage slowed and I leaned forward to look out the window. The driver pulled up in front of Shepheard’s grand entrance, its terrace occupied by several dozens of hotel guests drinking afternoon tea. Plenty of shade from the palms provided respite from the glaring sun.
“On the bright side,” Mr. Hayes murmured near my ear. “This is not your problem.”
I turned my head, met his eyes. “But it is, and my uncle is doing me a huge disservice by sending me away.”
Our faces were close. Sunlight dappled his auburn hair, crisscrossed over his aristocratic nose. The blue in his gaze was the palest shade of cornflower. I couldn’t discern the peculiar expression on his face. Our breaths shared the smallest space between his mouth and mine. His smelled like whiskey. I wondered what drove him to keep the liquor on him at all times.
Then he drew away, opened the door, and stepped out. He turned and helped me out of the brougham, his hand holding mine for a beat too long.
“I’ll pay the driver.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada,” he said so politely that I blinked.
He released me and I went up to the terrace. The carriage pulled away, and I took a long look at the wide avenue. Assembled in my sight were hundreds of people of all classes and nationalities, in pursuit of amusement, work, something to eat, something to buy. Men dressed in their finest tailored suits and polished leather shoes, wealthy Egyptian women covered in Turkish veils, children chasing dogs, workers on horseback heading toward the stables attached to the hotel used by Napoleon himself.