“Is there any way I can persuade you not to do this?”
“Now, now, my boy, it will be all right, you’ll see.” Emerson plucked irritably at his tie. It looked wilted. “I am going to dance with your mother and Katherine, and then give our hostess a whirl, and after that I will quietly steal away.”
“Have you asked Mrs. Albion? The ladies have dance cards. You’re supposed to put your name down for a particular dance.”
“Absurd. Dancing should be spontaneous. Joie de vivre and that sort of thing.”
He strolled away, his hands in his pockets.
Ramses also approved of joie de vivre, but he had been lectured by his mother and his wife about proper procedure. He’d never been able to see the point of the little cards – appointment slips, one might call them – unless it was to give popular ladies a sense of power, and make unpopular ladies squirm when they saw all the blank spaces.
Jumana was loving every moment of it – the flowers, the fancy dresses, the little booklet and pencil attached to her slim wrist by a golden cord. When Ramses asked for a dance she presented the booklet with an air of great importance and an irrepressible giggle. He needn’t have worried about her being neglected; Bertie and Cyrus had signed on, and so had both the Albions. There were several other names Ramses didn’t know. She had attracted quite a lot of attention, with her exotic looks and exquisite little figure.
He had allowed himself the pleasure of engaging his wife for the second dance; as they circled the floor, he warned her of his father’s intentions. Emerson was waltzing with Katherine, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
“How are we supposed to watch three people at once?” Nefret grumbled. “With everything else that’s going on? I promised Mother I’d make sure Jumana is enjoying herself.”
“Obviously she is.” White skirts flaring, Jumana was light as thistledown in the respectful grasp of a tall American Ramses remembered having met at Cyrus’s soiree.
“Mr. Lubancic,” Nefret said, following his gaze. “He’s very nice. I’ve got Mr. Albion for the third dance and you for the fourth; suppose I corner Sebastian for that one instead, and you ask Mrs. Albion.”
“I suppose I can’t very well dance with Mr. Albion. We’ll just have to be prepared for emergency action. Be ready to faint or pretend you’ve seen a mouse if I give a distress signal.”
She laughed and nestled closer.
The third dance ended only too soon. As he had promised, Emerson had got hold of his hostess, whose frozen features kept cracking in pain as he spun her vigorously round in waltz time. (The tune was a fox-trot.) When the music ended he led her, limping, to a chair and then turned to give Ramses an exaggerated wink and nod.
Mrs. Albion declined Ramses’s invitation to dance. She looked as if she did not intend to move for some time. Nefret had worked her wiles on Sebastian, so Ramses went in search of Albion senior.
He found him in one of the alcoves talking to Jumana. “Don’t ask her to dance, this one is mine,” Albion said, with one of his jolly laughs. “I can’t prance around with the young folks, but we’re having a nice time talking Egyptology. She’s a clever girl.”
“She is,” Ramses agreed, glancing at the glass she held. “That isn’t champagne, is it?”
“Soda water,” Albion said. “You don’t think I’d ply a young lady with alcohol, do you?”
The answer to that was a resounding “Yes, if you hoped to gain something by it.” Since courtesy forbade honesty, Ramses said, “I’ll join you, if I may. What were you talking about?”
“Those sites your pa told me about” was the prompt reply. “We’ve just about decided not to do any more digging. The young lady agrees with me that it’s a waste of time.”
“The western wadis are too far away and too dangerous,” Jumana explained. “And there is nothing in that part of the Valley of the Queens.”
“Father will be glad to hear that,” Ramses said.
The music ended. Jumana looked at her dance card. “The next one is Bertie,” she announced importantly. “Will you excuse me, sir?”
“Why, sure. You go right ahead.”
Trying to watch all three Albions and fulfill his social obligations kept Ramses fully occupied for a while. Mr. Albion wouldn’t stay put; he wandered around the room, talking to his wife and to various other people. Seeing Mrs. Albion head purposefully for the door of the ballroom, Ramses caught Nefret’s eye, gestured, and trod on Katherine’s toe. Nefret went in pursuit, abandoning her partner.
“I beg your pardon, Katherine,” Ramses said.
“Quite all right, my dear. Is your injury bothering you? Perhaps we should sit down.”
“What? Oh, that. Well, yes, a little. Not much. It’s all right.”
He’d lost sight of Sebastian too. What was taking his father so long?
Mrs. Albion came back, followed by Nefret. Her nod and smile reassured him; they must have gone to the ladies’ parlor.
He was still scanning the room, trying to locate Sebastian, when he caught sight of his father. He let his breath out in a sigh that ruffled Katherine’s hair.
“Let’s do sit down, Ramses,” she said.
“Did I tread on your foot again?”
“No, dear, but the music has stopped.”
Her husband claimed her for the next dance, and Ramses headed straight for his father. Emerson’s appearance would have roused his wife’s direst suspicions. His hair was standing on end, his tie had come undone, and his smile was reminiscent of that of the Great Cat of Re after a tasty meal. Ramses drew him aside.
“Here, let me fix your tie before Mother sees you.”
“What’s wrong with it? Oh.” Emerson glanced down. “Thank you, my boy.”
“Well?” Ramses demanded.
“It went off without a hitch. What did you expect?”
“Did you find anything?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Don’t do this to me, Father.” He jerked the knot tight.
“I can’t tell you about it now,” Emerson said reproachfully. “But in a word – Oh, curse it. Hullo, Bertie. Were you looking for me? I just stepped out into the garden for -”
“No, sir. That is – did you see Jumana?”
“In the garden? Er – no.”
“Is something wrong, Bertie?” Ramses asked.
Bertie passed his hand over his hair. “It’s just that this is my dance, and I can’t find her. She was with Sebastian, and he doesn’t seem to be in the room either.”
“They must be around somewhere,” Emerson said vaguely. “Damn! There’s your mother. Your mother, I mean, Ramses. Am I supposed to be dancing with her?”
“I’ve no idea,” Ramses said. His mother was advancing on them with a firm stride and a look in her eyes that boded ill for Emerson. “You had better report to her, she probably noticed you were conspicuous by your absence.”
“Jumana -” Bertie began.
“Yes, right. I expect she’s gone to the ladies’ parlor. Let’s ask Nefret.”
Nefret had just returned from the ladies’ parlor. “Mrs. Albion has gone there three times! She keeps taking off her gloves and washing her hands. I hate to speculate about why. Is Father -”
“Dancing with Mother,” Ramses said.
“Thank goodness!”
“Yes, but Jumana has gone missing,” Ramses said. “She wasn’t in the ladies’ parlor?”
“Sebastian’s not here either,” Bertie said.
“Oh, dear. I’m sorry, I rather lost track of her, what with… one thing and another. Perhaps she stepped out into the garden for a breath of fresh air.”
“The Professor just came in from the garden. He said he hadn’t seen her. But he wouldn’t have, would he, if they were off in a dark corner somewhere.”