Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ginger
The estate rising before Ginger had the quiet, menacing elegance of a royal retreat—conspicuously grand, impossibly isolated, and yet somehow aware of those who approached.
How Ivy had managed to escape—Ginger shuddered at the thought of her climbing over the gates, which she must have done—she wasn’t quite certain.
It wasn’t the sheer size that unsettled Ginger, though the brownstone walls stretched away in a crescent and seemed to belong more to a fortress than a private home. It was the way the place seemed to stand apart from the city, as if it had pulled back from Cairo itself to brood beside the river.
Tall copper domes caught the afternoon sun, throwing hard light down into the forecourt where clipped palms and tiled fountains flanked a narrow canal that drew its water straight from the Nile.
The scent of damp stone and magnolia blossoms drifted faintly on the air, cloyingly sweet against the heat.
Behind the gates, marble loggias rose in three tiers, their arched windows veiled with elaborate mashrabiya screens—like a hundred unblinking eyes watching the Nile.
One entire wing faced the river, its stained-glass panels promising views of the sunset through fractured color, a touch that felt almost theatrical.
She could imagine Prescott Federline standing there, drink in hand, surveying the water as though he owned the whole of Egypt.
The thought made her throat tighten. A man like that wouldn’t hesitate to keep Alex as long as it suited him.
And, yet, here she was—standing on his threshold beside Alastair and some of his most trusted Egyptian friends, including Khalib.
Though Alastair had suggested Ginger stay at home, she’d insisted on coming.
Victoria and Ivy were now safely in one of Alastair’s safe houses, along with Lucy, who Alastair had insisted accompany them.
Moments like that reminded her of how much she loved the man—he was as protective of her family as Noah and Jack were.
Her pulse quickened at the thought of danger to any of her loved ones, but she forced her shoulders back. She’d been here before, in other ways. War hospitals. Desperately attempting to save broken men while under fire. This was just another front line.
The guards stepped forward before they even reached the gates, rifles angled just enough to make the point. The taller one planted himself in the middle, his white galabeyah bright against the shadowed forecourt.
“You have business here?” His Arabic accent curled the English into something sharper.
His eyes flicked over Ginger, then back to Alastair, scrutinizing them.
Ginger fought the temptation to shield her face.
Alastair—master of disguise—had given her a prosthetic nose and wig to disguise her somewhat.
But she had no doubt Prescott Federline would recognize her if he was here and looked closely enough.
Alastair withdrew a folded paper from his breast pocket with the deliberate care of a man handling something unpleasant. “A member of this household has been linked to a case admitted to hospital two nights ago. Tuberculosis.”
The guard’s jaw tightened, and his gaze slid sideways toward the other man, as if the syllables themselves could carry infection.
“Who?” the guard demanded.
“A porter whose sister works here. He is in isolation now. We are required to inspect the premises where he has lodged or visited in the last month. He listed this as one of them.” Alastair’s tone was flat, almost bored, as if the outcome were inevitable.
The papers in Alastair’s pocket were official and explicit—entry to any dwelling, inspection of any chamber, seizure of articles suspected of harboring infection.
Jane Radford had seen to that, thank goodness.
The guard’s eyes narrowed, his hand shifting on the rifle stock. “No one is sick here.”
“That’s fortunate,” Alastair said, stepping just close enough that the man had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.
“Let’s make sure it stays that way.” He tapped the folded paper with one finger, letting the wax seal catch the light.
“If we find nothing, you can tell your master you kept his household safe.”
From the corner of her eye, Ginger saw the other guard take a half-step back, the way men did when the idea of contagion brushed against them.
She’d spent years observing similar behavior from family members of patients in hospital.
The taller one hesitated, then signaled to the gatekeeper.
Metal scraped, hinges groaned, and the gates swung inward on a breath of cool, damp air.
Inside the gates, the light shifted, the glare of the Nile replaced by the cool gloom of shaded courtyards.
A steward in a pale turban hurried toward them, his sandals whispering against the marble.
He stopped short when Alastair introduced himself and gave the reason for their visit.
The man’s eyes darted to the paper, then to the guards, then back to Alastair.
“You will not disturb the master,” the steward said, the Arabic clipped. At times like these, Ginger had Noah to thank for her own proficiency in the language. He’d insisted on continuing to teach her long after they’d moved to England.
“That’s not my intention,” Alastair replied smoothly, switching languages with ease. “We’ll start with the servants’ quarters. Any who have coughed, fevered, or lost weight recently must be brought forward.”
The steward’s throat worked. “Wait there. I’ll take your papers to my master and return shortly.” He gestured them down a colonnade lined with carved cedar doors. Servants peered from shadowed alcoves, their gazes quick and wary.
As the steward disappeared further into the house again, Alastair gave Ginger a subtle nod. Her heart pounded in response.
This was it. She and Khalib would separate themselves from the group, slip away before Federline could bar further entry. If Federline cooperated, then Alastair and his men would help in the search. If he didn’t, she and Khalib were on their own.
She held her breath as they moved toward the foyer beyond the colonnade, no doubt the servants’ quarters. With so many people watching, she’d be sure to be seen—wouldn’t she?
Then, a cough in the distance caught her attention. She lifted her chin sharply. That might be enough for now. “We should investigate,” she told Alastair.
He nodded sternly. Then gestured to Khalib and said in clear, loud Arabic, “Escort Nurse Hardwick to see about that coughing. If tuberculosis is here, we must find it.”
If the servants watching thought to protest, they said nothing. In fact, the mention of the disease was enough that most of them shrank away as though Ginger and Khalib had brought it with them.
Ginger hid a smile.
Fear and self-preservation were powerful weapons. She’d learned that all too well over the years.
Khalib and Ginger hurried down the colonnade, then slipped into the foyer. No one stopped them, thankfully. Either their fear of the disease or the unknown restrained them.
Ginger kept her pace even, alert for any sign of Alex.
She tried to imagine him here, in this strange blend of opulence and domesticity beyond the polished cedar doors, the faint smell of spices from a kitchen somewhere deep in the estate, the oppressive hush that made every footstep sound like an intrusion.
They passed a latticework screen that led further into the house, and Ginger caught sight of a narrow stairwell leading downward, its steps worn in the center from years of use. She filed it away in her mind. If they needed to get out quickly, such stairs often led to servants’ entrances.
Would they be keeping Alex here, near the servants? Ivy had said Alex didn’t know Federline was associated with the men who’d kidnapped her and that they’d taken them to luxurious guest rooms—but that was hours ago. By now Alex must have noticed Ivy’s absence. It would have made him suspicious.
For all she knew, by now Federline had unmasked himself to Alex.
Breathing out, she tried to think. She needed to be logical. If Federline really did need something from Alex—decoding whatever was in that journal—then he wouldn’t show himself to be the villain yet.
Which means he’s most likely still in the guest rooms.
Ginger adjusted her grip on the strap of the leather medical kit slung across her shoulder, feeling the hard edge of the stethoscope inside among other medical supplies.
It was both prop and tool—she would use it to listen for coughs if she had to, but its presence was also her shield, the thing that let her walk freely as though she belonged.
The familiarity of it, too, was a comfort.
Her eyes darted around the hallway. “I think this way,” she whispered to Khalib, tilting her head to the right. “The left leads closer to the periphery of the home. Ivy said the rooms were upstairs.”
He nodded and allowed her to lead the way. Funny how his presence now was meant to act as a form of protection. When she’d met Khalib, he’d been a slip of a boy. Now he was just a few years older than Noah had been when she’d met him—a man, well trained by Alastair, and handsome.
His age made her feel practically matronly, really. Another reminder of how quickly the time had passed. For all she knew, Khalib had someone he cared for by now and would start his own family soon. Or already had.
Her guess about the house’s layout proved to be right—just past the hallway was a large door leading to an enormous, opulent foyer. The grand staircase in the heart of the home most likely led to the bedrooms.
Ginger scanned the hallway, looking for watchful eyes.
No one.
Ivy escaped. I can do this.
They had to move fast.