Heart of Light by Sarah A. Hoyt Page A

is Peter Farewell, and I am one of Nigel's school fellows. Indeed . . .” His grin stretched, amused and gregarious, transforming his handsome face into the picture of friendliness. “Indeed, I would own that I was Nigel's best friend in our boarding school days. We were like brothers, he and I. Companions in a dozen escapades and mad breaking of the rules.” He clasped the back of the chair across from hers.
    He had dark fingers, almost as golden as Emily's own and, like Emily's, slender and tapered. A single gold signet ring with a massive black stone at the top ornamented the ring finger of his right hand.
    A wealthy family, Emily thought. A well-born man. And Nigel's friend.
    “Indeed,” Farewell said as the devilish smile split his features and made him look irresistibly handsome again. “I can't imagine anything more interesting or more unlikely than meeting Nigel's beautiful wife, by happenstance, in Cairo.” He bowed slightly to her. “I am delighted.” His gaze ran over her features and paused, as though to take in her dark blue eyes, her pouting lips.
    She blushed and looked away, but he didn't seem embarrassed.
    “I must say that Nigel is very fortunate indeed.”
    Embarrassment and heat rose in twin waves through Emily. “Sir—” she started.
    The man cleared his throat and seemed for a moment at a loss. “Er,” he said, “you are Nigel's wife, not his widow, I trust?”
    “Oh, no,” Emily said, looking up. “Not his widow. His wife, this last week. We were married just last week, at Oldhall.”
    “You'll pardon me,” Peter Farewell said. “But since you were alone—” He stopped and frowned, his dark, well-delineated eyebrows gathering over his dark eyes. “This week? And Nigel has left you alone on your honeymoon? How? Why? Is there something wrong?”
    Emily felt the color flee her cheeks. How dared this stranger echo the questions in Emily's own heart? “Oh, no. Nothing wrong. It's just that he . . . He had some business to attend to in Cairo. He'll be back presently.”
    “Is that so? Then if you'd allow me to sit with you, perhaps we can talk for a while. I know it's not altogether proper, but . . .”
    Emily was thinking that even a stranger would be a protection against the looks of other strangers amazed at her being alone, a young woman with no chaperone in this busy restaurant in this strange land. And besides, Mr. Farewell was obviously not a stranger. Or not totally. He knew the family. And he came from a wealthy background. She waved him toward the chair, and he sat down.
    The server showed up then and regarded the situation with raised eyebrows. “I realized the lady is an old family friend,” Peter Farewell said. “If you'd bring my food here . . .”
    “Certainly, sir,” the server said, and gestured wildly at what turned out to be a company of underlings, each carrying little portable, foldable tables and trays. Emily smelled the distinctive odor of curry, beloved to her from childhood and well known because among the staff her parents had brought to England was an Indian chef, an old servant—some said a relative—of her mother's.
    A glimpse of the trays showed her lamb and rice, chicken dishes and stewed fruit. The server used a silver ladle to dispense a variety of dainties onto each of their plates, and filled their cups with wine. Then leaving the serving tables set up near them, the trays covered with great silver domes, he retreated into the shadows of the restaurant, doubtless to attend to other diners.
    Peter unfolded his napkin upon his lap and plied his silverware with the easy, effortless grace of the ton. “So, tell me, how is Nigel faring? What holds his interest these days?” Peter said, his lips curving in an expansive, craggy smile.
    “Ah . . . Nigel administers his father's lands,” Emily said, between bites of savory morsels. She avoided looking at Peter Farewell, and tried to hide from him how little she truly knew of Nigel's business, his