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“I will see about arranging rooms for the… unexpected addition to our party,” Mr. Mahjoud declared with a pointed look at Adam and an air of long-suffering endurance. “You will find Lady Sabita in the courtyard.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mahjoud.” Constance tugged off her gloves and hat. She thrust both of them at the dragoman, who caught them with a grimace and immediately passed them to a small, stout Egyptian servant who waited beside him. Then she hooked a hand through Ellie’s arm and hauled her forward, leaving Adam to follow.

Around a sharp turn and a short passage, Adam stepped into a courtyard that felt like an oasis hidden within the heart of the city. The space was roughly square, framed on all sides by the three high stories of the house, which were lined with balconies and more of those elegantly carved wooden screens. The building blocked out any noise that might have clattered in from the street. All Adam could hear was the tinkling of an elegant fountain and the quiet chittering of birds.

That, and the grating bray of an Englishman laughing.

“Oh drat,” Constance muttered as she glared over at a wrought-iron table where three people reclined in obvious leisure.

The first was a woman who looked a little shy of fifty, her dark hair marked by an elegant streak of silver. The resemblance between her and the petite hellion beside Adam was obvious, marking her as Constance’s mother. Beside her sat an older lady with similar features and a darker complexion. She was wrapped in a stunning rose-hued Tussar silk sari embroidered with tiny birds, her neck dripping with jewels.

The source of the donkey-like chortle was a pale-skinned guy about Adam’s age with a blond mustache and an expensive summer suit. The Mustache rose as they entered, his gaze snapping immediately to Constance. It stuck there with a look of fawning appreciation as he sketched a courtly bow.

“Miss Tyrrell!” he exclaimed. “And here I was beginning to fear that I might miss you entirely!”

If the custom-tailored trousers hadn’t already led Adam to peg the stranger as an aristocrat, the ‘good show, old sport’ accent would definitely have given him up.

Adam suppressed a sigh and hoped that fancy-trousers wasn’t going to do something that would make him want to throw the guy into the fountain. It wasn’t that he minded treating some entitled prat to a dunk—after all, he’d done it before—but indulging the habit in the home of a bunch of people he’d just met wasn’t the mostresponsiblechoice.

Plus, it’d probably get him booted before he’d had a chance to eat dinner.

The aristocrat was a hair shorter than Adam. He had the slender physique of someone who spent his Saturdays fencing at the gym before popping off for a round of polo.

“Julian! What a lovely surprise,” Constance returned with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

If the welcome was something less than entirely genuine, The Mustache didn’t seem to notice. He plucked up Constance’s hand and brushed a pretentious kiss over the back of it.

Adam resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Constance!” the middle-aged woman said in lightly accented English as she rose from the table to join them. “Julian was hoping that he would find you at home—but of course, I am relieved to see that you collected Miss Mallory safely.” She turned her gaze to Adam. “And perhaps you will introduce me to your… other friend?”

“Oh, this is Mr. Bates,” Constance explained with forceful cheer. “Mr. Bates, meet my mother, Lady Sabita Tyrrell. And this is my Aai—Her Highness Maharajkumari Padma Devi of Nandapur.”

“Royal princess,” Ellie muttered at him. “Maybe a bow instead of a handshake.”

“Yup,” Adam agreed as the stunningly dressed older woman—princess, he mentally corrected himself—rose from her chair. He bent at the waist. “Your Highness.”

“Yes, Jhia—but where did he come from?” Lady Sabita demanded, waving an impatient hand at Adam.

He wondered if the answer to that question would end up withhimbeing the one dunked in the fountain.

“About that…” he started.

“Ellie ran into him on the train,” Constance cut in. “Mr. Bates is a professional badminton player who has come here to Cairo for training. As he hadn’t yet made any arrangements for his accommodations, I invited him to stay with us for a day or two until he gets settled.”

Adam opened his mouth to respond to this patently ludicrous story—and then snapped it shut again. What was he going to do—tell everybody he was actually a colonial surveyor who’d spent the last several weeks gallivanting around the globe unchaperoned with their daughter’s best friend?

Badminton it was.

“Oh!” Lady Sabita said with a blink of surprise. “But of course, you’re very welcome.”

“Professional badminton?” Kumari Padma echoed dryly.

Adam could feel Constance’s urgent glare, though he refrained from actually looking at her as he answered.

“Nothing I love more than whacking a few birdies around.” He worked to keep his expression serious. At least he’d remembered it was birdies and not balls.

“Bates, did you say?” The Mustache asked. “And you’re obviously an American. You’re not one of the San Francisco Bateses, are you?”