Free The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery by Elizabeth Peters

strength of your chin and jaw, or your imposing height and impressive musculature."
The adjectives had a softening effect, but he was too set on the scheme to give in without an argument. "A beard," he began.
"No, Emerson. I know how much you like beards, but they are inadequate to the purpose."
"A beard and a Russian accent," Emerson suggested. "Nyet, tovarich!"
    Ramses winced. Nefret's lips trembled. She was trying not to laugh.
    "Oh, very well," I said. "I will go with you, also in disguise. Your wife? No, your mistress. French. A Titian wig and a great deal of paint and powder; champagne satin cut low over the— er—and copious quantities of jewelry. Topazes or perhaps citrines."
    Emerson stared at me. I could tell from his expression that he was picturing me in the ensemble I had described. "Hmmm," he said.
"Father," Ramses exclaimed. "You can't mean to allow Mother to appear in public as a—a—"
Emerson burst out laughing. "Good Gad," he said, between chuckles, "what a prude you are, my boy. She didn't mean it, you know. At least I don't think ... Very well, Peabody, I give in. We'll leave it to Ramses, eh?"
"Thank you, Father."
"The French mistress is an excellent idea, though," Nefret said thoughtfully. "I won't even need the wig. A little henna will do the job."
 
From Letter Collection B
Dearest Lia,
I ought to add "and David," since I know perfectly well that in the first rapturous flush of matrimonial affection you will want to share everything with him. But I hope, dearest, that you won't share all my confidences with David. Do you know (but you must) that you are the first and only woman friend / have ever had? Aunt Amelia and I have become very close, but there are some things she wouldn't understand. So prepare yourself, dear Lia, for a spate of letters. Some may never reach you, traveling as you are, but the act of writing will serve as a substitute, however feeble, for those long talks we have when we are together.
You'll never guess whom Ramses and I ran into in London last week — Maude Reynolds and her brother Jack — you remember them — the Americans who were with Reisner last year. After the usual exchanges of "What a surprise!" and "How is it you are in London?" I introduced everyone properly.
Ramses immediately began to slouch, the way he does when he is trying to look inconspicuous and/or harmless. Absolutely futile, of course, at least with females. Maude began babbling and dimpling at him. He seemed to like it, for he actually smiled at her. Perhaps it's because he's usually so solemn that his smile has such an impact. If Maude hadn't been sitting down, she'd have staggered.
Jack is a nice-enough chap in his obtuse fashion. If only he wouldn't treat all women the way he does his bird-brained sister, with a mixture of affection and condescension! He explained that he and Maude had been "doing" a European tour before returning to Cairo for the winter season.
We took tea with them at the Savoy, where they were staying. Maude was as adorable as only she can be, black curls bouncing, brown eyes wide, chubby cheeks pink. "Meow!" I can hear you say. Very well, I admit it — I've always envied girls who have that vivid autumnal coloring and ripe, rounded shape — it's not just Maude's cheeks that are plump! I'm too thin and I haven't any bosom, and I don't know how to be adorable.
They asked after you and David, of course.

                                                   
Esdaile's revelations added a new complication to our search for the forger. Ramses continued to urge that we make the matter public, but even he was forced to admit that it would be cruel to allow David to hear of it from strangers—an eventuality that well might ensue once the word began to spread. Nefret, who had been of his opinion, was won over to ours by this argument, though it went against her nature.
Some preliminary inquiries were necessary; we could not personally