If we had had any lingering doubts that James Dorsey was no longer the queen’s favorite, this elaborate avoidance laid those doubts to rest. For the most part.
We did not ask the questions burning on our tongues; Charley would only have met them with evasions or apologetic half-truths. Tilly did the next best thing.
“What happened with the Bugatti?” Tilly asked.
The overnight sleeper train bore us uneventfully to Luxor. Tilly’s reconnaissance confirmed that there were few people about and gave us the all clear to head to the dining car where we had a light supper in peaceful anonymity. (Tilly would ordinarily have protested her disapproval at such behavior—ladies ought not to be skulking about as though they were criminals—but the notion that such behavior might avoid further encounters
