The Devil She Knows (15 page)

E
arly morning fog retreated like a cowardly foe across the Bosporus until the great harbor sparkled like a victory parade. The world's greatest nations' ships lay at anchor under clear blue skies, while tiny rowboats flitted through every available gap. A salt breeze stirred the air, touched by a promise of fresh fish from the local market.

Asia's hills rose in the east, shrouded in shadows against the dawn. A few lights glittered along the waterline, emblematic of the wealthy who slept there in seaside mansions.

For now. Florence Nightingale's hospital had marked those shores thirty years ago. Those lavish little mansions would make excellent officers' clubs for the British Empire's finest.

St. Arles made a mental note to add them to his inventory of property to be
requested
from Turkey's next sultan and allowed himself another swallow of tea.

“More tea, my lord?” the captain's steward asked, his white uniform crisp as the white canvas awning stretched overhead to shield the warship's teak deck from the sun. White paint gleamed beside brilliantly polished brass, and ropes were coiled like sleeping dragons on the pristine deck. Two boilers rumbled deep within, a reminder of how fast the warship could leap into action.

St. Arles held out his mug without a word, unsurprised the stolid Welshman read him so well. After all, he'd chosen tea over wine at every opportunity since he'd come onboard. What the devil else would they expect of a former British naval lieutenant?

Nobody made tea like the British Navy. It had been far too long since he'd last savored its milk-laced beauty.

“Very fine harbor, St. Arles,” Southers remarked and closed his spyglass with a snap. “No wonder Jason and the Argonauts established camp here.” Two years younger than his guest, his blond hair gleamed with youthful enthusiasm against his tanned cheeks. “She'll make a very tidy eastern outpost indeed for our fleet, almost equal to Dover, I do believe.”

St. Arles gritted his teeth against another surge of frustrated rage and silently cursed his indolent older brother Philip yet again.

Dammit, he should have been the one comparing this anchorage to the British Navy's fortified home port in the English Channel.

Ten years ago, he'd thought himself the luckiest man in Britain. He'd dodged his father's boring, barracks-bound Army into a glittering naval career, full of good mates and constant travel. No need there to worry about awkward questions from discarded females, who might be a bit worse for weather, not when tomorrow always provided a new port or a new ship. He'd been so bloody happy until Philip had ruined everything once again.

The fat, drunken ass fell asleep in a brothel, while smoking a filthy cigarette—not even a manly cigar! He thereby transformed himself into a torch and the entire establishment into his funeral pyre.

Even the Navy's worst ship offered fewer rats than St. Arles House ten years ago. Water only ran down the bulkheads during a gale, rather than seeping out of the walls in moldy patches.

“Beautiful harbor indeed,” St. Arles agreed. “An excellent jumping off point against the Russians.”

A pack of young officers prowled across the foredeck, ostensibly checking the great guns' brass work. One by one, each deadly muzzle rose toward its assigned target in the Constantinople skyline—and took St. Arles' spirits with it.

“Did you notice the shipyard on the other side of Hagia Sofia?”

“Quite so, old chap. Once we put our men into her to add some western efficiency, she'll make a very nice addition to the Navy family, don't you think? There's a jolly good promenade nearby on those old Roman walls for the wife and children, too.”

“Yes, indeed.” Old frustration rasped St. Arles again. He should be the first one to fire a shot, instead of plodding through back corridors.

The Foreign Office was the only place where a peer of the realm could serve his country. Cotton-headed dunderheads wandered the diplomatic corps' hallways.

Or so he'd thought until he'd been offered this jaunt by a backroom chap. A simple ploy, similar to some of his old cutting out expeditions in the Navy. No questions asked about methods because the highest possible stakes were involved for Queen and Country.

“Constantine became an emperor after he founded this city. Crusaders and a sultan conquered it.” Southers unleashed his spyglass on the great mosque's glittering golden dome, which dominated the hill overlooking the city.

A deep, barked command and a drum roll announced a rumbling surge of Royal Marines onto the deck in perfect order, scarlet uniforms blazing like promised sunshine.

Turkey had been called The Sick Old Man of Europe for decades. But only the greatest of history's generals had ever attempted to conquer its capital, while still fewer had succeeded. The entire strait was a natural fortress, enhanced by man until only the most foolhardy would want to attack it.

There'd be a splendid reward for snatching it before the Queen's Golden Jubilee in June, possibly even a marquisate to add to the family collection of titles.

Even better, this stunt provided revenge against the slut who'd stolen his money.

At least he had Amabel for wife now, more eager than he to add danger to sex play. She hadn't bred yet, damn the luck. He'd rather have an heir than a marquisate.

Hunger ran through him, fierce and bright for Amabel's blood dripping along a knife edge and laughter in her eyes above it, for the fierce joy of lighting a bonfire on St. Arles Castle's front lawn for his son.

Another round of barked orders—and the Marines shouldered their rifles. Sunlight poured over their bayonets like blood—or victory.

How could the Ottomans possibly match these men?

Suddenly who commanded the
Phidaleia's
power and speed mattered very little indeed.

How soon could he remove the filthy Sultan from his throne and get back home?

“High time for the old city to welcome some true civilization, don't you think, Southers?”

He'd host next year's Trafalgar Day banquet at one of those big seaside mansions. And, by God, when he and the other British naval officers raised their glasses of the finest port in the Immortal Memory toast, to honor Nelson and his fallen officers, a proper silence would fall in the banquet hall and throughout this city—because the conscienceless heathens here would finally have learned who were their betters.

St. Arles lifted his mug to the sea dog. “To Queen and Country!”

“Queen and Country!” Southers echoed immediately.

 

Afternoon sunlight blazed on the customs official's polished badge when Gareth held the train station's gate open for Sidonie, Portia's maid.

“We hope you will return soon to our beautiful city, madame. We would like to show you more of its glories on a longer stay.”

“Thank you very much, sir.” On the hillside behind her, Hagia Sophia's great domes and spires reached for the sky like a chorus of prayers. Men and women rushed between ancient buildings to visit their friends or sell goods. All was hustle bustle and the hot, spicy scents of a living town, washed by the salt sea. Dogs barked, children laughed, and men sang their success in the market.

Portia was very proud of how composed Sidonie was, given yesterday's terrors. Of course, she had spent last night and today with her cousin, who served the French ambassador's wife.

Portia would wager those two ladies had taken turns pampering Sidonie: Her graying hair was now braided into a much more becoming style and she'd advanced to a blended fragrance, rather than simple lavender water. Plus, her new hat was a miracle of restrained Parisian elegance.

She, on the other hand, had slept so late in Gareth's arms that she'd barely had time to dress before boarding Kerem Ali Pasha's personal sailing craft to reach here.

Sidonie escaped into the depot without any audible sigh of relief and paused, her eyes narrowing at the crowds bustling past.

“This way, ladies.” Gareth tipped his hat, somehow as immaculate as a tiger sauntering through a jungle.

The little Frenchwoman bestowed upon him a beaming smile, which reawakened her countenance into youthful freshness amid flashes of beauty. She accepted his arm like a great lady and strutted down the platform, with Portia on his other side.

“I'm sorry we couldn't have spent more time together,” Gareth said politely.

“Let me know if you don't like the spa at Aix-les-Bains,” Portia added. “You need a good rest after the last few months and I'd be happy to send you anywhere you like. Dax, Deauville—”

“Deauville! Hmmph! Aix-les-Bains will suit me and my mother very well, not anything that grand. Thank
you
, madame, for your consideration. I wish I could stay longer.” She shook her head, her color fading faster than the ancient stones outside. “But Constantinople is civilized and, at the same time, not civilized at all.”

Portia's mouth tightened. For an instant, all she could see were black clad arms rising and falling above a man's prostrate body, while crimson drops complimented their aim.

“Perhaps you caught only some oddities of the current situation, rather than the entire pattern,” Gareth murmured soothingly. “But France is beautiful in spring, while we could still catch a late winter gale here by the ocean. You can rest there, while my wife helps me finish my business here.”

“Of course, she must stay here,” Sidonie agreed and patted Gareth's arm. “Madame deserves a gentleman like you.”

Portia almost tripped on her hem.

But—but the marriage was only for a short time until she and Gareth somehow dealt with St. Arles' blackmail and that loathsome trunk.

After that?

Gareth had proven years ago when he rapped her over the head with his gun, he didn't see her as a wife. Only years of loyalty to Uncle William had made him step forward yesterday to rescue her and, perhaps, some residual friendship with her.

“Madame will have whatever she wants,” Gareth returned lightly.

He must be referring to that quiet divorce he'd promised her.

Oh, she could stop Sidonie's mouth easily enough. Heaven knew nobody was more discreet or loyal.

But did she want to be freed from her marriage? How could she keep him if he wanted to go?

Gareth handed Sidonie up the stairs to her first-class compartment.

“Goodbye, ma'am.” He bowed, doffing his hat.

Sidonie beamed down upon him, framed by embroidered linen and fine teak. “Promise me you will cherish madame,” she admonished him.

“With my life.”

The three simple words stabbed Portia in the heart—yet he hadn't mentioned love.

He replaced his hat and stepped back beside her, his expression only that of a polite farewell.

The engineer blew the whistle, long and piercing like a portent of times to come. Machinery groaned softly and wheels began to churn. Steam hissed and blurred the tracks, hiding the future from the present.

“Au revoir, madame!” Sidonie called.

“Au revoir, Sidonie!” Portia cried back. At least she believed she'd see her maid again. She could not have said the same if she'd had to say goodbye to Gareth at this moment.

P
ortia fanned herself again with the painted Japanese fan and glared at the barren table in her bedroom. She'd thought the unseasonable heat would be the worst of the day's trials. But, no, St. Arles hadn't yet condescended to send word where to deliver his vile trunk.

She couldn't do anything about the weather. But she had donned her favorite silk tea gown the minute she was alone. It was a silk confection, made from a blue and cream Japanese kimono that had been embroidered in chrysanthemums. Even better than all its claims to fashion was the fact she didn't need to wear a corset with it, allowing her to savor the heady freedom of silk floating over nothing more than a silk chemise and drawers.

A light tap caught her attention. “Yes?”

“Dinner,” Gareth announced simply and closed the door behind him, balancing a large covered tray.

“You should have told me you needed help,” Portia scolded and rushed to assist him.

“Weddings here are lengthy affairs, which frequently last up to a week. Since you seem to be getting on so well with me, Kerem Ali Pasha's family doesn't want to disturb you.”

Portia balanced the tray and tried to decipher his meaning. “Do you mean that marriages here are frequently arranged, leading to wives who don't want to see their husbands?”

“Let's just say others frequently employ tact to ease newlyweds' relationship.” Gareth stepped outside for an instant and returned with several flagons, which he placed near the long divan.

“But we”—He shot her a reproving glance, swift as an eraser over a blackboard—“
I
am behaving differently from those stranger brides. Therefore, Kerem Ali Pasha's family is happy to encourage us by granting us privacy.”

“Exactly.” He removed the tray from her hand and set it down on the low table near the flagons. “Come eat.”

“European food?” She approached the delicious smells eagerly.

“No, these are some dishes from their own meal. What you would call hors d'oeuvres, or finger food.”

She sat down on the divan and sniffed happily.

He nodded, his thick lashes veiling his thoughts. Like her, he'd changed into lighter weight clothing, notably a linen suit instead of tropical weight wool, and had even taken off his jacket. He had to be wearing a sleeveless undershirt since she could see the muscles in his arms through his shirt every time he moved.

She tore her gaze away and tried to forget what he'd felt like that morning under her hands—desperate, iron hard, straining against her, and the hard thrust when he found his own climax without ever hurting her.

He needed to cough to catch her attention before he could serve the first item.

She blushed scarlet and stared down at the plate, rather than his face. “What is this? It doesn't look like anything I've seen before.”

“It's called dolma—or stuffed food. These are stuffed grape leaves.” He sat down beside her on the floor, as comfortably cross-legged as if he was still in Arizona.

“Grape leaves?” She considered the small cylinder even more dubiously.

“The Turks include raisins in theirs.” He took a bite, with the same insouciant air he'd once used to dare her onto three-storey high roofs.

She shoved the morsel into her mouth, chewed—and her taste buds applauded. “It's delicious.”

He chuckled and poured her a glass of red wine from one of the flagons.

“Italian?” she asked.

“No, local. The Greeks have been making wine here since before Jason and the Argonauts sailed past.”

She sipped cautiously, eyeing him over the rim. The Gareth Lowell she'd first met at age twelve couldn't have discussed wine. Even the man who'd so arrogantly cleaned up problems for Uncle William in Arizona didn't talk about fine wine, although he knew how to handle the morass of silver knives and forks on a fancy dinner table, plus the crystal goblets to match.

But his mature version raised an eyebrow at her and her heart skipped a beat, no doubt because of the very smooth wine flowing down her throat.

“I like it,” she approved. Of the beverage, of course—and held out her plate for more food. Heaven help her if her senses started swimming, because of either alcohol or her husband.

“St. Arles didn't leave a message, while we were gone,” she commented a little later.

“No, it's probably too soon. He only arrived in town this morning.” Gareth tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into sauce, rather as if he wanted to shred St. Arles.

“How do you know that?” Portia firmly commanded her fingers to snatch another fresh fig, not throttle her husband for keeping secrets.

“I hired men to keep watch on all arriving tourists, especially those on the Orient Express.”

“
All
arrivals? Wasn't that difficult to do?”

“No. If the train didn't bring him, I was betting he'd stay at the same hotel you did.”

“Why?”

“Honey, that bastard requires his creature comforts and they'll only be coughed up for him there.”

Portia blinked, as much in surprise at his profanity, as in agreement with its cause.

“Even if he decided to rough it, I've put in a solid bribe at the Almabayn where all the spy reports come in. That nest of snakes will know within a day when he shows up and exactly where he lays his head.”

“And they'd tell you?”

“For enough money, they'll send me a copy after the Sultan and all his folks know.” Gareth ripped up several more inoffensive bits of bread. “If I was trying to avoid attention, I'd play the game exactly the way St. Arles has: Arrive looking exactly like the world's biggest tourist and check into the hotel offering the poshest digs.”

“The same one I'd been at.” Portia wiped her hands. If only she could rid herself of memories as easily.

“Yup. By tomorrow, or maybe the day after, if he behaves himself, only routine spy reports should be filed on him.”

“If not?”

Hope must have been too loud in her voice because Gareth slanted a quick glance at her.

“If the authorities get suspicious, they'll have a covey of spies following him. He'd never be rid of them and he'd be a fool to try, since they'd only add more or boot him out of the country as a nuisance. No, St. Arles' best bet is to lie low until he's sure he's not being watched—and then start causing trouble.”

“Drat.” Portia gazed into her wineglass's depths then poured the liquid down her throat, its only sure use.

“Honey.” Gareth gently wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “He's just giving us time to figure out how to stop him.”

“I wish he'd do something more helpful, like leave town or drop dead,” she muttered and held out her glass for more wine.

“A pleasant thought but unlikely. Let's try talking about something more common.” He filled the fragile crystal to the halfway mark, rather than higher. “The weather perhaps?”

“Now you sound like a diplomat, always sticking to the safe topic.” She traced the rim with her fingertip. “But since it's so hot, why don't you get a little more comfortable? Maybe take off your vest and necktie?”

She tasted the wine's residue on her fingertip and glanced at him. His pupils were very dark and completely fixed on her mouth.

Instinctively, her tongue flicked over her lower lip.

His adam's apple bobbed in his throat before he could speak. “Yes, of course.”

He set his plate down awkwardly, as if it no longer belonged to him, and his fingers clumsily worked at his necktie.

“Where did you learn French?” Portia inquired, trying to adopt enough savoir faire to carry off a casual conversation while a man undressed before her.

“I never heard anything about what you did, except that you were well,” she added.

“No, I asked William and Viola not to speak of me to you unless you asked. After that disastrous confrontation at the wedding, I didn't think you'd want any reminders of me.”

His voice held the bitter calm of long acceptance. How could she tell him she'd both hoped and feared for news?

She shrugged away either agreement or denial and waved at him to continue.

“I've always found it easy to pick up languages—”

“And any skill you needed,” Portia inserted, still far too fiercely proud of him for her own good. Leaving him would be painful.

He glanced up at her, from where he'd just laid his folded vest and necktie, his expression startled. An instant later, his countenance smoothed into a more pleasant mask. She could have cried over the lost intimacy.

“Most skills,” he temporized. “In any event, you know how I always grow tired of seeing the same places.”

She frowned and drew herself back into a corner of the divan, closer to where the seabirds sang through the slatted windows. “Go on.”

“I asked William to send me abroad so I could enjoy some new sights,” he said lightly.

“Europe?” she guessed, hoping against hope, judging by the hard grooves settling into his cheeks.

“China first, in 1880.”

“You must have left immediately after my wedding,” she guessed, “to have arrived there before year's end.”

He shot her a glare which would have flattened a symphony's brass section. “You know Donovan & Sons' motto.”

“High risk freight to high risk places,” she said impatiently. “But you didn't learn to speak French in China.”

“No. I visited Shanghai, Hong Kong, and finally landed in Indochina, to bring in spare railroad parts. A monsoon season there left me with a working knowledge of French.”

“And malaria, too?” Good Lord, was he condemned to burn at unpredictable dates for the rest of his life, thanks to a hellish fever?

“No malaria, honey.” For the first time, his familiar crooked smile flashed at her. “I'll admit I was damn lucky but I visited Viola's quinine powder more religiously than any preacher's altar call.”

“Thank God.” She'd attended church as seldom as possible after her wedding to St. Arles. But Gareth's safety might deserve some special prayers. “Is that all?”

“No, I headed for drier climates after that.” He lounged back on his elbows, like a big, lazy cat ready to either purr or show its claws. “I've crossed Arabia's Empty Quarter to the pearling fisheries in the Persian Sea. I worked with the French archaeologists in Egypt, who wanted to sell their finds to American millionaires.”

“You have more scars than that.” The whisper came from Portia's heart, not her throat. Even so, Gareth heard.

“Egypt doesn't offer everyone perfumed luxury, honey. There are flies and dust, gunshots and knives in the dark.”

“There are knives at diplomatic banquets, too. But only the verbal ones cut your throat or are left in your back,” she retorted.

“Sorry, honey.” He caught her hand and kissed it, his silver eyes glinting like winter rain. “I forgot not every scar can be seen.”

She twisted her fingers to clasp his, silently sharing her own nightmares of times when she too had been the target.

“Algeria, mostly, and here in Constantinople,” he added after both their grips relaxed. “French notions of how to colonize are brutal. But I can stomach the work to be done in hauling goods between these parts, France, and back to the States.”

Portia frowned, teasing out the violence and savagery which underlay French stories of conquering their new territories in North Africa from the original Muslim holders. How much had Gareth seen of that? He'd always treated Indians more than fairly and had even had very close Indian friends. He could not have enjoyed watching the local tribesmen being torn apart to make room for Frenchmen, no matter what rights and wrongs dwelt on either side.

Why had he stayed away from home, from Arizona, from Uncle William and Aunt Viola for so long?

He seemed to have avoided civilization as if it was almost literally a plague.

She kissed his hand, offering what comfort she could. Tears touched her eyes but she blinked them back, refusing to show weakness lest she remind him of too much.