Indiscreet (5 page)
Lucey came to a stop. "Furthest thing from her mind, I'd say." They stood in the direct sun rather than in the shade along the side. It was devilishly hot Lucey rocked up to his toes and back as be stood there, sweating.
Foye walked toward the Godards and shade.
"Sir Henry!" Lucey called out when he and Foye were nearer the table where Godard and his niece sat An empty cup of sherbet on the table was overshadowed by the mass of papers spread over the surface. Sir Henry pushed his hat farther back on his head while Miss Godard bent over a sheet of paper, writing something. She had her tongue stuck into the corner of her mouth.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Lucey," Sir Henry said. He rapped a misshapen finger on the table near his niece. "Did you get that down, Sabine?"
She kept writing. "Yes, Godard."
How strange that she addressed her uncle with such a lack of intimacy. Or, rather, that she addressed him as if she were a male companion of his.
She glanced up, taking in Lucey and him, then returned her attention to her page, writing the entire time. Her penmanship was excruciatingly neat. Which he found an astonishing accomplishment considering the speed with which her pen moved over the page.
"May we buy you and Miss Godard another sherbet?" Lucey asked.
Foye watched Miss Godard. She'd done writing and was now scanning her page for errors, he presumed. She wore a white cloth over her head, hiding much of her golden blond hair. Her frock wasn't a very interesting one but for the way she fit into it She had a lush figure for so small a woman.
"You've brought Foye along." Sir Henry nodded in approval. He gestured for them to sit "I am afraid, however, that you cannot buy us both another sherbet"
"Are you quite sure?" Lucey said. Foye fetched two chairs from another table, and Lucey sat, gratefully, in the shade. Foye stayed on his feet since he expected he would be the one to procure the sherbets. Miss Godard appended another sentence to her document. At minimum, be was fifteen years her elder. The difference in their ages and experiences was simply too vast
"He means, Mr. Lucey," Foye said with a nod at the empty cup, "that since only one of them has indulged it is impossible to procure another for them both."
Sir Henry let out a bleat of laughter and thumped his cane on the ground. "Very clever, my lord. What did I tell you about him, Sabine? Did I not tell you he was a man to watch?"
"Yes, Godard, you did." She capped her bottle of ink.
Foye wondered what it must be like to be constantly in the company of a man like Sir Henry. One had to admire her for her fortitude. If she was perhaps a bit odd, he understood why.
"Lord Foye is precisely correct," Sir Henry said. "Sabine hasn't had a sherbet, Mr. Lucey, so it's impossible to buy her another." He thrust his head forward, eyes sharp as the edge of a sword. "You may, however, buy me another if you like."
Miss Godard laid a hand on her uncle's arm. "Godard," she murmured.
"Orange for me," Lucey told Foye.
Foye took a look at the remains of Godard's sherbet "Will you have orange again, Sir Henry?"
"Clever fellow, you are." He bobbed his head. "Very clever, wouldn't you say, Sabine?"
"I cannot say, Godard." With movements economical and precise, she closed up the box that held her writing supplies. "He is, however, observant."
"Hah!" Sir Henry craned his head sideways to look at him. "Thank you, my lord, yes, I should like another orange."
"And you. Miss Godard?" Foye asked. Would she look at him or not? "Will you have a sherbet, too?"
She stopped straightening the papers on the table in an attempt to make room for Lucey and him. Sheaf of papers in hand, she smiled at him, and Foye had several competing reactions as a direct result. Why, he wondered, did she look surprised by his question? Another thought was that Miss Godard was even prettier when she smiled. Stunning, actually. Her smile was not in the least flirtatious or suggestive. She gave no sign that she found his title any reason to behave differently. She was merely... sweet In fact, she looked pleased to have been asked, and that made him pleased to have done the asking.
"Can there be any question?" Lucey said. "Of course a sherbet for Miss Godard. Will you have orange?"
"Thank you." Her smile at Lucey made her entire face light up. She was still smiling when she looked at him, and Foye's body reacted even though the remains of her smile weren't meant for him. "Pomegranate, please," she said with a curt nod.
Foye bowed to her. "I am delighted to indulge your every whim, Miss Godard."
She did not smile, and why should she, given his connection with Crosshaven? Why indeed7
He went inside the shop and found, to his relief, that the shopkeeper spoke enough English for him to return with a white-turbaned native servant behind him carrying a salver with the requisite sherbets: three orange and one pomegranate.
The table was clear of papers now, with but a slim stack remaining at Miss Godard's elbow. She accepted the sherbet from the servant with a nod and a phrase he took for the local language.
Foye sat down, sweeping his coattails behind him once he'd angled his chair so his legs did not hit anyone else's. "You speak Turkish, Miss Godard? I'm impressed."
"That was Arabic, my lord." Spoon in one hand, she rested her arm on the table. "Enough to say please and thank you and not much more. My Turkish is somewhat better."
Good Lord. She was a solemn thing, wasn't she?
"Don't believe her for a moment," Lucey said. He accepted his sherbet from the servant "I've heard her chattering away like a little magpie. Perfect accent, every word."
Miss Godard gazed at Lucey, alert and focused. "I am not fluent, Mr. Lucey. As you well know."
"Every time I hear her speak, I think I'm listening to a native with an imperfect command of the grammar."
"You are a frighteningly accomplished woman, Miss Godard," Foye said. She was waiting, he realized, for her uncle to start eating.
“I excel at languages," she said. This she stated as fact, not a boast She leaned toward her uncle and resettled the napkin over his lap. Only when Sir Henry had begun, laboriously, eating with the spoon clenched in his crippled hand, did she relax and start on her own sherbet.
His was delicious. Cool and sweet. The perfect refreshment for a hot afternoon. "I considered choosing the pomegranate, Miss Godard, but found I hadn't the courage."
She pushed her bowl toward him. "You may taste mine, of course. Please."
He dipped his spoon into her sherbet
"Well?" Lucey asked.
"Hmm." He closed his eyes and pretended to savor the taste for a while. "I'm not sure. May I try more?"
"Of course."
He took another spoonful. "It's very slightly tart," he said. Damned if he wasn't determined to get a smile out of her. "And, yet, I'm not certain, Miss Godard. One more?" He waited for her to nod before her took yet another spoonful. "Do you know," he said when he'd eaten that, too, "I'm still unsure." He looked into her cup. " I may need to eat the rest before I'm able to decide. In the spirit of a proper inquiry, do you mind?"
Lucey and Sir Henry laughed, and even though all he got from Miss Godard was a tiny smile, hardly even a smile at all, Foye felt his body clench. Breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking. Foye signaled to the shopkeeper, and when he came out, he ordered another pomegranate sherbet.
"That's not necessary."
"Yes, it is." He held her dish in one hand while he scooped up a heaping amount of what remained and ate it "Yours is practically gone, and I don't think you've had more than a spoonful."
"It's quite all right," she said.
But the second sherbet was bought, and Foye handed over the necessary coins. He leaned against his chair and relaxed. Sir Henry, for all that he was sometimes so gruff, was an engaging conversationalist, deeply knowledgeable on a great many subjects. Their conversation ranged from philosophy and natural history to the sights they'd each seen during their travels. As for Miss Godard, she was never at a loss. She was much like her uncle in respect of her knowledge and insight. No one questioned her participation, least of all her uncle. Presently, though, the sherbets were consumed and the point reached when they must leave or admit a closer acquaintance.
Foye surprised himself by saying, "May we escort you and Sir Henry home, Miss Godard?" If they did, perhaps he'd manage to get a proper smile from her.
She glanced at her uncle. "We ought to finish your chapter," she said.
"And how is the book coming?" Lucey asked.
"Book?" Foye said.
Sir Henry pushed away his empty cup with a look of regret. "I am engaged in the writing of an account of our travels, my lord. Sabine is my official secretary for the endeavor." He grinned. "And a hard taskmaster she is."
Foye stood, knowing very well that Miss Godard had used her uncle's project as an excuse to see him on his way. Lucey did the same. He was sorry they were parting and perhaps sorrier that Miss Godard had wanted to stay behind. "Good afternoon, Sir Henry." He turned. "Miss Godard."
She reached for her uncle's papers just when he expected her to offer her hand. There followed an awkward moment when his hand was extended in the expectation of bowing over hers. She did not proffer hers in return, and Foye lowered his arm while she said, holding a stack of papers, "It was a pleasure seeing you again, my lord." Foye was coming to hate that crisp, impersonal tone of hers. "Mr. Lucey, do give Mrs. Lucey my regards."
On their way back to Lucey's house, Lucey said, "Extraordinary woman, Miss Godard."
"I found her rather cold," he said.
"The girl needs a husband, no matter what her uncle says." They kept walking. Though Foye said nothing in response, he could not help thinking that had it not been for Crosshaven, she might already be married. His opinion wasn't so different from Lucey's. "Well," Lucey continued, "My dear wife often warns me not to meddle, but I tell you, Foye, I am determined to find her a suitable husband. Especially now that you tell me there's no hope for you."
"None whatever," he said.
"There's a dozen soldiers who would do quite well for her. Sir Henry's not going to live forever, you know. None of us are. What's to become of her if she hasn't got a husband?"
Foye said nothing to that, either. He was struggling with the unpleasant realization that for some reason, he thought of Miss Godard as his. She wasn't What's more, he did not want her to be.
His.
Chapter Five
Constantinople, Turkey. The suq (bazaar),
May 13,1811
May 13,1811
A hot day outside. Inside the covered portions of the suq the temperature was considerably cooler. There were two groups of Europeans present. The first consisted of Lord Foye, Lieutenant Russell of the Royal Artillery, and two other soldiers from the same company. The second included Miss Godard, Sir Henry, and Sir Henry's native servant Asif. The former were aware the latter were here, somewhere. The latter were unaware of the former.
Someone cursed angrily in Turkish, and Sabine turned to be sure the argument was not going to spread. Asif, the Syrian servant who attended to Godard, also turned. He, of course, being large and armed with a pair of pistols tucked into the sash around his waist, was the only one of them in a position to do anything if the altercation got out of hand.
After some shaking of mutual fists, the disagreement abated, and Asif returned to assisting Godard with trying on hats. Sabine did not return to the shopping effort because among the crowds in the suq, she saw the Marquess of Foye heading in their general direction. He was certainly easy enough to pick out.
Her pulse sped up as she watched him, wondering if he had seen them and whether it would be possible to avoid him. She wanted nothing to do with him. He continued toward them. He had seen them, though, because their eyes met across the crowd. Well, then. There was nothing for it now. She would have to endure another meeting with him, wondering when he would slyly, or perhaps even boldly. get around to her immoral past What a shame Godard liked the man.
"Godard," she said, placing a hand on her uncle's arm. Her stomach clenched.
"What do you think of this one?" Godard said, holding up a hat that resembled a beret
"It's too large, isn't it?" She leaned to her uncle and spoke in a low voice. "Lord Foye is here." It occurred to her then that the marquess was alone. How odd that was. Perhaps he was lost, separated from whatever servants he'd brought with him.
"Lord Foye?" Godard swung around and the hat slipped off his head, fortunately caught by Asif at the last minute. The servant returned the hat to the vendor.
The marquess was almost upon them, quite plainly working his way to them. With a sense of dread, Sabine watched him move through the crowd. Most people simply got out of his way, but when that was not possible, he slipped with fluid grace between bodies or around knots of shoppers or merchants delivering goods, ignoring all the calls for his attention. A half-dozen children, many of them barefoot and in rags, ran after him, begging for coins.
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