Panther's Prey (25 page)

She was ready.

As Amy picked up her reticule and prepared to go downstairs and welcome Bea’s guests, she couldn’t help comparing the image in the mirror with the young woman who had left the rebel camp wearing Risa’s wedding dress. Were they the same people? Amy knew in her heart that they were, but she also knew that the rest of the world would have a difficult time reconciling the two contrasting aspects of her life.

Beatrice’s guests were arriving as Amy descended the staircase, coming through the front door in their cone skirts and bishop sleeves, their carriages lined up in the circular drive leading to the house. Amy joined Bea and stood at her side, shaking the hands of the well-to-do matrons who filled the foyer, all of them nodding and smiling graciously as they were greeted. Amy had been trained to do this sort of thing in her sleep, and as she steered the women into the dining room for finger sandwiches and lemon cake and Earl Grey tea she wondered what these stalwart wives and mothers would think of her wild night with Malik Bey. Would they be shocked, alarmed, disappointed? Envious? Or did they all have hidden memories of a secret adventure tucked away somewhere in their graying, well coiffed heads?

Amy had an idea that some of them must; they had all once been young.

“I’m so tired of all this rain,” Mrs. Ballinger said to Amy as she selected a watercress sandwich with the crusts removed. “It rained in England, of course, but it was a different sort of rain, soft and misty, not like the awful downpours you get here. Thank God the sun is out today.”

Amy nodded and handed her a napkin, looking after her as she moved down the refreshment table. Mrs. Ballinger was the wife of the Brigadier in charge of the British garrison in Constantinople, and she was the chairwoman of the charity fundraiser the women were meeting to discuss. The Victoria Mission Ball was held each autumn at the British Embassy to benefit the foundling home attached to Her Majesty’s Lying-In Hospital, the maternity facility which served the soldiers’ wives. The foundling home had been established to care for the half British by-blows the soldiers often left behind, and it had expanded to accept orphaned or unwanted local children as well. It ran exclusively on contributions and its worthy cause appealed to the bored and underutilized wives of the British and American officers and businessmen stranded on foreign soil. The ball was the social event of the fall season and required a good deal of time to plan.

Beatrice had chaired the event the previous year.

Amy made small talk with the guests as they sampled the light fare before settling down to finalize their plans for the party. She was accepting a tray of iced ginger cookies from Listak when she heard Mrs. Ballinger say, “Did you see the news of the latest rebel raid in the paper this morning? That man Bey robbed a train full of tourists on their way to Hagia Sofia and absconded with all their valuables. One of the female passengers fainted and had to be taken to hospital.”

Amy set the tray on the table and edged closer to the conversation as Mrs. Ballinger’s listeners shook their heads and clicked their tongues. Amy saved all the newspapers James brought into the house to scan them for reports of Malik’s exploits, but this morning James had folded the
Monitor
and stuck it into his briefcase to take to his office. She had intended to get another copy of it.

“I mean to say, it’s not safe to travel anywhere with that man at large,” Mrs. Ballinger went on. “I have wanted for some time to leave the city and view some of the outlying sights, Byzantine churches and such, but my husband will not allow it. He says that Bey sends these hooligans everywhere and trains and coaches are their main targets. You’d think that with all the Sultan’s soldiers, as well as the foreign forces here, someone could put Bey behind bars.”

“It’s a scandal,” Mrs. Lambert agreed. “My neighbor wanted to send for her daughter, who had finished school in Sussex and planned to join her parents here, but it would mean a coach trip and with all the kidnappings...” She stopped short and looked at Amy, her face flushing scarlet. She fell silent.

“Oh, my dear, I am so terribly sorry,” Mrs. Ballinger said quickly to Amy, looking equally chagrined. “I never meant to bring up an unpleasant subject. It was quite thoughtless of me to forget your recent experience, I’m very sure you don’t want to be reminded about it.”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Ballinger, I know you didn’t mean to upset me. But have you ever wondered why the rebels resort to such methods to obtain money? They have no other means of raising cash to oppose the Sultan, and I’m sure you would agree almost any other form of government established here would be superior to his.”

Both women stared at her, speechless with shock.

“Amelia, could you come here a moment?” Beatrice said from the doorway.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Amy said smoothly, and joined her aunt in the hall.

“Amelia, what on earth are you doing?” Bea demanded,
sotto voce
, her expression bewildered and more than a little annoyed. “It sounded to me like you were defending those awful people who abducted you!”

“I wasn’t defending the rebels, merely explaining their situation. Those women know how poor the locals are, they must look out their carriage windows as they drive through the streets and see them. If they were as hopeless and as miserable as the average Turkish citizen maybe they too would resort to stealing in an attempt to change their lives.”

“Mrs. Ballinger and Mrs. Lambert have both been here far longer than you have, they hardly need you to expound on Ottoman politics for their edification,” Bea said tartly. “Now perhaps you should go upstairs and lie down, you are obviously not feeling well. I’ll make your excuses.”

Amy walked through the hall and ascended the staircase obediently, her campaign to please Beatrice in ruins. She stopped on the landing to look down at the first floor; Beatrice had gone back into the dining room and conversation had resumed. Satisfied that she hadn’t disrupted the proceedings, Amy moved on, cursing her own big mouth.
 

What was wrong with her? She knew that nothing she said was going to change the fixed opinions of people like her aunt’s guests, and if she kept making speeches justifying the rebels’ conduct her cherished secret would not be a secret long.
 

She went into her room and flung herself across the bed, wondering why she had come so close to revealing too much. She had been so careful, steeled herself to ignore thoughtless remarks and dinner table chatter, and yet when those well bred ladies had torn into Malik she simply couldn’t keep quiet.

Why did she have such a lapse? Was it because sustaining the role of carefree debutante became more difficult every day that she didn’t see Malik? At first his visit had buoyed her spirits and made it easier to play the part expected of her, but as time dragged on and he didn’t come again the strain of missing him was obviously telling on her nerves.

Amy sat up and unbuttoned her kid boots, dropping them on the floor. It would be several hours before the women left and she could sneak downstairs to check if James had brought the newspaper back. She wanted to see where the train robbery had taken place; in some strange way it helped her to know where Malik was, or at least where he had been.

But it only helped a little.

If he didn’t contact her soon, she wasn’t sure what she would do.

* * *

Kalid accepted the silver tray from the servant and removed the stack of envelopes, nodding in dismissal as he returned the salver. The girl retreated, bowing, and as she closed the door behind her Kalid called to his wife, “The mail has arrived.”

Sarah hurried in from the next room. A new shipment of mail was always an event for her; it meant a great deal to hear from friends and family when she was now so far away from them.

“Roxalena,” Kalid said, handing her an envelope with a Cypriot postmark.

Sarah snatched it eagerly.

“Your friend Sophie from Boston,” he said as he examined another missive, naming one of Sarah’s former colleagues who still taught in the school where Sarah had once worked.

“You can see through paper?” Sarah asked archly.

“Brookline,” Kalid said, tapping the canceled stamp as he gave her the letter.

Sarah took it and put it into her pile.

“Oh, and our invitation to the Victoria Mission Ball,” he added, grinning wickedly as he held aloft a cream vellum envelope addressed in flowing script with an Italianate hand.

Sarah groaned and closed her eyes. “Is it time for that again already?”

“I’m afraid so, my darling. Time for the superior Westerners to display to the natives that they have not abandoned civilization and culture out here in the wilds of the Ottoman Empire.” He widened his eyes dramatically.

“And time for the Sultan to show up with an outrageous entourage and terrify all the tea sipping ladies.”

“It is for a good cause,” Kalid said, taking a drink of his coffee.

“I tell myself that every year,” Sarah said, sitting next to him on the divan and putting her head on his shoulder.

“And every year you go and are the most beautiful woman there,” Kalid said, bending to kiss the tip of her nose.

Sarah picked up the invitation, reading it. “Mrs. Ballinger is chairwoman this time,” she commented.
 

“That old bat with the wart on her chin who talks like her mouth is full of marbles?” Kalid said.
 

“Yes. You remember, her husband is commander of the British garrison,” Sarah replied, smiling at his description of the brigadier’s venerable wife.

“I remember both of them. He always asks me how I enjoyed Oxford, as if I were there yesterday. I imagine he thinks it’s the only thing we have in common.”

“It probably is,” Sarah said.

“My mother was as British as London Bridge, which I’m tempted to remind all of them every time they start waving the flag and looking at me as if I just climbed down out of the trees.”

“The women look at you like that because you are the most exotic, compelling, and sexual creature they have ever seen, and the men look at you like that because they know it.” Sarah sat up and kissed him on the lips.

He laughed, kissing her back. “I thought nice American ladies weren’t supposed to tell lies.”

“I’m not lying, I’m speaking from experience.” She lay back in his arms comfortably.

“So shall I say we’ll go?” Kalid asked, nodding at the invitation still in her hand. “It seems a little ridiculous to attend a social function with Abdul Hammid when I might be shooting at him soon, but until that happens I suppose all the appearances must be preserved.”
 

“Yes, let’s go,” Sarah replied. “I see no reason to break our perfect attendance record, and it will give me a chance to talk to Amelia.”

“And check on the progress of the forbidden liaison?” Kalid said teasingly.

“Of course.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“I know.”

“And I’m so glad you are. Only a hopeless romantic would have left her old life behind entirely to begin a new one half way around the world with the man she loved.”
 

“I hope things work out as well for Amelia.”

“You really like her, don’t you?”

“She reminds me of me.”

“Then she will be fine.” He stood up, taking her hand and pulling her with him. “If she has one quarter of your grit and determination she will stick with Bey through any trouble and come out all right in the end.”

“Where are we going?” Sarah asked, her mind still on the young lovers.

“Yasmin went to try on her new clothes for the Feast of the Flowers. I told her we would come and see her.”

“I hope Memtaz can restrain herself, she tends to get carried away. When I think of some of the outfits she made me wear when I was in the harem...”
 

“I promise no transparent yeleks on the child,” Kalid said dryly.
 

“And no jewel in the navel,” Sarah added.

“Why don’t we just put a corset and crinoline on her and one of those blouses that buttons up to the nose?” he said, as they left the salon and entered the hall.

“It isn’t funny, Kalid. A shirtwaist might not be a bad idea. Between Memtaz and your grandmother Yasmin will look like an odalisque before she’s twelve.”
 

“And you want her to look like a schoolmarm.”

“You married a schoolmarm.”

“I undressed her first.”

Sarah burst out laughing. “I can never win an argument with you,” she said.

“That’s part of my charm.”

They turned a corner and headed for the classroom, where Memtaz was keeping the children.

* * *

Malik handed Anwar the canvas bag and said, “Three pocket watches, two cameos, several gold rings set with stones and a large sapphire brooch.”

Anwar nodded. “How much cash?” he asked.

Malik looked down at the piles of paper on the table before him. “Forty British pounds, twenty-eight American dollars, and about a hundred kurush.”

Anwar shook his head. “That’s not much, considering the risk of getting caught goes up with each raid. The janissaries are watching the trains.”