The Devil She Knows Page 14

  Gareth, on the other hand, had just restored her lost honor.

  But how could he understand so well what she’d done in public, when they hadn’t seen each other in years?

  “How do you know I wasn’t telling the truth? After all, you’re the one who said he was an unsatisfactory lover.”

  Gareth harrumphed, as arrogantly sure of himself as any March gale clearing the way for spring.

  “Remember who you’re talking to, Portia. I’m the fellow who had the gall to take the boss’s niece through the dens of iniquity along the Barbary Coast.”

  “To see jugglers!” Nothing more scandalous, despite her adolescent hopes. But they’d had a splendid outing anyway, worth every bit of the penalties afterward.

  He nodded, his silver eyes linking them in a net of shared memories.

  “I can imagine you in a courtroom for murder, but not perjury, Portia. What happened?”

  He’d always been able to read her like a marked deck of cards. She could either tell the truth or lie yet again.

  “Publicly, the marriage was more or less a success.” Years of public deceit fell away all too easily.

  “By those asinine British standards.” She raised an eyebrow at his aggravated tone and he clarified, “I saw photos.”

  “Journalists.” She sniffed unhappily and Gareth tucked her comfortingly against his shoulder once again.

  “St. Arles was a successful diplomat and I was an acceptable hostess—”

  “A damn good one!” Gareth rapped out, as if he’d prefer to plunge the words into the hearts of those who’d denigrated her.

  “Too young to claim that title, but thank you. We both enjoyed yachting and…” She paused, trying to think of something else she’d done with St. Arles.

  Gareth’s silver gaze swept over her like a lantern, illuminating far too much.

  “Hmm,” he said, dismissing those bygone facades from both their memories. “What else?”

  “No matter what we tried, I remained barren,” she whispered, her face crimson with remembered humiliation. The long nights, the shouting, the pointed fingers from society…

  “Son of a bitch!” Rage surged behind his eyes yet no fear leaped through her bones in response. Perhaps it was because his arms offered only protection for her and warmth. Perhaps she was hiding within a dream. Perhaps.

  “Did he try to blame that on you, when he’d been married before and that wife had never had a baby?” Gareth asked more quietly but just as angrily.

  Portia nodded, stunned he knew about St. Arles’s brief first marriage.

  “Goddamn bastard should be carved up like the skunk he is,” Gareth muttered. “Doesn’t he realize the stallion must flourish before the mare can?”

  “Truly?” Portia blinked at him, never having heard that explanation from a man before. The husband had to be fertile, too?

  “Of course. What happened then?” he asked brusquely.

  “He demanded a divorce so he could marry his mistress. He was certain she could breed”—Portia gulped over the painful word but went on—“because she’d borne so many children to her late husband.”

  “And you agreed.” Gareth’s tone offered no hints to his thoughts.

  “I wanted an end to the marriage.” Lord, how she’d hungered to have it over and done with.

  “Why couldn’t he plead guilty? He was the adulterous rat dripping evidence through the backstreets.”

  “They’d have to admit she was the other party—and she’d never be accepted again in society.”

  “Mealy-mouthed bunch of hypocrites, the lot of them.” Gareth crumpled the sheet between his fingers, as if crushing an insect under his boot heel. “Could you have held out a little longer, just to see him squirm?”

  She’d wanted to do exactly that.

  “I’d been married to St. Arles for five years. I was certain that, sooner or later, he’d find some way to force me into swearing I was the one who’d committed adultery—the only workable grounds for divorce.”

  Gareth grumbled something about stupid British laws.

  She grabbed his strong wrist.

  “If the divorce went through very quickly, I would be free by my twenty-fifth birthday—when I would inherit my mother’s trust fund.”

  “A fortune?” Gareth’s gaze sharpened.

  “Five million dollars, all of it from my grandmother.”

  “Coming from that side of the family, your father wouldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t have informed that high-and-mighty Englishman.”

  “No.” She released him, hoping, praying he’d understand.

  “You turned the knife in St. Arles that day in court.”

  “Yes.” By swearing to my fantasies when everybody thought I meant the greasy swine my husband had brought forward.

  “And St. Arles didn’t realize it.” Gareth’s hand circled her back.

  She shrugged, old ice crystals falling away from her bones.

  “Very clever of you, my good girl.” He stretched underneath her, as if he offered his own body for her bed. “We should take some rest before we explore the city.”

  How deliciously simple he made it sound, as if she was sixteen again.

  “You’re very unusual, to calmly sleep with a perjurer.” She whispered the words against his heart. She should have known he’d hear.

  “Sometimes a person does what he must, honey, even if it’s outside the law’s limits.”

  The bitter knowledge in his voice stopped her throat.

  She shuttered her eyes and let the dawn’s glow drift around them.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Early 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.

  Sid
onie 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.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Portia 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?”