The Devil She Knows Page 23

  “Allah comes closest to Earth at this time and settles the destiny of each believer for the coming year. Some describe it as being similar to a court of law, where decisions are handed down,” Kahil explained.

  “Court of law?” Pendleton shook his head and settled back.

  “What does that have to do with snatching a former sultan?” Barnesworth queried. He leaned forward, his single eye alight with curiosity.

  “The streets will be lined with soldiers for the Sultan’s procession to the mosque,” Adem said crisply. “It usually weakens the forces at Chiragan Palace.”

  “Can’t they get enough from elsewhere?”

  “Too many disciplined troops are needed. Turkish soldiers aren’t fed or clothed by the state, except for those stationed within Constantinople.”

  “Such as at Chiragan Palace,” Portia gave the example, feeling rather hollow. Soldiers who weren’t reliably fed? Good heavens, how trustworthy could they be?

  “We need to stop the attack.” Gareth watched his host, whose fingertip was endlessly circling his coffee cup’s rim.

  “Can you identify them?” Ancient eyes contemplated the Bosporus’s glittering waters floating past.

  “Yes—and ensure they’re arrested for stealing from foreigners. But only with your help, sir.”

  Kerem Ali Pasha looked at each of his sons. His grandson wailed in the distance and he flinched, growing decades older.

  “Very well. What do you want us to do?”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Kerem Ali Pasha bowed politely, but not too deeply, to Qadri Bey, the new head of the secret police. One had to remember all of the nuances for why one was supposedly here—and not keep thinking about exactly how Qadri Bey had gotten his blameless predecessor exiled to Aleppo. A western fan whirred overhead, incapable of eavesdropping through the shadows unlike old-fashioned slaves.

  A single sheet of paper, covered in Kerem Ali’s handwriting, glittered balefully from the official’s blotter.

  The entire family had worked on their reports with Meryem’s aid. Even his mother had contributed a note obliquely urging an investigation of strange doings in the old palace.

  “You state here that a group plans to attack Chiragan Palace.” Qadri Bey picked up the page and pretended to exam it more closely.

  “Yes indeed, sir.” The honorific rasped his throat worse than all of a mackerel’s bones.

  He owed Lowell his son’s life and he trusted the man. If Lowell said there was a threat, then the dagger was poised, ready to fall sooner than his family had guessed. That certainty alone kept his face calm.

  He stretched his legs out, in a casual assumption of authority designed to prod the other into action.

  “They are driven like sheep by the British, Qadri Bey,” he added. “If you reach out your hand, you could cut their throats.”

  Flat black eyes turned inward and the overly polished hand slowly waved the sheet back and forth. Finally a snake’s obscene spark of life returned to them.

  “The Sultan wishes to thank you for your concern.”

  Kerem Ali gratefully recognized the dismissal and rose, gathering his dignity around him like a cloak.

  “A token of his gratitude will be delivered to your home.” For a moment, naked envy blasted the secret police chief’s face.

  Kerem Ali bowed very fast before he saw too much then left as rapidly as possible.

  Everything Lowell had said was true—and more? They must have already suspected a plot, for which his words provided the evidence and a chance to catch the devils behind it.

  Allah willing, the same brutes who’d so swiftly knocked out his son would not eliminate Lowell and his wife.

  Portia longed for an enormous hat, or two, or three. Or maybe a half dozen brocaded kaftans with matching pants. Anything to drip convincingly from the corners of her enormous trunk, which was now being propelled by a uniformed porter down the busy quay in Constantinople’s European City.

  Some trinket to make her and Gareth look as if they belonged, so he wouldn’t need the knife that had brushed against her, from inside his sleeve. Wouldn’t need to use the coiled tension behind his amiable gaze, with which he surveyed everyone who walked past.

  If something happened to him, her world would end.

  Dogs scampered by, vendors hawked a variety of foods to tease the senses, and men rushed onward as if their lives depended on being aboard the next grubby steamer.

  She wet her lips again, wishing she could clear the dust from her mouth or open up her lungs to the tangy air. Maybe if she could avoid looking at that blasted British cruiser and its tea party for the ambassador. Half the European population had to be aboard under that canvas awning, including no doubt St. Arles.

  They hadn’t been able to talk to the police before coming here. If anything went wrong with the plan, there would be only the two of them to deal with St. Arles’s blackguards.

  No matter how much Barnesworth might boast of his ability to act in disguise, he was still acting as a porter and that heavy trunk would keep his hands busy.

  Her stomach wrenched into an incipient sob but she ignored it. To protect Gareth, she’d use every lesson she’d ever been taught in finishing school or those years of duplicity and vitriol called international diplomacy.

  This was the moment to show only her appreciation of the crisp breeze and lovely view of Hagia Sophia to the south from across the Golden Horn.

  Very well, she could manage that, no matter how much the little hairs shivered on the nape of her neck.

  Maybe if she imagined that she was strolling alongside San Francisco Bay, the salt breeze teasing her hair, and no greater concerns than the perfect folds of her parasol—and how quickly she could coax her beloved husband to take her home. His strong arm under her hand, his thigh propelling her forward, his warm breath teasing her cheek when he bent to answer a question—Oh yes, she could saunter like this forever.

  And if she imagined that Barnesworth was merely a silent banker, not a porter…Yes, that would do.

  She elevated her chin a little higher and strutted a little more emphatically, using her parasol to emphasize her pace. At least her hat and parasol were the latest fashion, bought during a whirlwind visit to Paris when she’d freed herself of anything which smacked of St. Arles’ taste.

  Gareth patted her hand approvingly but said nothing. His beautifully tailored suit became him admirably, although she suspected it hid more than the single weapon she knew of.

  Another porter stepped out of the crowd, also pushing an expensive trunk. A trunk which exactly matched Portia’s, down to the same number of black, wrought iron bands circling it and the heavy lock on the top. The porter was dressed as they’d been informed, in a dull maroon livery.

  Her foot skidded on the uneven planks but her parasol’s rhythmic tap, tap never faltered. Tension swirled like an opera cloak and settled into her bones, cold and surprisingly calming.

  The two porters came abreast of each other and Barnesworth stepped toward the newcomer as he’d been instructed—and they’d planned—ready to exchange one set of handles for another in mid-stride.

  A second man, dressed in a well-worn suit, abruptly stepped out of the crowd and brutally clubbed Barnesworth down. Then he grabbed the trunk’s handles and started to run for the nearest boat.

  Gareth slammed into his back, driving him onto the chest. The attacker twisted and rolled over with a trained wrestler’s speed until they came snarling to their feet.

  They circled each other, both clearly more ready to kill than talk. Knives flashed in their hands, pitiless as serpents’ teeth.

  Portia’s heart was bouncing within her ribs.

  Whistles blew shrilly from behind her back, too far away to help her husband.

  She looked around for a gun, a weapon, anything to aid Gareth. Anything to stop another threat against him.

  The original attacker started to run, pushing his trunk past Barnesworth’s limp body.

/>   Portia shoved her parasol between his legs and twisted it, the tendrils of ribbon and lace wrapping against his ankles in a foaming torrent of feminine wrath.

  He screeched and tumbled head over heels into the uniformed policemen finally running toward them down the quay.

  Portia retrieved her parasol and quickly turned around, ready to assist Gareth.

  “Well done, my dear, well done.” Her beloved nodded to her above a very grubby, infuriated villain. Gareth had painfully twisted the fellow’s arm behind his back, thereby winning the bout.

  “And you, my love.” Her heartbeat slipped slowly back into normalcy. He was alive, with her, for a little longer.

  Barnesworth stirred and she stooped to check him.

  Together they awaited the forces of the law, who’d perform the cleanup—and make sure none of St. Arles’ packages entered Chiragan Palace.

  At least on this Friday night.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Constantinople, night of 7/8 May 1887

  The moon glowed golden and ripe with mystery, just above the horizon, as if the rippling waters were a road leading to undreamt-of delights within its portals. Dark woodsy scents and sweet flower aromas sifted into the air to tease the nose from the quiet western shoreline.

  But the Old City, on the eastern shoreline, was very different. All of the great mosques which dominated the city’s backbone were bedecked in light, from ancient Hagia Sophia to the immense Blue Mosque. Gareth could even see Mihrimah Sultan Mosque far to the east like a beacon of hope, where Abdul Hamid had warned Portia and him about St. Arles’ plans.

  Horses’ hooves, plus the heavy metallic clank and rattle told how thousands of soldiers returned to their barracks, after lining the streets while the Sultan lighted the first candle.

  The Sultan was safe and Portia had finally consented to depart for England.

  He should be glad. He could leave her now and let her have a quiet annulment. Nobody need know about a marriage contracted in a foreign land, which had only lasted for a few days.

  “Are you sure it’s safe?” she asked again. Her face was very white in the moonlight. No lights showed where Kerem Ali Pasha’s yali slept within its sheltering gardens on the Bosporus’s eastern edge.

  “St. Arles will have to lie low here until the furor dies down. That should give you more than enough time to return to London and look after your friends, no matter how cautious they are.” His cheeks were too stiff for an encouraging smile. Stupid idea, anyway.

  Her family’s men started to lower her last trunk into the Naiad’s launch and they both turned to watch. He, at least, was grateful for the distraction.

  The northern wind, a harsh counterpoint to the evening’s festival, shoved the small boat sideways, away from the pier. A sailor’s foot slipped and the fellow lost his grasp on the damn chest.

  Gareth lunged forward to help prevent the rifles and ammunition from crashing through the boat or, worse, into the man’s leg. His fingers closed on the padded handle just as two other sailors caught the damn heavy thing, and their helmsman brought the recalcitrant vessel well under control.

  Portia let out a long, almost inaudible sigh.

  Gareth flashed them a quick thumbs up and stepped back.

  “Sorry, sir,” the helmsman said. “Very choppy seas running tonight and I wasn’t quite prepared. We’ll do better when the lady comes aboard, I promise.”

  His heart, which had dropped back into its normal rhythm, rocketed into something far closer to a bullet’s hungry search for mayhem.

  They’d damn well better look after her or he’d tear their eyes out for frightening her. If anything happened to Portia, he’d…he’d…he’d be better off dead. He’d found a way to keep on living after his parents died. But he didn’t think he could do that if she wasn’t in the world.

  He didn’t have to see her every day because he didn’t deserve that. He only needed to know she was happy.

  He loved her.

  The truth hit him like a stampeding longhorn bull, closing his lungs and taking the strength from his knees.

  He swayed slightly, unable for the first time in years to find his knife against his wrist.

  Portia tugged on his sleeve and he looked down at her. Dear God in heaven, she was beautiful. She’d been a damn smart fighter when she’d tripped up that fellow with her parasol, too.

  “So you do think St. Arles is still a threat?” she hissed, a distinct note of triumph in her voice.

  He tried to remember what she’d just been saying to him, after she’d dragged him away from the sailors. “Could be.”

  “He’ll certainly be furious when we dump the rifles at sea.”

  Was she having second thoughts now?

  “There’s no other sure way to destroy them, unless we sail them all the way back to London. A ship’s the only way to keep them far from St. Arles and his hirelings.”

  “But I have to catch the first possible train back to London so I can reach my friends. I can’t stay with the boat.”

  “We’re back to the beginning, honey: The rifles will have a decent burial at sea.”

  Even so, St. Arles could follow them, hoping to regain his box of tricks, and revenge himself on Portia in the process.

  Gareth could escort her and make damn sure the brute didn’t lay hands on her again. But that meant drawing close, far closer than he’d ever dared before, to home and family, everything he didn’t deserve and couldn’t have. Everything that sent him back outside with the wind, where it was safe, or at least less dangerous.

  No matter how many of her family’s men were on that boat with her, they wouldn’t be willing to die for her.

  “I’ll come with you,” Gareth said.

  “To London?” Her voice rose.

  “All the way to England,” he affirmed, putting his neck in the noose.

  “Thank you, Gareth!” Tears welled up in her eyes until they sparkled like diamonds.

  HMS Phidaleia rolled hard, jolted, and twirled in the opposite direction like a Cockney flower girl pretending she still possessed her virginity. A man’s voice rose from below decks, cursing his once-neat equipment.

  Waves smacked against her sides, promising a long, bitterly uncomfortable night. Thank God the charts for these waters were younger than the Christian Church and showed every lee shore where a ship might run aground, given these high winds.

  St. Arles dropped the telescope down to his side, enjoying the salt spray crystallizing on his hair and wool coat. For a few minutes, he could pretend he was at home, no matter how bad the news was.

  As he’d suspected, the silly little house contained no traces of his former wife and her paramour. Or new husband, to give him due credit for an English wedding, at least.

  He still needed the damn chest with its rifles and cartridges to create a puppet Sultan. And the sooner the better, too, for both Britain and himself.

  “What do you want, St. Arles?” Southers asked.

  “Can you see the American yacht which just got underway?”

  “Very pretty lines,” the British captain commented, “but she’s having a hard time of it, with this sea.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “True, we’re all fighting the wind. But she’s cutting very close to the Asian side, rather than staying more toward the center of the channel.”

  A bit of over-caution which would give him time to catch up with her. Of course, British ships didn’t have to worry about coming close to Chiragan Palace’s bloody-fingered jailers.

  “I want you to put me aboard her.”

  “Unnoticed, St. Arles?”

  “Of course.”

  “A little tricky, given the full moon and these sea conditions, but I’m sure the lads will consider it a pleasant break from the recent monotony. What else?”

  Life held few pleasures greater than rejoining the Royal Navy, even for a few minutes.

  “I will create a distraction and then signal for assistance. At that t
ime, I want two men to come aboard and assist me in taking off the chest lashed down behind the aft wheelhouse. Do you see it?”

  “The large oak one, old chap, with black bands?” Southers fiddled with his own spyglass for a moment before nodding with satisfaction. “Yes, of course, the lads will be ready the instant you need them.”

  “Thank you, Southers.” He’d have to give the young captain a longer mention than planned for this assistance in his despatches back home, possibly even enough for a medal. Damn. But it would be worth it, to regain the rifles—and ruin the bitch’s happiness.

  “Good luck, St. Arles.” For an instant, Southers’ voice darkened to a warning note deeper than the wind’s hungry howl.

  St. Arles’s eyes flickered then he shrugged off the comparison as nursery rhymes’ rubbish. He had far more important matters to think about, such as how best to destroy his ex-wife’s new marriage.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The Naiad hit another wave and jounced before settling back on course. Crockery rattled as if all the fiends of hell were trying to escape their bounds. The gas lamp swung, bouncing its light through a blinding arc of reflections.

  Portia’s stomach leaped for her mouth, somersaulted, and started to slowly settle.

  The steward lifted a cup of hot tea off his tray, moving as carefully as if he were gliding over hot coals. In the same instant, the yacht jolted and rolled again, restarting the hellacious racket.

  “I believe I need a bit of night air,” she said firmly, to the world as much as to herself, “to refresh myself.”

  “But, ma’am,” the steward started to protest.

  “I’m sure I will be more comfortable there, sir.” Plus, she’d have the freedom to be alone with her husband. Dear Lord, how she needed every minute of that which she could grab.

  The stern deck was deserted and its usual canvas awnings rolled up, due to the heavy wind. But she could adapt a little better to the ship’s motion there, since she could see the waves’ choppy pattern.