The Devil She Knows Page 24

  Gareth was silent, stumbling a little bit when the ship’s awkward motion caught him unawares.

  But her heart was happy to watch him and save up memories of how he looked—his profile against the moonlight, his quick grace when he pivoted, the warmth of his hand when he caught her elbow…Every small detail that might be fodder for a thousand future dreams.

  The trunk—St. Arles’ blasted mass of iron and oak which had started everything—was lashed beside the waist-high deckhouse. Stolid and dangerous, it commanded all eyes the same way the judge’s bench had in that British courtroom. It creaked and groaned, straining against its restraints like a living being. She’d have to ask Captain Pendleton to secure it more firmly.

  A stench drifted back from the ship’s bow and Gareth’s nose twitched. Portia sniffed, too.

  Faint but unmistakably foul, it was—fire?

  The alarm bell broke out, tolling the cry more dreaded than any other at sea.

  Fire! Men shouted, doors slammed, and feet pounded toward the bow. The yacht could sink within five minutes if flames reached the boiler, fifteen if they reached the coal bunkers.

  Portia stared at Gareth, her heart leaping in her breast. He alone hadn’t moved.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked softly.

  “Go to a lifeboat, honey.” His face held the hard determination of an Arizona gunslinger and he scanned the deck.

  She glanced around. But all she could see was a thin plume of smoke rising from the Naiad’s bow.

  Fire, ready to kill them all.

  “Darling.” She bit her lip, forcing herself to find a steadier note.

  Bang! A shot whizzed from behind the deckhouse, past Portia’s head, and into the capstan. Its hot trail scorched her ear and she yelped, then dropped flat on her face.

  Bang! The second shot nicked Gareth’s shoulder, singeing his linen jacket as if the hounds of hell had bitten him.

  He whirled, just in time to grab St. Arles’ revolver before the dripping wet brute could get off another shot.

  They struggled for it, both pairs of hands wrapped around the gun. The sea flung them back and forth against the deckhouse until they stumbled and fell. They rolled a few feet more and then St. Arles slammed Gareth into the mast.

  What could she do to help? Everyone else was fighting the fire.

  The Bosporus roared and shook itself like an angry beast, until taking even two steps unaided was a miracle. Her life turned to ashes in her throat, Portia reached for a handhold to steady herself.

  Gareth beat St. Arles’ hand against the deck again and again but the Englishman’s grip was too strong to break.

  The great moon hung golden and unmoved above and the wind howled around them like Apache war cries. The sea hissed and flung itself against the Naiad in a portent of hell, while the chest pivoted like a tiger under its ropes.

  Two shots fired, four to go. If she grabbed the gun, she could be injured, too, even if she managed to grip it.

  St. Arles forced the revolver back toward Gareth—and fired it again.

  Bam!

  The wind blew the acrid smoke away, as if the gates of hell had opened.

  Gareth’s face was black with smoke and red streaked one side of it. But his silver eyes, lethal as any wolf’s, promised revenge.

  Slipping and sliding on the wet deck, Portia ran for the only other weapon—the fire axe inside the deck house.

  A second later, far too few paces separated Gareth from St. Arles and the damn revolver. Her knife gleamed in her lover’s hand but how much use was it now?

  What could she do with the heavy axe? She could lift it but throwing it was beyond her strength.

  The Naiad heaved again, as if the sea mocked their tribulations. In the distance, the Sultan’s palaces glittered like undisturbed fairy tales—Yildiz, Dolmabahce, Chiragan with its blood-soaked prisons.

  “I used to think I’d make you pay for his life, Portia,” St. Arles remarked, as conversationally as if they stood in the center of Regent’s Park. “But now I believe he’s caused so much trouble that I’ll simply kill him out of hand.”

  You hellspawn fiend.

  Portia crept forward until she came out into the stern deck, away from the deckhouse. She had two possible targets from here—St. Arles’ damn chest or the beast himself.

  For a moment, she teetered, fighting the wind. Her skirts tried to become sails and manacles, while she had nothing nearby to hold on to.

  But she’d manage this. Somehow. For Gareth and everyone else whose lives St. Arles had carelessly wrecked.

  Calling on all the Lindsays in her blood, she created a balance between herself and the ship and the sea. Then she took a firmer grip on the axe.

  One long step to the trunk and the weak rope holding it—or three paces to St. Arles.

  Gareth’s eyes widened slightly, even underneath the salt spray and the blood from his wound. His smile turned as sharp-edged as his blade.

  “Perhaps you should look to your own defenses in this weather,” he suggested to St. Arles. He feinted, moving forward, pressing his opponent as if he had full advantage.

  He’d attack a man with a gun—when all he had was a knife?

  The Englishman laughed, the sound’s gleeful triumph resonating through the sudden absence of bells and shouts from the Naiad’s bow.

  “You fool. You bloody, glorious fool.” He shifted and circled, keeping his gun pointed at Gareth’s chest. Then he cocked it.

  Her heart leaped into her mouth. She swung down the same way the judge had wielded his gavel on the bench—and sent the axe’s full weight into the hemp strands. The blade thudded into the solid oak, final as the gavel’s slam. The strands snapped in an instant and the trunk hurled itself forward to slide free.

  The big, heavy chest roared across the deck toward the two fighters. Gareth sprang for Portia and knocked her away from it.

  St. Arles turned to dodge it but slipped on the wet deck. The Naiad continued to roll, sending the iron-bound oak chest thundering down upon him. He fell, screaming curses, and skidded into the ravenous seas through the open gangway only inches ahead of the great chest.

  Gareth and Portia raced to the rail.

  “Where is he?”

  “There!” Gareth pointed. “Can you see him swimming?”

  “If you say so but I’m not sure I want to.” She leaned against her husband and tried to find merciful thoughts.

  Others joined them, smelling strongly of smoke. Someone handed her a telescope.

  “He’s heading for the small white palace to the north. With the large terrace,” Captain Pendleton reported.

  “Chiragan Palace,” Portia said. A very hollow feeling began to grow in her stomach. “Where the former sultan is held captive.”

  “All unexpected visitors to Chiragan Palace are always interrogated by experts,” Gareth murmured. “I understand it frequently involves having your rib cage bound so your spinal column can be extracted.”

  Neat as any marshal, she and Gareth had delivered St. Arles to the only tribunal where his nationality and rank meant nothing, compared to his crimes.

  Portia hid her face against Gareth’s shoulder and he hugged her. She’d have to go to church and pray for forgiveness, because she had no regrets.

  St. Arles hadn’t gone to court for adultery but he was standing in the dock now.

  In a Turkish court, on the Night of Absolution, may Allah have mercy on him.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  St. Arles staggered onto the rocky shore, his woolen coat streaming water from the howling gale. Wind beat at his back and waves tore at his knees and ankles. The golden moon sailed above, barely visible through the pounding spray.

  He hissed with pain when the first boulder cut into his feet but kept walking. He’d quickly sacrificed his boots when he first went into the Bosporus, lest they became sea anchors dedicated to locking him onto this foul place.

  White steps glimmered ahead of him, probably from somebo
dy’s seaside mansion on the Asian side of the Bosporus. A few bribes, the mention of the British Ambassador, and he’d be able to fight once again, ready to destroy his ex-wife and that cur Lowell.

  Once he had his revenge—and silenced their yapping mouths, no doubt—he could decide how best to bring rifles into Constantinople. The filthy Sultan still needed to go to hell.

  He caught the railing and started up. Another wave crashed into him and snatched his breath away. He clung, panting, to the heavy marble balustrade until the swell slunk away.

  Dammit, any house this grand should have servants to help unexpected guests. Where were they?

  He spat out more saltwater and pulled himself onto his feet. Water swirled below the stairs, green and black with debris beneath the angry foam.

  Now—finally!—boots pounded toward him across the marble terrace.

  St. Arles shoved his streaming hair off his forehead and wiped his eyes so he could better gauge his greeters’ social rank.

  But behind them rose the immense white marble block of Chiragan Palace, more dangerous to the unwary than the Tower of London. The etchings around its windows and doors seemed to writhe in the fitful light and pour water like demons grasping for his soul.

  Two big brutes grabbed his arms and half threw him onto the terrace.

  “I say, now!” he protested. “I’m a British diplomat.”

  A boot on his neck ground his face into the tiled surface. More enormous ruffians pinned his legs and back against his attempts to rise.

  He yelled again. Surely they wouldn’t treat a foreigner like one of their own ignorant heathen.

  They rolled him over, two men on every limb and others on his torso. The indignity was more than any St. Arles had tolerated since Cromwell’s time.

  “Release me, you filthy buggers!” He bucked, outrage washing away diplomatic platitudes.

  A boot smashed into him, precisely between his legs.

  Fiery pain ripped him apart, more crippling than anything he’d ever endured. Fierce as the worst agony he’d seen in a bed partner’s eyes before she died.

  His scream came from the bottom of his soul. He tried to jackknife but the fiends held him still, even piled on more to hold him down.

  When he could speak again, cold black eyes watched him above a gold-braided uniform, lit by an equally impassive golden moon.

  “You will speak politely of my men, English,” the officer remarked, “or you will regret it. That is, if you are English.”

  His accent was barely understandable.

  St. Arles spat. “You fool—”

  The officer kicked him in the ribs.

  The pain wasn’t as foul as its predecessor. On the other hand, St. Arles was certain he had at least one broken bone.

  He lay on the terrace, sweat streaming down his face, and stared up at a dozen foreign heathen. All of them were big, strong, and clearly ready to use their big knives on him.

  For the first time in his life, terror crystallized his bones, not his bed partner’s.

  “Why are you here, English?” the officer asked. “The truth please, or you will speak only to the torturer.”

  “I was—” He stopped to wet his lips. He was a diplomat; where had the clever words fled to?

  “Explanation, English.” The officer’s tone hardened.

  “Visiting a lady.” Surely they wouldn’t ask him to produce her as his alibi.

  “So you went swimming during a storm? Fully dressed? Here at Chiragan Palace, which is close to nobody’s home except the Sultan?” The Turk put one hand onto his sword hilt, a gesture echoed by all of his men.

  All the water St. Arles had swallowed surged into molten poison inside his belly.

  “Liar!” Another kick hurtled into St. Arles’ ribs. “You are only disguised as an Englishman.”

  “No,” gasped St. Arles. How could he get a message to the Ambassador?—if the chap was even at home to receive one in time.

  “You are a traitor who hopes to steal the former sultan and replace our glorious master.”

  St. Arles stopped writhing and stared at his interrogator. How had the fellow guessed the plot? An instant later, he pulled the old diplomatic mask back on but the damage was done.

  “So—you are a traitor! Guards, take him to the torturer. He will extract the truth.”

  The brutes started to lift him up and St. Arles kicked out wildly. He could not let them interrogate him and discover the British network here in Constantinople.

  His hand slipped free, then a leg. A wrestlers’ twist, learned on a Portsmouth dock, left them holding only his coat.

  He raced for the terrace’s railing.

  “Grab him!” shouted the officer.

  Twice as many thugs leaped upon him this time and his head banged against the paving. He threw off some of them but more came until every inch of him was weighted down. His ribs slashed into his chest, a fiery reminder of past pain and future torment. Fiery stars blurred his sight.

  “Take him away.”

  Prayer was for weaklings. Instead, St. Arles offered them a golden bargain.

  The senior Turk belted him in the side of the face and St. Arles’s teeth ripped free into the wind.

  The last fresh air St. Arles ever breathed was tainted by the officer’s contempt.

  From The Times of London, 10 May 1887:

  We regret to announce the sudden death of the Earl of St. Arles at the shockingly young age of thirty-eight. His lordship had been visiting Constantinople in pursuit of his photographic hobby, a pastime he first embarked upon while commissioned into the Royal Navy. He was suddenly overtaken by a tropical disorder, sinking rapidly into a decline from which no doctor was able to rouse him.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Dover, England, late May 1887

  Gareth reached under his coat and tucked his vest down, striving again for sartorial perfection. Idiotic thing to do, since he had no intention of being present when William Donovan boarded the Naiad. To say nothing of anybody else Donovan saw fit to bring along, like his wife Viola or maybe his right-hand man Morgan Evans. Or Mrs. Donovan’s brother and Portia’s uncle, Hal Lindsay.

  Or all the other family Portia had, which he didn’t.

  Spilled milk, boy. Spilled milk. Don’t fuss about it, just move on.

  He’d left a detailed letter explaining everything he’d done for Portia. If—when—Donovan wanted to know, they could discuss it in the fall, when he went back to California.

  Six months should give her plenty of time to get an annulment or a divorce started without scandal, since she had his lawyer’s name.

  But he’d kept his word: He’d stayed with her until she reached England, despite the slowest boat trip he’d ever taken. Now it was time to leave.

  One way or another, he’d make sure she was happier the next time around. She deserved somebody far better than St. Arles or him.

  Maybe, if he was very lucky, she’d still think kindly of him, enough to let him stay in touch if she had children. He’d happily dote on her daughter.

  “Good morning, sir. Newspapers for Mrs. Lowell.” Barnesworth offered him an enormous market basket overflowing with newsprint, like a gray and white fountain.

  “Where on earth did you find so many?” The heap looked as if it might heave and throw out offspring at any minute.

  “Mrs. Lowell gave us a list.”

  “Really?” While Portia liked to read, she’d been more interested in books than newspapers lately. But perhaps she wanted to lay in a supply for the long voyage back home. Or maybe she was looking for a more accurate obituary of St. Arles than what the London Times had written.

  Tropical disorder, indeed. British government lies, more likely.

  At least all her friends, St. Arles’ old servants, were happy with the new Earl of St. Arles. He’d hired them fast as St. Arles released them, even before he inherited—probably to infuriate the cousin he openly loathed. Now he had a staff whose loyalty he praised and which Por
tia was eager to meet again. They’d certainly have a great deal to say, just like the damn newspapers did.

  “I’ll take them down to her.”

  They might also give him a graceful topic to ease his way out the door before Donovan arrived.

  “Portia?” He rapped lightly on the stateroom door before entering, then stopped. God help him, he could live with her for a century and still be amazed by how beautiful she was.

  Or still be scared spitless when he remembered how she’d stood there with that damn big axe over her head and a boat rocking wildly around her, ready to bring it down to save him.

  Today the spring sunshine gilded her hair like a halo before the mahogany paneling. She wore a simple pale blue dress, embroidered with white flowers, and her mouth was still swollen from his kisses.

  If he looked closely, he’d see the bruise at the base of her neck where he’d marked her and he could probably smell himself on her. She swore she loved that scent as much as he loved hers.

  Through the door on her left was their bedroom, which contained a bed more than large enough even for him.

  He formed his face into a vaguely social expression and edged toward her.

  “Newspapers, honey?”

  “Why don’t you read one to me? The social page first, if you please?”

  Was she wearing a corset? No, her breasts were definitely unbound.

  “Certainly.” At least his voice hadn’t cracked.

  He managed to pull one out of the stack without ripping any pages. It was from a town he’d never heard of, that seemed more interested in industry than society.

  “The marriages,” she prompted, her cheeks a little pink.

  He frowned and ran his finger down the brief list, looking for names he knew.

  “Married. Gareth Lowell and Portia Vanneck. At Constantinople, 30 April 1887.”

  The sheets dropped onto the floor.

  He cast her an incredulous look, which should have sent her shrinking back into her seat.

  Instead, she fluffed out her hair and toyed with his mark, as if well satisfied.

  Air started to disappear from the elegant stateroom. If all England knew they were married, a quiet divorce would be impossible. Her good name would be ruined if he left her.