The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,20
escaped into the air to disturb him further.
He finally managed to light the lantern and saw the newspapers scattered across the floral silk carpet. Ice ran down his spine, chilling him faster than his nightmare.
A single photo stared up at him. Portia and her husband—rather, the Earl and Countess of St. Arles—stood aboard their yacht at Cowes Week. Every inch was emblematic of Britain’s finest society, from their haughty pose to the layers of furbelows which hid any reminders of the soft womanhood which had enticed him from underneath her wedding dress. Even her high collar seemed to bristle with superiority, like a woman’s version of an imperial uniform.
Gareth closed his eyes and tried not to look at how carefully he’d folded the newsprint so it would highlight that single photo. He didn’t need a reminder of his old playmate, somehow transformed into a magnet for his wayward eyes. If he had a nickel for every time his heart twisted at a thought of her, he’d be a millionaire.
“Would you like some tea?” Chau’s cousin Quyen crept inside the room, her robe concealing few of her well-sampled charms. A professional courtesan, she could make tumbling out of bed seem an erotic invitation. She was an enticing morsel like her cousin but, like all his play partners since leaving the States, she was dark haired and dark eyed. Her hair would never gleam in the firelight like Portia’s.
He shook his head violently. Then he remembered how well they could read him after a few months of sharing his bed. He opened his eyes and tried a more charming tack. “Not at this hour, thank you.”
“Perhaps you heard the cable arrive at the office next door.” Chau offered him the folded bit of yellow paper.
Discern anything in this storm? Gareth added a smooth smile to his noncommittal murmur and read the message quickly.
He dropped it onto the newspaper, covering Portia’s face. “My boss wants me to take over the company’s freight routes in the Mediterranean.”
“Paris?” Convent-inspired dreams flashed through Quyen’s eyes.
“Algeria,” Gareth regretfully corrected her. Another barren, blood soaked hellhole where Donovan & Sons could turn a profit as one of the few companies willing to do business.
“There’s fighting there! War and rebellion. You could be killed,” Quyen objected and bit her lip, tears swimming into her eyes.
Gareth gritted his teeth against easy agreement and the need to comfort her—or distract himself. Algeria was unfortunately far too close by ship and train to Paris, where Portia could surely be found primping herself for St. Arles’ hellish appetites.
He would not, could not dally on that Mediterranean shore, no matter how often rebels stormed across its plains.
“And Turkey,” he added. “Constantinople, and maybe some of the smaller ports.” He did his best to look certain. Surely Donovan would agree to opening up a new business route into the Ottoman capital.
“The Turkish sultan is a bloodthirsty monster, who’ll kill anyone.” Chau caught his arm, surprising him yet again with her mastery of gossip. “He destroys missionaries and his own people, plus honest men who simply carry odd packages. You could die any minute.”
But he’d be too damn busy looking over his shoulder and dodging government spies to worry about Portia or dream about his lost family.
“The Sultan attacks only fools who give him the chance,” he demurred. “No, I must obey my master’s bidding and leave this fair”—and wet—“land.”
He lifted first Chau’s, then Quyen’s hand and kissed their delicate fingers. “While you, dear ladies, will stay here to prosper and be adored.”
They hesitated for a moment like herons poised over a fishing pond. Then they relaxed and giggled happily at his emphasis on the word prosper. After all, somebody needed to truly enjoy all of their life and his bon voyage gift would ensure they’d have the opportunity to do so. As ever, the money he made from gambling when he wasn’t at work went back to William to be invested.
He, on the other hand, would have a very difficult job to keep his hands busy and his mind from worrying about Portia.
Chapter Ten
St. Arles House, London, October 1885
Portia stirred the jewelry strewn across her table one last time. Her sitting room’s soft gaslight picked out the exquisite details uncannily well and identified them as extremely high quality, even if most were old-fashioned. She’d picked her American jewels up from the vault that morning: she would not leave her mother’s possessions near any banker who might feel more loyalty to St. Arles than to her.