The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,25

only what appeared in court. Nothing worked. They’d bought newspapers in America, blackmailed, bribed, called in favors from politicians and anyone else who might help. Viola suspected their most successful tactic was Hal’s unacknowledged use of bricks thrown by gangs of young thugs.

Even so, the only apparent difference was a slight slowing in the torrent of purple vitriol.

“Gould and his sons collect yachts, as well as railroad cars.” The former steamboat captain bit off the mention of railroads, despite his daughter in law’s family attachment to his land-based rivals.

Viola tucked her hand into his and steered the conversation into less troubled waters. “Do they need so many?”

“I doubt it.” He hugged her, putting himself between her and the cold air. “This one is a new design that Gould’s testing for ocean cruising. Rumor says his wife doesn’t approve of how the cabins are decorated.”

“Does she plan to have them redone?”

“No, she wants an entirely new yacht—so she can have new paneling.” The old millionaire’s tone was very dry.

“A new boat? Even for the Goulds, isn’t that rather extravagant?” Viola couldn’t imagine how much it would cost to satisfy the whim. “Has he given in?”

“No.”

“He’s very thrifty,” she mused, remembering tales of how the railroad tycoon had raised his children to understand and manage their own money. “Perhaps we can help them both.”

“What do you have in mind?” Her father cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Portia has decided to see the world, once the divorce is final, rather than return directly to the States.” Where she’d face so many reporters, the poor darling.

“Harrumph.”

“What if she had a trustworthy ship and crew to match?”

The old naval officer stilled, as if he’d just heard drums beating the call to battle once again. Then he whipped his spyglass up and stared at Gould’s yacht for a long time.

“Well?” Viola inquired, trying not to beg. This was the first time she’d ever asked her father’s help in something more than planning a birthday party. “Do you think it would work? She wants to head east, through the Suez Canal, then on to Singapore, Hawaii, and California. I’m worried,” she finished in a hoarse whisper.

“That’s a very good idea which will help our Portia.” Her father gripped her fingers reassuringly. “Once I buy that little lady, Hal and I will find crew for her. Don’t worry, we’ll keep our sweet Portia safe no matter where she goes.”

Viola leaned her head against her father’s shoulder and let his certainty fill her as it never had before, not even when she’d been Marlowe and Spenser’s age. She had to believe—and she had to pray, too—that Portia would come home safely.

Chapter Thirteen

Cairo, March 1887

Horses’ hooves and carriage wheels pummeled clouds of dust out of the street, like offerings to the ancient sun god floating overhead. Tall trees marched beside the curbs, providing color while great men’s transient striped awnings supplied shade. White helmeted men rode strutting horses or hastened across the street.

Noontime had passed and the midday heat was rising inexorably to its brazen climax before Shepheard’s Hotel, the highest example of Cairo lodging. Broad marble stairs led down to the street below a latticed, wrought iron awning. Tables crowded the terrace on either side behind finely etched railings.

A storyteller hooted at passersby, hoping for one last kiss from a coin. Dates, oranges, and slices of watermelon spun past on plates, their small vendors cheerfully willing to exchange them for silver.

It could almost—almost—have been Tucson on fiesta day.

Gareth Lowell would have spent hours among sights like these, wandering between the ancient river, the amusing tricks the young vendors played, and the tourists’ slow saunter.

Portia Townsend Vanneck, who’d once been called Portia Countess St. Arles, dismounted from the barouche and turned to watch a particularly small, chocolate brown urchin. He was following a policeman, every step and gesture mocking all of the fellow’s very self-important movements. He far outshone the snake charmer and trained monkey performing on the hotel’s main stairs.

Best of all, unlike most of his brethren, all of his limbs were sound and muscles gleamed through his filthy rags.

Once, she too had dared the authorities like that, when she’d snuck out of her uncle’s house with Gareth to gape at a burlesque show or leap for joy under forbidden fireworks.

Unbidden, her feet shifted into an answering dance, echoing a half-forgotten, insidious beat for a few steps. Some of the child’s pure joy in successfully triumphing over his elders, even in so little as silently mocking one, slipped silently into