The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,51
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