The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,52
unleashed his spyglass on the great mosque’s glittering golden dome, which dominated the hill overlooking the city.
A deep, barked command and a drum roll announced a rumbling surge of Royal Marines onto the deck in perfect order, scarlet uniforms blazing like promised sunshine.
Turkey had been called The Sick Old Man of Europe for decades. But only the greatest of history’s generals had ever attempted to conquer its capital, while still fewer had succeeded. The entire strait was a natural fortress, enhanced by man until only the most foolhardy would want to attack it.
There’d be a splendid reward for snatching it before the Queen’s Golden Jubilee in June, possibly even a marquisate to add to the family collection of titles.
Even better, this stunt provided revenge against the slut who’d stolen his money.
At least he had Amabel for wife now, more eager than he to add danger to sex play. She hadn’t bred yet, damn the luck. He’d rather have an heir than a marquisate.
Hunger ran through him, fierce and bright for Amabel’s blood dripping along a knife edge and laughter in her eyes above it, for the fierce joy of lighting a bonfire on St. Arles Castle’s front lawn for his son.
Another round of barked orders—and the Marines shouldered their rifles. Sunlight poured over their bayonets like blood—or victory.
How could the Ottomans possibly match these men?
Suddenly who commanded the Phidaleia’s power and speed mattered very little indeed.
How soon could he remove the filthy Sultan from his throne and get back home?
“High time for the old city to welcome some true civilization, don’t you think, Southers?”
He’d host next year’s Trafalgar Day banquet at one of those big seaside mansions. And, by God, when he and the other British naval officers raised their glasses of the finest port in the Immortal Memory toast, to honor Nelson and his fallen officers, a proper silence would fall in the banquet hall and throughout this city—because the conscienceless heathens here would finally have learned who were their betters.
St. Arles lifted his mug to the sea dog. “To Queen and Country!”
“Queen and Country!” Southers echoed immediately.
Afternoon sunlight blazed on the customs official’s polished badge when Gareth held the train station’s gate open for Sidonie, Portia’s maid.
“We hope you will return soon to our beautiful city, madame. We would like to show you more of its glories on a longer stay.”
“Thank you very much, sir.” On the hillside behind her, Hagia Sophia’s great domes and spires reached for the sky like a chorus of prayers. Men and women rushed between ancient buildings to visit their friends or sell goods. All was hustle bustle and the hot, spicy scents of a living town, washed by the salt sea. Dogs barked, children laughed, and men sang their success in the market.
Portia was very proud of how composed Sidonie was, given yesterday’s terrors. Of course, she had spent last night and today with her cousin, who served the French ambassador’s wife.
Portia would wager those two ladies had taken turns pampering Sidonie: Her graying hair was now braided into a much more becoming style and she’d advanced to a blended fragrance, rather than simple lavender water. Plus, her new hat was a miracle of restrained Parisian elegance.
She, on the other hand, had slept so late in Gareth’s arms that she’d barely had time to dress before boarding Kerem Ali Pasha’s personal sailing craft to reach here.
Sidonie escaped into the depot without any audible sigh of relief and paused, her eyes narrowing at the crowds bustling past.
“This way, ladies.” Gareth tipped his hat, somehow as immaculate as a tiger sauntering through a jungle.
The little Frenchwoman bestowed upon him a beaming smile, which reawakened her countenance into youthful freshness amid flashes of beauty. She accepted his arm like a great lady and strutted down the platform, with Portia on his other side.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t have spent more time together,” Gareth said politely.
“Let me know if you don’t like the spa at Aix-les-Bains,” Portia added. “You need a good rest after the last few months and I’d be happy to send you anywhere you like. Dax, Deauville—”
“Deauville! Hmmph! Aix-les-Bains will suit me and my mother very well, not anything that grand. Thank you, madame, for your consideration. I wish I could stay longer.” She shook her head, her color fading faster than the ancient stones outside. “But Constantinople is civilized and, at the same time, not civilized at all.”
Portia’s mouth tightened. For an instant, all she could see were black clad arms rising and