The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,60
his shoulder and lock her up on the next London-bound ship to weigh anchor. But she’d simply jump ship or leap aboard the Orient Express, determined to come back here so she could protect her friends.
He ignored the cavity sucking out his stomach and forced reality back into her calculations as he’d done so many times before.
“Portia, you still have the chest which St. Arles needs.”
“He will destroy my friends.” Agony wrenched her voice out of its usual music.
“He will try.” Gareth caught her hand. “We have other friends in London who can help.”
She looked up at him, terror distorting her expression beneath her feathered hat. “Are you sure?”
“Always remember that you have something St. Arles needs.” He urged courage into her with his grip.
“But if we meet him before we know my friends are safe—Maisie and Jenkins and…” She caught herself an instant before a hysterical sob. “What will I do if he demands the loathsome trunk then?”
“Choose what your heart demands,” he answered slowly, “and I’ll be at your back.”
The reception hall at Yildiz Palace was large, extremely gilded, and very full of rustling Europeans and hard-eyed Turkish soldiers, all arrayed in their best.
Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through an enormous window, framed by cream curtains. Inlaid white and gold panels glowed like jewels above the crystal chandeliers. Mother of pearl panels adorned the walls, while garlands of painted flowers stretched up the columns before uniting with their embossed capitals. A single carpet rippled underneath like a cornfield, uniting the vast room and the crowd gathered within it.
Portia might have called it inviting except for her strong desire to be at home, nestling in her husband’s arms where the world couldn’t harm her.
“Please take your place wherever you wish, Mr. and Mrs. Lowell.” The court flunkey bowed and stepped away without waiting for an answer.
He probably meant wherever they could find space at the window.
Portia considered the horde gathered in front of the gilded frame and shuddered. Between the adults pressing forward to reach the glass and the children squirming like accomplished spies to pass through, the entire mass resembled a snake pit far more than a civilized encounter.
The dozens of soldiers watching everyone present, as if anyone was worth a sudden shot or knifing, only added to the impression of barely contained primitives.
And for what?
The window displayed a beautiful little wedding cake of a mosque, almost breathtaking in its ivory purity. It was surrounded by dozens of ministers, Moslem priests of every sect, rank, and country, plus hundreds of soldiers, all of them dressed in their finest uniforms and glittering with decorations to out-shine the sun. They were arrayed in concentric rays, like beams of a living sun, vibrant and warm with life.
“Can you see the courtyard?” Gareth asked quietly, wise enough not to jostle his way into the throng.
“Where all the soldiers are? Yes.”
“The Sultan will ride into it, followed by Ottoman guards, all of them on some of the finest Arabian steeds you’ll ever find.” A rare display of awe threaded his voice. “The most senior religious leaders will greet him and escort him inside, where he will pray.”
“There are a great many priests there, even to visit a sultan.”
“He’s also the caliph, the leader of the Moslem religion, and this is Friday evening prayers, the holiest time of the week.”
Good heavens, he sounded as if he considered their ceremonies equal in symbolism to Christian ones.
“That’s not a very big courtyard.” She strained to catch a little more of what impressed him. “How long will we see anything?”
“A few minutes.”
“All this pomp and ceremony for that?” She shot him an incredulous look.
“All this protection to ensure the Sultan, heir to a centuries’ old line, stays safe at one of the few occasions evildoers can surely find him,” Gareth corrected.
“There must be a thousand men there,” she protested. “Who—or what—could get through that?”
“You’ve spent time around mining camps, Portia. Apply your brain.” Gareth all but hissed the last three, clearly enunciated words.
She frowned at him then caught his sideways glance at the circulating flunkeys.
Spies? She mouthed.
He nodded, his mouth very tight.
Here?
He didn’t bother to dignify that question with a direct answer. “Isn’t it glorious that so many men are willing to die for their Sultan?” he asked, more loudly.
“Quite so,” she murmured, borrowing a phrase from her most despised former in-law.
“Do you suppose the Sultan feels guilty for taking so many men away from their Friday prayers to guard him?” St. Arles’ studied, hateful drawl interrupted.