The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,67

windows.”

“Gareth, don’t be silly.” She tried to pull away from him but manacles would have been more flexible. “You’re crushing the feathers in my hat.”

“Mrs. Lowell, the previous sultan, Murad V, is imprisoned in Chiragan Palace,” hissed Adem from barely a foot away.

Portia’s fingers dug into Gareth’s arms, this time for stability in a spinning world.

“If Murad is still alive,” she fumbled for phrases to express her horror.

“He must be,” Gareth said with an experienced street fighter’s brutal assurance, “else Abdul Hamid would never waste so much effort to guard him.”

“And he still has a stronger claim to the throne than his successor.” Years of curtsying and biting her tongue under diplomatic protocol had taught her how to read the nuances of court politics.

“Any revolutionary could use him as a puppet to bless their radical ideas—or sign treaties with a foreign government, if they held him,” Adem added. Passionate entreaty to understand his country’s pain wracked his voice. “He could even invite foreign warships to use his harbor to attack another country.”

Dear God in heaven. Or rather, may Allah have mercy upon the Turkish people.

Portia’s head fell back and she stared into Gareth’s glacier gray eyes.

“Do you understand now?” His thumbs rubbed her shoulders lightly, offering a smidgen of comfort.

“Of course.” She patted his lapels back into place, careful to look nowhere else. He released her and she returned to her previous seat. This time, she sat straight and proud, haughty as any dowager duchess who’d ever snubbed an American heiress.

“If we’re not supposed to cast our eyes upon it,” she remarked and flickered a single glance sideways, “what happens to anybody who sets foot on it?”

“Immediate arrest,” Gareth said simply.

“That’s not too dreadful, is it?”

“And interrogation.” Adem seemed to be deeply involved in counting Judas trees far away from the palace. “There’s a dungeon below stairs, so matters can begin immediately. The Superintendent is the best in the Empire.”

“Dear God,” Gareth whispered. His Adam’s apple plunged up and down in his strong throat, like a prisoner tearing at close-set bars.

One of the fishermen cursed and cut his net free with an immense knife. Silvery fish flashed out of the water then dived into the Bosporus’s blue depths. His fellow dropped onto the bench and began to row rapidly, the muscles of his back bunching and pulling against his thin shirt. Steering did not seem to be important, only speed.

The first man turned his back to the palace, now only a few boat lengths away. He dropped onto the other seat and, soon, he too was rowing hard.

“How much money did they lose?” Portia wondered, her heart aching. “All those fish and their net, too.”

“The seas will offer more mackerel and bass tomorrow.” Adem’s mouth was a thin line, despite his words’ insouciance.

“They also have their lives.” Gareth shoved his long legs hard against the carriage’s frame. “Unlike Murad, who still had music left to write.”

Portia closed her eyes. She might have refused to help St. Arles—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find another way to cause trouble.

Chapter Twenty-eight

“What beautiful tulips!” Portia exclaimed, more than willing to feast her eyes and soul on innocent delights. “Hyacinths and daffodils, too! You never mentioned them to me.”

She tried to glare accusingly at Gareth. It was difficult when all she wanted to do was turn around and stare out the window again at Yildiz Palace’s glorious gardens. So many tall panes of glass allowed the midday sunlight to pour in, until the garden seemed only a breath away.

“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” Adem agreed smugly. “My father says our Sultan kept the best of the old hunting park when he built only a small palace—”

“Small?” muttered Gareth.

“Plus scattered pavilions for himself and key government functions,” Adem finished, and made only the smallest of rude gestures at Gareth.

“It’s truly, truly lovely.” Portia sighed happily. “Thank you for bringing us to this isolated corner. After traveling in Egypt’s deserts, these gardens are especially wonderful.”

“Anything to make a lady happy.” Adem bowed, adding a flourish he must have learned in France.

She strongly suspected he’d actually brought them there to show off the room’s martial decorations. But she nodded back to him and returned to happily eyeing the spectacular blooms. Even this wilder section must be tended by an army of gardeners, to achieve such perfection.

This pavilion at Yildiz Palace was part of the administrative offices, not the Sultan’s personal quarters. The second floor room was apparently designed as a minor functionary’s office but dusty and unused