The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,83
and equally graceful.
Gareth would have far preferred to fight alongside, rather than against, either of them.
The first, and considerably more senior, fellow had already assessed his greeters with a born commander’s ease. He turned his gaze upon Portia.
“Mrs. Vanneck, I believe?” he asked, in the purest of South Carolina accents.
“Mrs. Lowell,” she corrected, her voice only slightly tinged by a note of thank God! “This is Gareth Lowell, my husband.”
“Sir.” The newcomers bowed to them both.
“I am Captain Elliott Pendleton of the SS Naiad, and this is my first officer, Theodore Barnesworth. Our services and the Naiad’s at your service, ma’am, while you cruise the world.”
“I-I don’t own a yacht,” Portia stammered.
“Mr. William Donovan thought you might be more comfortable in your own vessel than if you were dependent on hired accommodations.”
Kerem Ali Pasha, flanked by both of his sons, could just be glimpsed coming through the gardens.
“However, his yacht was not readily available, since it cruises in Pacific waters, ma’am. He sends his apologies for any disappointment,” added Barnesworth.
“Quite all right,” murmured Gareth. He’d swear the fellow had lost his earlobe to a knife, although it was well-hidden in neatly barbered hair beside his black eye patch.
“Mr. Donovan therefore acted with your grandfather, Commodore Lindsay, to find and purchase a suitable yacht. The Naiad was commissioned for Mr. Gould, but he had expressed some concern that the designers had sacrificed comfort in favor of speed.”
“Do you agree with Gould?” Gareth asked.
“I believe you will have no complaints in either quarter, sir.” Pendleton allowed himself a small smile.
This changed the game. If he could get Portia out of here…
“How big a crew?”
“Slightly more than fifty, sir, and all of the officers are former Navy. The Lindsay family brought each of us in.”
Portia beamed as if the sun, moon, and stars were floating out there upon the water.
The two naval officers looked her over protectively, proud as if they were watching a race horse run for the first time.
Kerem Ali Pasha stepped onto the quay and Portia, as the closest, turned to make introductions. But Pendleton stepped back for a last, more private word with Gareth.
“I served with Hal Lindsay, your wife’s uncle, in the Mississippi Squadron during the war between the States, as did Barnesworth and Murrah, the engineer. We’ll protect any member of his family, as well as we did him.”
“Thanks. I’ll remember that.”
The first genuine grin touched Gareth’s mouth in far too long.
“My old friend.” He bowed to Kerem Ali Pasha. “May we borrow your house for a very private conversation with our newfound friends?”
The delicate pink salon was almost overwhelmed by so much masculinity crowded into it. The yacht’s two officers, Gareth in his formal business attire, Kerem Ali Pasha wearing the fez and black robes of a high ranking state secretary. Even Adem’s military uniform with all the gold braid and Kahil’s simpler student tunic added to the impression of men gathered to do battle.
“Gentlemen, do you speak any French?” Gareth asked the yacht’s two officers.
“Reasonably well for technical matters,” Pendleton admitted, “although you’ll not catch me spouting any poetry.”
“Barnesworth?”
“I can’t write it but I can understand it well enough,” the younger man admitted warily.
“Good; we’ll converse in French. Kind sir, are we assured of privacy?” he asked their host.
“My mother has guaranteed it and my wife has promised to enforce it.” Kerem Ali Pasha folded his hands across his middle, like that of a man who prefers not to be aware of any details.
Portia started to question him and then decided she too didn’t want to know. No government spy was a match for those two ladies.
“You are a great and powerful man in the Empire, as your father and grandfather have been before you. I brought my wife here for protection from burglars, which you have generously provided, and for which we thank you.”
Gareth bowed deeply, adding courtly flourishes. Portia echoed the movement, careful not to say anything. They needed the Turk’s help and one wrong word from a woman could curdle their chances.
She sensed, rather than saw, the two officers glance at each other but they too remained silent.
“But matters have grown worse. We have learned that evil men intend to break into Chiragan Palace and restore Sultan Murad to the throne.”
“No!” Kahil came to his feet. His father snapped his fingers and pointed. The young man slowly resumed his seat, his expression thunderous.
“What do these evil men desire?” the state secretary inquired, calm as if they discussed the latest popular play.