The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,85
convincingly from the corners of her enormous trunk, which was now being propelled by a uniformed porter down the busy quay in Constantinople’s European City.
Some trinket to make her and Gareth look as if they belonged, so he wouldn’t need the knife that had brushed against her, from inside his sleeve. Wouldn’t need to use the coiled tension behind his amiable gaze, with which he surveyed everyone who walked past.
If something happened to him, her world would end.
Dogs scampered by, vendors hawked a variety of foods to tease the senses, and men rushed onward as if their lives depended on being aboard the next grubby steamer.
She wet her lips again, wishing she could clear the dust from her mouth or open up her lungs to the tangy air. Maybe if she could avoid looking at that blasted British cruiser and its tea party for the ambassador. Half the European population had to be aboard under that canvas awning, including no doubt St. Arles.
They hadn’t been able to talk to the police before coming here. If anything went wrong with the plan, there would be only the two of them to deal with St. Arles’s blackguards.
No matter how much Barnesworth might boast of his ability to act in disguise, he was still acting as a porter and that heavy trunk would keep his hands busy.
Her stomach wrenched into an incipient sob but she ignored it. To protect Gareth, she’d use every lesson she’d ever been taught in finishing school or those years of duplicity and vitriol called international diplomacy.
This was the moment to show only her appreciation of the crisp breeze and lovely view of Hagia Sophia to the south from across the Golden Horn.
Very well, she could manage that, no matter how much the little hairs shivered on the nape of her neck.
Maybe if she imagined that she was strolling alongside San Francisco Bay, the salt breeze teasing her hair, and no greater concerns than the perfect folds of her parasol—and how quickly she could coax her beloved husband to take her home. His strong arm under her hand, his thigh propelling her forward, his warm breath teasing her cheek when he bent to answer a question—Oh yes, she could saunter like this forever.
And if she imagined that Barnesworth was merely a silent banker, not a porter…Yes, that would do.
She elevated her chin a little higher and strutted a little more emphatically, using her parasol to emphasize her pace. At least her hat and parasol were the latest fashion, bought during a whirlwind visit to Paris when she’d freed herself of anything which smacked of St. Arles’ taste.
Gareth patted her hand approvingly but said nothing. His beautifully tailored suit became him admirably, although she suspected it hid more than the single weapon she knew of.
Another porter stepped out of the crowd, also pushing an expensive trunk. A trunk which exactly matched Portia’s, down to the same number of black, wrought iron bands circling it and the heavy lock on the top. The porter was dressed as they’d been informed, in a dull maroon livery.
Her foot skidded on the uneven planks but her parasol’s rhythmic tap, tap never faltered. Tension swirled like an opera cloak and settled into her bones, cold and surprisingly calming.
The two porters came abreast of each other and Barnesworth stepped toward the newcomer as he’d been instructed—and they’d planned—ready to exchange one set of handles for another in mid-stride.
A second man, dressed in a well-worn suit, abruptly stepped out of the crowd and brutally clubbed Barnesworth down. Then he grabbed the trunk’s handles and started to run for the nearest boat.
Gareth slammed into his back, driving him onto the chest. The attacker twisted and rolled over with a trained wrestler’s speed until they came snarling to their feet.
They circled each other, both clearly more ready to kill than talk. Knives flashed in their hands, pitiless as serpents’ teeth.
Portia’s heart was bouncing within her ribs.
Whistles blew shrilly from behind her back, too far away to help her husband.
She looked around for a gun, a weapon, anything to aid Gareth. Anything to stop another threat against him.
The original attacker started to run, pushing his trunk past Barnesworth’s limp body.
Portia shoved her parasol between his legs and twisted it, the tendrils of ribbon and lace wrapping against his ankles in a foaming torrent of feminine wrath.
He screeched and tumbled head over heels into the uniformed policemen finally running toward them down the quay.
Portia retrieved her parasol and quickly turned around,