Chapter Four
“There’s a chap here to see you, my lord, waiting up at the house. Just missed you, he did. Wandered in on foot about five minutes after you rode out, but he’s still waiting, far as I know.”
The Earl of Mulbury dismounted, handing the reins of his prize Thoroughbred over to the head groom.
Black brows came together above emerald eyes as he glanced up the narrow path toward the house.
He wasn’t expecting anyone, and his friends were all known to Harry, so for the moment his interest was piqued.
“Are you sure it’s me he wants to speak with, not the Marquis?”
“Asked for you by name, he did. Didn’t mention your grandfather. Didn’t say nothing else, actually. In fact, I’d say he doesn’t speak English. Had that look about him, if you know what I mean.”
The Earl nodded, tamping down the urge to grin.
Harry didn’t trust foreigners, ever since his daughter had run off with a Frenchman many years ago.
Anyone with the slightest accent was suspect as far as Harry was concerned.
His friend Marshall Fielding had always complained about Harry, because the groom often gave his couriers a bad time when they delivered dispatches here.
But the chap awaiting him couldn’t be one of Marshall’s agents, since at the Marquis’s request the Earl was no longer involved with British intelligence, though he had never been seriously involved to begin with.
There was no point wondering about it when the fellow awaited him.
The Earl headed up the stable path, coming out on the right side of the Palladian-style mansion, residence of the Marquis of Huntstable, his grandfather.
The Earl had his own estate in York, but aside from a short yearly visit there to be sure the old manor house was still standing and the tenants were happy with his steward, he lived here in Kent with his grandfather.
It was by mutual choice. Notwithstanding the fact that he was the Marquis’s only heir, and so the old gentleman was frantic to keep him close and protected, they were also extremely fond of each other.
“Your lordship, there is—”
“Yes, I know, Mr. Walmsley,” the Earl cut the butler short as he handed over his hat, gloves, and riding quirt. “Where have you put him?”
“I would have kept him here in the hall, milord, but the way he kept staring at the maids made them nervous, so I moved him to the little parlor.”
“Rude, was he?”
“You would think he had never seen a woman before,” was Mr. Walmsley’s opinion.
Mobile lips turned up slightly at one comer. “Did he offer a card?”
“He didn’t even give his name, milord,” the butler replied with marked distaste. “If you ask me—”
“Never mind. I’ll see him now. And send in my usual tray, Mr. Walmsley, with enough for two.”
The little parlor was located to the right of the mammoth hall, down a short corridor there, and at the back of the house.
It caught the morning sun, making it a cheerful room, at least at this time of year.
The sun was sadly lacking this morning, however, but the rain had held off until after the Earl had enjoyed his morning ride.
The room was still light enough with two ceiling-high windows so that lamps were not necessary, and the single occupant was quite visible, standing feeing the left wall, clearly fascinated with a shelf of antique clocks.
The little fellow didn’t hear him enter, which was fortunate, for the Earl didn’t like being taken by surprise, but he certainly was.
Even from this side view, he recognized his visitor’s nationality, and a dozen questions popped into his mind, along with dread, for he could think of only one reason for an Arab’s presence here, and it wasn’t good.
With difficulty, the Earl brought his features into a bland mask, and in precise Arabic, he asked, “You requested an interview?”
Ali ben-Khalil jerked around abruptly at the sound of a familiar tongue in this foreign land.
It was unexpected, unhoped for, but then Ali was beginning to think Allah had personally seen him through this whole journey, so what was one more blessing?
Hadn’t he made it safely out of Barikah?
Hadn’t the weather cooperated and rushed the little three-masted xebec across the seas in less than a month?
Even the crew had been blessed in finding an unexpected captive on shore who would add to their profit from this voyage.
Then there had been the sailor who spoke English and helped to teach Ali the words he needed to know to reach this place quickly.
And there had been the clothes he had easily found hanging in a backyard and stolen, so that he wouldn’t look so conspicuous when he had to approach strangers to ask directions.
Everything had gone so well, too well, in fact, that he had begun to fear something had to go wrong just to balance the scales.
But no, he was here. The tall man who spoke his tongue was obviously the one he sought.
He had succeeded, to the very end. Pride and elation swelled in equal proportions within his chest.
“Derek Sinclair?”
At the nod, Ali quickly handed the letter forward, then stood back and waited, for what he had no idea.
Perhaps there would be questions. Perhaps the Englishman could recommend where Ali could stay for the next six months.
He still didn’t understand why he should be banned from Barikah for such a time, but he couldn’t complain.
He was a rich man now. Besides his own purse, there was still a large balance left from the money he had used to hire the corsair.
He watched the Englishman move to a small desk in a corner and pick up a letter opener before sitting down.
The letter itself took only a few seconds to read, it was so brief, and then he looked up to stare at Ali.
It was those penetrating green eyes that finally broke through Ali’s euphoria to send a cold chill down his back.
The eyes, the height, the aquiline features. There was no beard, but…
Ali groaned, then immediately prostrated himself on the floor. “Don’t kill me, gracious lord! Please, you must lock me away. I am willing, I swear!”
“Why?”
The question was so bland, Ali dared to raise his head slightly. “I—I have seen you.”
“So you have. Very well, how long shall I detain you?”
“Six months,” Ali replied instantly, finally understanding. “I was told not to return for six months.”
The Earl swore softly. Six months? He was supposed to be married next month. Caroline wasn’t going to like such a long delay. His grandfather wasn’t going to like it either. But if the courier was to be detained for six months, then Derek could expect to be gone just as long.
“Get up off the floor and tell me what you can about this letter.”
“I didn’t read it,” Ali protested as he slowly rose, warily watching his host.
“It wouldn’t matter if you had. What else do you know about it?”
Ali briefly told him about the many couriers who had been sent out with the same letter, only to die by assassins. How he had volunteered and succeeded. Then he was asked about the Dey.
“I know only that there have been attempts made on his life, that he rarely leaves the palace now.”
“Do they know who is trying to kill him?”
Ali shrugged. “I am not from the palace. That is why I was sure I could succeed in coming here, after so many others had failed. I don’t know what goes on inside.”
Derek smiled. “You did well, my friend. Now, what am I to do with you for six months?”
“Lock me—”
“I doubt that will be necessary, but you can stay here on the estate. I’m sure we can find something to keep you occupied. What do you do?”
“I’m a sherbet seller.”
Derek chuckled. “A sherbet seller succeeding where trained soldiers failed. Well done. If only you could speak a little English.”
“A little.” Ali was finally able to smile, his relief overwhelming. Allah was still watching over him.
“Splendid,” the Earl replied, and stood up just as a maid knocked, then entered with his morning tray.
The girl was pretty, and Ali supposed he would have to get used to seeing women unveiled in this foreign land, as they all seemed to be.
The men here must not mind if other men gazed on their women.
This girl obviously belonged to Derek Sinclair, for the sensual look she gave him as she set the tray down was extremely intimate.
“Coffee?” the Earl asked.
Ali nodded; then, after the girl left, he asked hesitantly, “She is part of your harem?”
Derek smiled, sipping the beverage he had acquired a taste for in his youth. “We don’t keep harems here, more’s the pity,” he answered. “But if we did, I suppose you could say she would be a part of mine. However, she’s not for my exclusive use, if you know what I mean.”
“You have strange ways here.”
“Strange to you, yes, but you’ll get used to them. All things become natural after a while.”
The Earl remained behind in the little parlor after Ali was led away by Mr. Walmsley.
He sat behind the desk, staring thoughtfully at the letter lying open before him.
Three short sentences in a bold Turkish scrawl, easy to read, since Turkish was as familiar to him as Arabic and French.
In fact, English had been the last language he had learned, though he spoke it now as if he had been born to it.
His first reaction on reading the letter had been relief. No one had died. But after what Ali had told him, he had to admit: Not yet.
Three short sentences:
I offer greetings. Need I say more? You are remembered.
A child’s code, designed by boys who liked to confound their teachers and servants.
He remembered fondly the time he had read an essay aloud and no one had understood why Jamil found it so funny.
But Jamil had heard the code, and the message only for him: I would rather be eating pomegranates and spying on the Dey. What about you?
This message was much shorter. Three sentences, three words, the three first words of each sentence.
I need you. Of course Derek couldn’t ignore such a message.
There had been letters through the years, but sent through normal channels.
This one had cost lives. This was no simple letter. I need you. Derek would go.
He should have gone two months ago, when Marshall had asked him to, but that had been for a different reason, one that hadn’t been important enough to make him postpone his wedding, or break his word to his grandfather.
Locating and ransoming some English girl, known to be in Barikah, was nothing to him.
She had already been in captivity for three months, so it was highly unlikely that she was still a virgin, and thus he could see no need to intervene.
It was the English consul’s job to handle the ransoming of slaves.
It would just take a little longer for the consul to free the girl, if she could be freed.
Few women were, at least pretty women, and Marshall had assured him the girl was pretty.
She was also related to some powerful nobleman, which was why Marshall had become involved.
But it still meant nothing to Derek. Only now that he was going to Barikah, he might as well agree to rescue the girl.
That way, he could question Marshall about what was going on in Barikah without revealing why he wanted to know.
Kismet. This was meant to happen, at this time, in this way. It was the Muslim philosophy, on which he was raised. After nearly nineteen years in England, he was meant to go home. Why, he wouldn’t know until it was over.