Historical Jewels

by Jewel, Carolyn

  Sophie threw herself into his arms. “I love you, Banallt. I do. I have for quite a while. I’m sorry I was awful to you.” She was crying unabashedly. “Please don’t let it be too late.”

  He pulled her tight against him. “Hush, now. It’s not too late.” He stroked the back of her head. “Darling, we had a spat. Such things happen to a married couple. If we differ, it doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving you.”

  She put her arms tight around his neck. “I love you. I do love you.” She buried her fingers in his hair and brought his head to hers. Sophie kissed him even though she was trembling. Even though she was afraid and the future was never certain. When they stopped, he kept his arms around her waist.

  “You do understand, Sophie, the scandal we’ll cause in London?” he asked.

  “Scandal? What scandal is that?”

  A wicked grin appeared on his mouth. “Among the ton, it’s always a scandal when a husband and wife make no secret of loving each other. It’s simply not done.”

  Her heart felt full. Overflowing. “Well, then, Banallt, let us cause a scandal.”

  Indiscreet

  Carolyn Jewel

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009, 2012 by Carolyn Jewel

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Cover by BookBeautiful.com

  All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.

  ISBN: 978-0-9833826-9-0

  cJewel Books

  About Indiscreet

  A woman disgraced by a lie. A beast of a man with a cold heart. Their love will transcend continents.

  Sabine Goddard is a young woman of high standing raised by her Oxford Don uncle. When a lie destroys her reputation, she and her elderly uncle travel to Turkey to escape the gossip. In Constantinople, she meets Edward, Marquess of Foye, a man hurt by the lie that forced her to leave London.

  Foye fascinates Sabine. He’s outsized and refers to himself as a beast, but he doesn’t care that she’s better educated than many men. His belief in her innocence intrigues her and earns her admiration. Sabine captivates Foye and the far-from-handsome man can scarcely believe she returns his feelings.

  When Sabine and her uncle fall into the hands of a Turkish Pasha, Foye will do anything to secure the safety of the woman he loves.

  Indiscreet moves from Regency England to the exotic locales of Turkey and Syria in the midst of the Napoleonic wars. The winner of the 2010 Bookseller’s Best Award for Best Short Historical Fiction, it features fast pacing, simmering chemistry, meticulous research, and strong central characters.

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  Indiscreet Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About Indiscreet

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter One

  How everything started

  This incident took place at about two o’clock the morning of September 3, 1809. The location was the back parlor of a town house owned by the Duke of Buckingham but lived in by the Earl of Crosshaven on a ninety-nine-year lease, presently in its twenty-third year. It should be remarked that Lord Edward Marrack, the younger brother of the Marquess of Foye, was in attendance that night. Lord Edward had been something of a rake until his engagement to the daughter of a longtime family friend. The Earl of Crosshaven currently was a rake.

  Lord Edward Marrack refused more wine when the bottle came around in his direction. Instead, he leaned against his chair while his friend the Earl of Crosshaven raised a hand—Cross was inevitably the center of attention—and said, with significant stress, the two words, “Sabine Godard.”

  The other men in the room looked impressed. No one, including Lord Edward, doubted for a moment that Cross had indeed secured the person of Miss Sabine Godard.

  Up to now, the young lady’s reputation had been unassailable. She was an orphan who had been raised by her uncle since she was quite young. They made their home in Oxford, the city of spires, Henry Godard having been a don there and a noted philosopher until his recent retirement from those hallowed walls. She and her uncle had come to London so that Godard could receive a knighthood in recognition of his intellectual contributions to king and empire.

  They had not been long in London, the Godards, but Lord Edward recalled hearing Miss Godard was reckoned a pretty girl. Very pretty and quite unavailable. She was, if he had his facts in order, her uncle’s permanent caretaker, as was often the fate of children not raised by their parents. Her uncle was now Sir Henry Godard. By several large steps, quite a come up in the world for them both.

  The unavailable Miss Godard had been pursued by Crosshaven. That, too, Lord Edward had heard. The Earl of Crosshaven was angelically, devilishly, beautiful. His manners were exquisite and his intellect absolutely first-rate. Lord Edward would not bother with a friendship if that were not the case. But Crosshaven, in Lord Edward’s opinion, was not as familiar with discretion as he might be. Something he was proving tonight.

  Though Lord Edward liked Cross exceedingly, this boast of his was infamous. Ungentlemanly, in fact. That Cross had refilled his glass far too often in the course of the evening was no excuse for his revealing to anyone that he had seduced a young woman of decent family. And, one presumed, abandoned her to whatever fate her uncle might decide was fit for a girl who strayed from what was proper.

  “How was she?” asked one of the other young bucks.

  Cross kissed the tips of his fingers and arced his thus blessed hand toward the ceiling. That engendered several ribald comments, some having to do with Cross’s prowess in the bedroom and others having to do with Sabine Godard and what Crosshaven may or may not have taught her about sexual congress and how to fornicate with élan.

  In Lord Edward’s opinion, Cross, though just short of thirty, and for all his lofty titles, had now proved he had a great deal to learn about honor and decency. This evening, which had begun as a pleasant interlude with men he liked, no longer seemed very pleasant.

  “A seduction,” Lord Edward said to no one in particular, “when properly carried out, pleases both parties for the duration, while a break humiliates no one.”

  “Who says I’ve broken with her?” Crosshaven asked.

  “I do,” he replied. “And any fool with half a brain.”

  Crosshaven shook his head sadly. “Is this what happens to a man when he falls in love? If I didn’t know better, I’d accuse you of not wanting to go to bed wi
th a pretty young woman.” He winked. “Without benefit of marriage, I mean.” He gave Lord Edward a sloppy smile, then looked around the room with his glass held high in a mock toast. “To Sabine Godard.”

  “Hear, hear,” said a few of the others. Most just took the opportunity to sample their wine.

  Crosshaven took another drink of his hock, but he kept his eyes on Lord Edward as he did. He’d noticed Lord Edward hadn’t joined in the toast. “Don’t be such a bloody bore, Ned,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “You’re not married yet, old man.”

  “True.” But in three months time he would be. God, he was weary of this, of nights like this spent drinking or whoring and living as if there weren’t something more to be had from life. He wasn’t married yet, but wished Rosaline was already his wife.

  Lord Edward put down his glass and stood. He felt a giant. With reason. He towered over everyone in the room, standing or not. “Good evening, gentlemen, my lords.”

  “What?” said Cross. He was a bit unsteady on his feet. “Are you leaving already, Ned? It’s early yet.”

  Lord Edward could not bring himself to smile to soften his disapproval of his friend’s behavior. Nor could he remain silent. “I do not care to hear any lady’s character shredded for the sake of a man’s reputation.”

  Cross focused on Lord Edward, registered the slight to his honor, and said, “She’s no better than she ought to be.”

  “True,” Lord Edward said. “But the consequences of indiscretion always fall hardest on the woman. Tonight, you are lauded for your seduction of the girl, deemed ever more manly. Your reputation as a cocksman is firmly established.”

  Crosshaven bowed amid a few catcalls. He straightened, grinning. Lord Edward was probably the only one in the room who wasn’t grinning back.

  “What reason had you to prove that fact at the cost of her reputation? No one disputes your appeal to the fairer sex.” Lord Edward sighed. There was no point in lecturing Cross. No point at all “Tomorrow,” he said with regret soft in his voice, “Miss Godard will not find the world so pleasant a. place. That is a fate you ought to have avoided for the girl.”

  “She’s still no better than she ought to be, Ned.” He pretended to sober up, but as a drunk would do. Sloppily. “I mean no disrespect, Lord Edward. But it’s true about the girl. No better than she ought to be.”

  He acknowledged Cross with a nod, without smiling because he was disappointed in his friend. “Nor are you.”

  As he walked out, Lord Edward thought it was a very great pity that Miss Godard was so thoroughly ruined. Beyond repair. Crosshaven’s boast of her would be everywhere by noon tomorrow. He did not know the girl person-ally but did not like to think of the disgrace that was soon to fall on her and her uncle. They would both be touched by Crosshaven’s indiscretion.

  He thought it likely the newly knighted Sir Henry Godard would put her onto the street.

  Chapter Two

  One year and eight months later, give or take a few days.

  May 5, 1811

  The former Lord Edward Marrack was now the Marquess of Foye and a guest at the palace of an English merchant in Buyukdere, Turkey, about twelve miles outside Constantinople. Europeans were not permitted to live in the city, and Buyukdere was a favorite summer residence for expatriates from any number of countries. Including England. A good deal of the diplomatic corps resided in Buyukdere, which overlooked the blue, blue waters of the Bosporus.

  The finest woman here tonight was Miss Sabine Godard.

  How strange that he should cross paths with Miss Godard so many thousands of miles from home. Foye wasn’t surprised to find she was a lovely woman.

  If Crosshaven had noticed her, and, quite infamously, he had, it stood to reason she would have something. She did.

  Foye sat on a chair not so far from the center of the assembly that he would be thought aloof, though he’d been accused of that and worse since he’d begun his tour of countries that had the single advantage of being far from England. He was not by nature a gregarious man and was even less so now, or so he’d been told by people who had known him before—True enough. For the second time in his life, he was a changed man. What a pity he didn’t like the change.

  Now that he saw her before him, he understood why so many men had spoken of her looks and why Crosshaven had chosen her, it wasn’t so much that she was beautiful. She wasn’t quite that. A man didn’t catch his breath at the sight of her. She was not a very tall woman, though from what he could see of her, her figure was a nice one. He stared at her, trying to pin down for himself the reason that she was a more attractive woman than she ought to be.

  Her features were too strong for beauty in the classic sense, though anyone meeting her for the first time would think her pretty. She smiled often, and he’d watched several men stare, besotted, when her mouth curved a certain way. Her hair was an astonishing shade of gold. Curls at her temples and brow gave her an air of sweetness without being cloying, and there weren’t many pretty young women who could manage that. A lace cap was on her head, a jade green ribbon threaded through the material. She wasn’t beautiful, no, not that, but she was pretty. Exceptionally so.

  She had something else as well, and he was determined to put a name to whatever elusive quality that was. What a shame Crosshaven had ruined everything for her. She might have done well for herself, had she stayed in London. There were any number of pretty young girls who’d married up. Some decent young man would likely have thought himself lucky to marry a woman like her. Foye couldn’t help feeling at least partially responsible for the fact that she hadn’t.

  At the moment. Miss Godard was sitting at a table surrounded by men in uniform; sailors, soldiers of the Royal Artillery, Royal Engineers, or otherwise attached to the military here in Buyukdere. She was reading tea leaves for them and having a grand time, too. Despite her smiles, and despite the men gathered around her, she appeared unaware of the flirtatious looks and remarks sent her way, but not, he thought, unaware of her looks.

  Miss Godard knew very well that men found her attractive, Foye decided. But she was not a flirt.

  Her uncle, Sir Henry Godard, sat close enough to her that she could easily lean over and touch his arm should she care to. Sir Henry was deep in conversation with one of the merchants who worked for the Levant Company. The topic at hand, from what Foye could overhear, was the merits and demerits of St. Augustine. A heady subject for afternoon tea.

  So far, Sir Henry had the advantage in the argument. He was a wily debater. Leading his prey to make admissions that seemed reasonable enough while, in reality, he was laying a trap such that when it sprang his victim would have no choice but to cede Sir Henry’s entire point.

  Experience had etched deep lines in Sir Henry’s face and yet had taken a disproportionate physical toll on the rest of his body. His upper back was hunched, throwing his leonine head forward. His hair was that off shade of white, a yellowish silver, common to men who’d been blond throughout their adult lives. Notwithstanding the depredations of age and illness, Sir Henry was a man of considerable presence. His profession remained in his manner of speech, his temperament and even his gestures. It was easy to imagine him addressing a lecture hall of young men and terrifying them into listening at peril of their very survival.

  The salon was filled with guests holding teacups and guarding plates of cakes, biscuits, and sugar wafers. There were tables piled with watermelon and bowls of sherbet in silver cups with delicate silver spoons. The merchant whose palace this was, Mr. Anthony Lucey, had invited only Englishmen and women this afternoon, though naturally men outnumbered the women, who were, for the most part wives or other relatives of the soldiers. Some of the men were longtime employees of the Levant Company who had raised families here. A pretty English girl wasn’t unheard of in Buyukdere. Not by any means.

  Lucey himself, a longtime friend of Foye’s late father, stood in the center of the room telling a story Foye had heard before about the time he’d gott
en lost in Mayfair and had mistakenly knocked on the Duke of Portland’s private door. Lucey was such an excellent raconteur the tale still amused more than forty years after it had happened.

  He was beginning to think, though, that he ought to go get himself introduced to Miss Godard. Just to see what she was like. Naturally, he was curious. And since he was here, if the circumstances offered, he might explain what had happened.

  Foye resisted the urge to smooth down his hair. There really was no dealing with his curls. They were contrary by innate disposition, it seemed. A good match for his face, which was one of the reasons he’d let his hair grow and never cut it short again. With a face that defined “ill made” and a body that tended to intimidate by sheer size—he had always been prone to muscle—Foye was used to women looking past him or away from him. Though since he’d become Foye, that happened marginally less often.

  He plucked a crisp sugar wafer from his plate and took a bite. A touch of almond, he thought, and he had a taste of bliss melting over his tongue. Lucey’s cook was superb, a Neapolitan man he’d succeeded in hiring away from the Italian ambassador’s residence. The story of Lucey’s raid on the Italian kitchen was amusing, too. Foye took another bite of his wafer and savored it while he watched yet another lovesick young officer beg to have his fortune told by Miss Godard.

  Perhaps, he thought, it was something about the way she looked at a man. Yes. Something about her eyes. And her complete disinterest. What bold young man didn’t want the very woman who wouldn’t have him? Given all that he and Miss Godard had in common, he ought to at least meet her. It was, however, quite plain to him that to get anywhere with the niece one must start with the uncle.

  When Foye was done eating, he asked Lucey for an introduction to Sir Henry.

  The old man was formidable; that had been apparent even from a distance. Closer up, he seemed no less so for all that his frailness was the more evident. He had, Foye recalled, read one of Sir Henry’s treatises, the 1805 On Hubris.