A Most Naked Solution

by Anna Randol

  “A new Ottoman fort near the Greek border city of Ainos on the Mediterranean.”

  “How did he get this information?”

  Discomfort marred the general’s face and he cleared his throat. “Not a he. A she. It’s recently come to our attention that the artist is, in fact, a woman.”

  Bennett folded his arms. “How exactly did His Majesty’s government succeed in missing that small detail?”

  General Caruthers coughed twice. “Well, it appears that the government’s man in Constantinople assumed the woman delivering the drawings to be the artist’s servant rather than the artist.”

  “Who is she? A Greek patriot?”

  The general’s face sank into annoyed lines and he plucked at a brass button on his sleeve. “As a matter of fact, it has recently come to light that she is British. One Mari Sinclair.”

  An Englishwoman? Why wasn’t she safe in England where she belonged? “What is she doing in the heart of the Ottoman Empire?” The Turks weren’t kind to spies. And the tortures they could inflict on a female spy were infinitely worse.

  “Her father is an archaeologist of minor renown, a Sir Reginald Sinclair. He excavates in the area.”

  Bennett tried to recall anything of the family but didn’t recognize the name. He studied the drawing again. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, why are you showing me this?”

  The general smiled. “You have done missions for us before.”

  Yes, he’d been assigned missions before, but those had been to eliminate enemies. The picture crinkled in Bennett’s fist. “I do not kill women.”

  The general glared and retrieved the drawing before further damage befell it. “No, no. The opposite, in fact. Keep Miss Sinclair alive.”

  Definitely not Bennett’s area of expertise. “Isn’t this something better left to the Foreign Office? She’s one of their agents, is she not?” The rowboat had begun its passage back to the dock, and he intended to be on it when it left. He needed to shake some sense into Sophia and, failing that, put a bullet through her husband’s head.

  “Actually, no. She’s a naturalist who studies plants and insects and the like.”

  “She refused to work for them?” Perhaps the woman had an ounce of sense after all.

  “She’s a bit . . . independent. She just delivers the pictures when she desires.” The general continued, “The Foreign Office has been providing a man to keep watch over her, but his protection is spotty at best. The army has interest in the drawings, so we informed the Foreign Office that we’ve arranged for her to work for us.” He leaned in, a confidential tone coloring his words. “The Ottomans are falling apart from the inside. They’re scrambling to build forts to hold on to Greece and their other territories, but they lack the funds to do so. Russia is kindly attempting to assist them.”

  Splendid. The fool woman had placed herself in the center of some political power struggle. “To what end?”

  “Russia has long wanted a foothold in the Mediterranean. This arrangement leaves them perfectly poised if the Ottomans fall. We, of course, don’t want to see this cozy little friendship succeed.”

  One thing still didn’t make sense. “If she won’t work for the Foreign Office, why has she agreed to work for us?”

  Caruthers returned the glass to the box under his seat. “We’ve assured her that cooperation will be to her benefit.”

  Ah, benefit no doubt translated into gold. “Find someone else.” He didn’t have time to waste protecting a woman who thought money more important than safety.

  Irritation leeched onto the general’s face. “Impossible. You have something no one else does. A perfect cover.”

  Bennett raised his eyebrow.

  “Your cousin is the ambassador assigned to Constantinople.”

  Damnation. Lord Henry Daller. The man was a dozen years older than Bennett. Bennett knew very little of him. “We don’t have more than a passing acquaintance.”

  Caruthers shrugged. “But neither the Turks nor the Russians will question it when you arrive. A young gentleman out to see the Continent now that the war is finally over.”

  “What makes you think Miss Sinclair needs protection?”

  The general struggled upright. “Her identity has been compromised.”

  “And she still insists on gathering information?” Bennett frowned. Then the woman was either addled or had a death wish—neither of which boded well for her survival.

  “As I said, we’ve ensured her cooperation.”

  How much was the Crown paying her? But surely if her identity was known, the operation was as much at risk as her life. “Why not send another agent in her place?”

  Caruthers rubbed his hands together eagerly. “She’s been able to access places we’ve only dreamed of before. We can’t give her up.”

  “So we put her in danger.”

  “She’s put herself in danger. Regardless, it’s not for long. We only need two last areas.”

  Bennett stiffened. “This is ridiculous. I won’t play with Miss Sinclair’s life.”

  “You have no choice.”

  He already bore the guilt for failing to notice what was happening to Sophia; he wouldn’t fling Miss Sinclair into further danger. He’d sacrificed most of his soul in the service of King and Country. He refused to surrender the rest. “I do have a choice. I resign my commission.” He’d never expected to utter those words, but he would not let himself regret them.

  Caruthers’s lips puckered. “Unfortunate. I do regret that, although not as much as I regret what will befall Everston and O’Neil.”

  Bennett stilled. “What do my men have to do with this?”

  “Everston lost a leg, did he not? And O’Neil an arm?”

  Bennett swallowed the bile in his throat.

  “It will be difficult for them to find work, I think. And poor O’Neil has three young children at home, too.”

  “What are you threatening?”

  Caruthers rubbed his chin. “Threats? Tsk, tsk, Major. I’m merely stating how essential a pension will be for those injured men, and you know how fickle Parliament is. If for some reason your regiment were left off the list the army sends to Parliament for funding, it would be a great tragedy. It could take years to correct. How many in the Ninety-fifth Rifles are going to be relying on pensions?”

  Too many. The rigorous dual roles of scout and sharpshooter had decimated his men. Perhaps he could find positions for O’Neil and Everston on his estate, but what of the rest? He couldn’t leave them to starve in the gutters. Caruthers would carry out his threat, too, and not lose a night’s sleep.

  “How long?” The question burned like acid on his lips.

  Caruthers leaned back, the leather bench creaking under his weight. “I’m not asking for something unreasonable. We need Miss Sinclair to draw the two forts within the month. Then you are free to return to England.”

  A month. Bennett cast another glance at the dock. The sailor waited in the rowboat, his wrinkled face collapsed in confusion.

  Curse it, Sophia. Why had he buckled under her sobbed pleas for secrecy? He’d given his word not to reveal the vile treatment she’d received at the hands of her husband. Now for another month, that promise left her at the mercy of the sadistic bastard.

  “What are my orders?”

  “Quite simple. Keep Miss Sinclair alive long enough to draw what I need.”

  “Sir, I—”

  The general’s expression sank into displeasure. “This is not a request, Major. You sail within the hour.”

  Bennett straightened and flung open the door to the coach. “Aye, sir.”

  Constantinople

  Bennett studied the woman before him—or at least what little he could see—a grand total of two brown eyes. Not even her eyebrows showed under the garish golden silk that swathed her entire form. Her native garb stood in awkward contrast to the traditional English decor of the ambassador’s parlor, clashing horribly with the pink embroidered flowers on the chair beneath
her. A dandelion in one of his mother’s rose beds. “So you agree to the conditions?”

  Miss Sinclair dipped her head, shrinking even further into the overstuffed chair. “Yes.” her words fluttered the fabric of her veil.

  “I know it might be a bother to write out an hour-by-hour itinerary every morning, but it is for your safety.”

  “Yes, sir.” She darted an anxious glance at the closed door.

  Bennett paced in front of the large marble fireplace, then tapped his fingers on the mantel. Both of his sisters would’ve laughed in his face if he’d dared to make such a suggestion to one of them. He’d expected at least some protest. The sum the government was paying her must be substantial indeed.

  Silence hung awkwardly in the stifling room. He eyed the shut windows. He still couldn’t think of words to adequately describe the city of Constantinople spread out beneath them. The city resembled nothing so much as an aging courtesan’s dressing room table overflowing with rouge pots and cream jars and a few candlesticks interspersed throughout.

  He cleared his throat and forced his attention back to the woman in front of him. They could discuss the rest of his plans during the next few days. Now that they could claim an acquaintance, he could call on her without attracting undue attention. “That will be all for now, Miss Sinclair, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

  She sprang to her feet in an eruption of silk and fled toward the door. Bennett scrambled to open it for her. The woman’s work involved two of the most vindictive nations in Europe. He’d expected her to have more pluck.

  With a brief mumbled farewell, she rushed to the carriage awaiting her beyond the gate.

  Bennett turned at the click of heels on the marble floor. The ambassador stood in the hall behind him.

  His cousin, Lord Henry Daller, studied the carriage. “Miss Sinclair has always been something of an odd duck, but I never imagined her showing up dressed like a native. You poor chap. You’ll have your work cut out for you protecting her.” He chuckled and pounded Bennett on the back. “I suppose it’s to be expected, though, what with her background.”

  Bennett ground his teeth. Gossip. Yet another reason he preferred the battlefield to the drawing room. But even on the battlefield, it was essential to understand the terrain. So he smiled. “You sound as if you know a great deal about her.”

  Daller shrugged, a smooth, careless motion that Bennett didn’t doubt had been carefully crafted to neither confirm nor deny. “It’s my duty to know of His Majesty’s citizens living in this land.” He smoothed the thin chestnut mustache adorning his upper lip and paused.

  Bennett forced out the question the ambassador obviously awaited. “So what can you tell me?”

  The ambassador ushered Bennett toward his study, a slight, magnanimous smile sliding over his lips.

  The heat in the study hung as oppressively as it had in the parlor. Bennett perched on the edge of the leather seat. He didn’t make any more contact with the chair for fear of sticking to it when he tried to stand. He held out a slim hope that Daller would suggest they remove their jackets . . . but no, the man settled into his chair with apparent relish. Perhaps one grew accustomed to the heat?

  Daller removed a silver snuffbox from his desk and gathered some onto his nail. He inhaled with a quick snort, then offered the box to Bennett.

  Bennett refused with a shake of his head. Get to the point. Polite conversation had never been an art at which Bennett particularly excelled. He didn’t see the point in wasting time with idle chatter. “What information do you have on Miss Sinclair?”

  Daller steepled his fingers together. “Ah, our Miss Sinclair. Many of the local men are quite enchanted with her, although I believe that relates more to her friendship with Esad Pasha rather than any of her own . . . charms.”

  “Who is the pasha?”

  “A former field marshal in the sultan’s army. Now he serves as one of the sultan’s advisers. They say he’s trusted above all others.”

  Bennett filed that fact away. “Is the pasha friendly to the Crown?”

  The ambassador frowned. “No more than the other locals. He swears complete allegiance to the sultan. But he does seem to have a genuine fondness for Miss Sinclair. He has acted as her father these past ten years.”

  Where was her real father? He hadn’t escorted her today as Bennett had expected.

  “Young men think to impress the pasha by composing inane poetry in her honor.”

  Bennett surreptitiously smoothed the front of his coat to ensure no bulge showed from the slim volume tucked within. He grimaced and lowered his hand. There was no need for that; no one knew about the poems he tried to write.

  “There was actually quite a popular poem that made the rounds last year, comparing her hazel eyes to a mossy rock, of all things.”

  Every hair on Bennett’s neck rose. “Hazel eyes?”

  Daller nodded. “They are her most distinct feature. Such an odd collection of brown, green, and yellow. From her Greek mother, no doubt, all that mixed blood. Blood always shows.”

  The Miss Sinclair he’d met had brown eyes. Not even a half-blind swain would’ve called them hazel. Plain, chocolate brown. With so little else visible, he couldn’t be mistaken.

  “That woman wasn’t Mari Sinclair.”

  So where was she? Had she been captured? Bennett tensed.

  The ambassador stared. “Of course she was.”

  “That woman had brown eyes.”

  Daller stuttered in disbelief. “That was the Sinclair coach. I’m certain.”

  Bennett rose to his feet. If she’d been captured by the Turks, he might already be too late. “I must locate Miss Sinclair.”

  Perhaps as a result of his diplomatic experience, the ambassador simply nodded at the sudden crisis. “We shall continue later.”

  Bennett strode from the room. He’d scouted the Sinclair residence after his arrival yesterday. The modest home was situated only a mile from the embassy. He’d ascertained on his short excursion that his horse provided little benefit on the narrow, crowded roads that connected them. He’d go on foot. He could be there by the time they saddled his horse.

  The straight cobbled road in front of the embassy gave way to dirt roads that wove among the wood and stone buildings. Carriages and hand carts jostled for position in the narrow lanes, creeping and bumping in fits and starts as space became available. He hugged the left side of the street, claiming the meager shade offered by the top-heavy second stories of the houses, which extended a good four feet past the ground floor.

  His heart hammered in his ears. He should’ve verified her safety last night rather than wasting time jotting down his impressions of Constantinople.

  But he’d been unable to resist. Something about the city made his fingers itch to capture it with words.

  He cut through a crowded marketplace. Greek, Turkish, and Persian voices shouted in good-natured banter intermixed with a collection of languages he couldn’t even begin to decipher. A fortune’s worth of curry and saffron spilled in pungent abundance from barrels and burlap sacks.

  Men dressed in rich fabrics and those barely dressed at all intermingled freely in the space. Women cloaked in flowing rivers of cloth bought and sold beside the men, some with faces covered as the false Miss Sinclair’s had been, but an equal number with faces bare.

  He should have questioned the woman claiming to be Miss Sinclair about her use of the veil. He’d seen unveiled women yesterday. But he’d attributed her odd appearance to a woman too long in a strange land. Unforgivable. The mistake might have cost him his mission. And Miss Sinclair her life.

  His boots crunched on the gritty road. Who was the unknown woman? If someone had harmed Miss Sinclair, why send a woman to take her place? It would, perhaps, buy them time until he realized his mistake. Time enough to torture Miss Sinclair until she confessed to espionage.

  Or confess to anything they wanted just to stop the pain. Bennett’s back burned in remembered agony. And the Fre
nch were infants in torture compared to the Ottomans.

  As he turned onto the block containing the Sinclair home, a carriage arrived. Bennett’s eyes narrowed. That was the conveyance that had left the embassy a short time earlier. He gave brief thanks for the congested roads as he ducked behind a large date palm directly across the street.

  The woman in bright gold emerged from the coach laughing. As she approached the house, the door opened and another female greeted her from the shadows of an arched entryway. The new woman wore a flowing blue robe similar to the false Miss Sinclair, but no veil hid the curls on her head. Her hair wasn’t remarkable for its color, a rather nondescript brown, but for the sheer volume that tumbled down her back.

  The woman in blue scanned the street.

  Bennett tucked himself against the rough bark of the tree. Hers weren’t the quick, darted glances his sisters used when they wished to avoid being caught in some prank, but rather the precise study of an experienced campaigner. Survey the land. Ensure no one tracked their movements.

  After waiting a ten count, Bennett peered back around the tree as the woman finished her inspection and stepped into the sun. She issued an order in Turkish to the coachman. As she turned back to the house, sunlight illuminated her face, and for a moment, her eyes.

  Hazel eyes.

  Bennett’s shoulders tensed. Ah, Miss Sinclair, it would seem. Free and unrestrained. Now that he’d seen her, there was no way he’d ever mistake her for the other woman. While they were about the same height, the other woman was built of generous curves, while Miss Sinclair displayed the lithe, subtle lines of a dancer.

  The grace of one, too, apparently, as she darted into the house.

  His fingers strayed to the book in his pocket, desperate to write. To transpose her essence onto paper.

  Bennett started across the street, dashing the temptation from his thoughts. She was his assignment, not a bloody muse.

  From now on, things would proceed according to his plans or not at all. She’d learn and learn quickly not to play such games with him. If she insisted on drawing, then she would damned well respect the dangers she’d brought on herself.