Silver Angel

by Johanna Lindsey

  "I did," she grumbled. "Before he recruited you to be a spy."

  Gently, Derek pulled her forward to slip an arm around her waist and continue walking. "Marshall never twisted my arm, you know. Whatever I did I enjoyed doing. And this has nothing to do with that. It's something only I can do this time. But there's no danger involved. It's more a diplomatic mission."

  "Which I suppose you've been sworn to keep secret?"

  "Naturally."

  She was torn between relief at die postponement, which would give her more time to get over her doubts, and worry that he was lying to her about there being no danger involved. "How long will you be gone?"

  "There's no way to determine . . . possibly six months."

  ''That long?"

  He shrugged. "Diplomacy takes longer than spying.

  "Father isn't going to like this."

  "The Duke and my grandfather will have that in common."

  "What did your grandfather say about it?"

  "I haven't told him yet. Thought I'd put it off until I'm ready to leave."

  "When?"

  "Tomorrow, most likely," he admitted. "I'll take ship from Dover."

  "Oh, Derek!" She stopped suddenly to throw her arms around his neck.

  "What's this, Caro? Will you miss me?"

  "Not at all," she mumbled into his jacket.

  "Think of me?"

  "Not for a moment."

  He chuckled, squeezing her affectionately. "That's my girl."

  Chapter Seven

  Derek didn't wait until the next day to speak to his grandfather. Finding him in the library on his return home, he laid everything before the old man and left him to draw his own conclusions.

  Robert Sinclair's answer was the only one it could be. "You have to go."

  "So I concluded," Derek replied. "I've sent for Marshall. He should be here by tomorrow afternoon."

  "Are you going to tell him your relationship—"

  "Do you see any point in making that known after all these years?"

  "No," the Marquis admitted.

  "Then you have your answer. There's nothing I can tell him anyway. I won't know why I'm needed until I get there. He'll think I'm going after the English girl. That's enough."

  "Are you?"

  Derek shrugged. "As long as I'm there, I'll look into it. But it's doubtful she can be recovered, even if I can locate her. Once a woman enters a harem, she's lost to the outside world."

  Robert frowned. "You say that without the slightest regret."

  Derek smiled fondly at his grandfather. Robert's bitterness was understandable.

  "What do you want me to say? She's just one girl among thousands. Slavery is only frowned on here. In the East, it is an acceptable institution."

  "You don't have to approve of it."

  "I didn't say I approve of it. But I was raised in the East. I accept it for what it is, a way of life."

  "I know, I know." The Marquis sighed, for this was no more than a rehashing of an old argument. "It's just ... do you think you'll see her?"

  Derek knew he was no longer speaking of the English girl. "I don't know."

  "If you do, tell her she has my heartfelt thanks."

  Derek nodded and embraced his grandfather. Affection tightened his throat. The message was clear and as much for himself. It spoke of his grandfather's approval, love, and pride, sentiments not easily expressed by the old man. They might disagree on many subjects, and Robert might disapprove of Derek's hedonistic ways, but a strong bond had grown between them over the years that was unshakable.

  An hour later, Derek was still in the library, though alone, when Lord Marshall Fielding was announced. Having handed over his hat and coat to Walmsley, he was smoothing down unruly brown curls as he entered the room.

  Derek rose to greet him, managing to conceal his surprise. That Marshall had arrived today instead of tomorrow meant he couldn't have received Derek's summons but was here for his own reasons.

  "And what brings you down from London, Marsh?"

  Thick brows over light green eyes gave Marshall a perpetually serious countenance that was hardly relieved even when he smiled. "It's been about a month since I was here last. Thought I'd see how your conscience is holding up."

  Derek burst into laughter. Trust Marshall never to give up, especially when he wanted Derek to do something that in his opinion couldn't be handled by anyone else. He had probably come here to give their last argument another go-round, but with little hope of changing Derek's mind. He was in for a surprise.

  Marshall was an organizer, not a doer. He and Derek had always made an unlikely pair. With nothing in common save their age and a mutual love of horses, it was surprising that they had become fast friends during school, but they had. It was a matter of opposites: serious, restrained, and conservative on the one hand; bold, adventuresome, and somewhat arrogant on the other. The one pushed while the other held back, perfect complements to each other.

  "Sit down, Marshall." Derek led him to a group of comfortable reading chairs. "You're just in time for tea."

  Marshall ignored the offer. "I take it your conscience isn't suffering."

  "Don't have one."

  "Derek—"

  "Oh, relax, Marsh. You know you'd never make it as an ambassador in the East. You have to ease into these things, exchange a few pleasantries first. So how's the spy business?"

  "You know we don't like that word. Foreign intelligence—"

  "A spy's a spy, no matter what you call him."

  "I concede," Marshall said good-naturedly. "Now, is that enough pleasantries for you, or shall we discuss the weather, too?"

  "The climate is rather mild for—"

  "Derek, I swear you could try a saint with little effort! You sit here uttering nonsense while Charity Woods suffers atrocities—"

  "Come off it, Marsh," Derek cut in brusquely. "You don't know the girl's suffering anything. I happen to know there are women who sell themselves into slavery to end up as your Woods has probably ended up. Harem women are pampered and showered with luxuries. They are rarely ill-used."

  Marshall leaned his head back and closed his eyes with a sigh. He should have known it would be a waste of time trying to get Derek to change his mind. If Derek didn't have the legitimate excuses he had used last time for refusing, there was this, the fact that they just couldn't see eye to eye on the plight of women sold into slavery in the Muslim states. Where had Derek lived that the women were so well treated? It wasn't that way everywhere. Didn't he know that?

  But it was useless to question Derek Sinclair about his life before he came to England. He never gave details, only opinions, and those were far too Eastern by far.

  Derek hadn't offered any opinions last time; he had just flatly refused to leave England for any reason, though his excuse was reasonable. "I'm getting married in a few months."

  "Don't remind me. You steal the only girl I can ever love, and you rub it in by inviting me to the wedding," Marshall had answered with a teasing grin that was, sadly, not teasing at all. "You could postpone the wedding."

  "Can't do it. And besides, the old man's asked me to stay close. He's ailing, you know."

  "Devil he is," Marshall argued.

  "He's been bedridden the past week."

  "I happen to know he just has a bad cold."

  But Derek went one better. "You know his age, Marsh. He wants to see my children before he kicks off."

  Of course Marshall couldn't argue against that. The Marquis was nearing seventy, and his health hadn't been that good in recent years. The thought of children, Caroline and Derek's children, depressed Marshall enough to let it go. But there had been so much pressure put on him since then to get results that he was forced to ask Derek again. And then, too, his heart was still hoping that this upcoming wedding might be postponed, though what good it would do him . . .

  "You didn't mention what progress the English consul has made."

  Marshall grunted. "None. And lately
, he can't even get an audience with the Dey. Which reminds me. Woods is no longer the only reason we'd like you to visit Barikah, though she's still the official reason, what with her relative demanding the navy be sent in if he doesn't get her back soon."

  "Would they send in the navy?"

  "Not for something like this, not when Barikah has the only fleet in the world whose size can't be estimated. We'd have no idea what we were getting into, and believe me, we're not eager to find out."

  "It's just a small port, Marsh. I'll admit the old Dey had quite a few ships at his disposal, but you have people there who can monitor every ship that comes into the harbor. How can you not know?"

  "How indeed, when your friend Jamil uses twins for his captains."

  "Twins? Good Lord, that's brilliant!"

  "You mean you didn't know?"

  "Come on, Marsh. Just because Jamil and I exchange a few letters every once in a while doesn't mean I'm privy to his defenses."

  Marshall doubted his hearing. It was the first time Derek had ever called the Dey by name. "It might help, it really might, if I knew what your involvement was with the Dey when you lived in Barikah."

  Derek smiled and asked irrelevantly, "Are you staying for dinner, Marsh?"

  "For God's sake, Derek! What's the bloody secret? Did you save his life? Is he indebted to you?" At Derek's inscrutable expression, Marshall said in disgust, "Oh, never mind. I should have known better than to ask. But you could at least tell me if I'm beating a dead horse. Is he a friend or not?"

  "He was."

  "Well, that's something." Marshall sighed, for it was certainly more than Derek had ever admitted before. "And yes, the Dey's strategy with his navy is in fact brilliant. No one knows how many ships he really has, not his enemies, not his allies. It's impossible to tell when one captain could actually be two, their ships' names being the same. And at no one time are all his ships in port, so we can monitor the harbor forever and still not come up with a correct number. But the point is—"

  "The point is, England doesn't want to declare war on Barikah."

  "Exactly," Marshall admitted. "Our treaty is a good one, an excellent one, in fact, and Jamil Reshid a miracle—an Ottoman who keeps his word."

  "So England is happy with the present Dey," Derek concluded. "But what was this about another reason for my going to Barikah?"

  "As I said, the English consul, John Blake, hasn't been able to get in to see the Dey. Well, we've only just found out why. Apparently there have been several attempts made on Jamil Reshid's life recently. Naturally enough, security at the palace has more than tripled, and all business except the most important has been suspended."

  "And I would guess the ransoming of one slave wouldn't be considered important by the palace officials?"

  "Correct, but you don't mention the assassination attempts on your 'friend,' I notice. Could it be you already knew about it?"

  "You deliver the Dey's letters to me yourself, Marsh, and you know it's been a good year—"

  "All right, all right, so you haven't received any word. But why aren't you surprised, or even concerned?"

  "Good Lord, you're suspicious today." Derek chuckled. "If I'm not surprised, it's because assassination attempts in the Ottoman Empire are a common occurrence. You know that. Why do you think it's legal for a new sultan to kill off all his brothers when he comes to power?"

  "Jamil Reshid has younger brothers."

  "I know, but Jamil Reshid is not a sultan, and the Deys of Barikah don't practice fratricide. They do, however, surround themselves with bodyguards, who make it nearly impossible to get to them."

  "Nearly impossible, but not impossible."

  "True, so naturally there is reason for concern. Any ideas yet on who's behind it?"

  " John says everything points to Selim, the next in line, because he hasn't been seen in over six months and can't be found. Of course, John isn't privy to everything that goes on in Barikah. He has his spies, but none inside the palace. The fact remains that Jamil's sons aren't old enough to rule. If Jamil dies now, Selim would be the new Dey, and that we would like to avoid at all costs."

  "Why?"

  "Unlike Jamil, he can't be trusted. We've had our reports on the fellow, believe me. He's everything Jamil isn't. No, we need Jamil to remain in power, not just because he's friendly to England, tolerant of Christians, and has opened trade with us, but because the alternative is unacceptable. If Selim should come to power, the situation just might lead to war."

  "I take it there's a rhyme and a reason for why you're telling me all this."

  Marshall finally grinned. "If you were to reconsider going in after Woods, we wouldn't take it amiss if you should happen to find out who's behind these assassination attempts and eliminate the problem while you're there."

  Derek nearly choked on his laughter. "Hell, you don't ask for much, do you?"

  "England would be grateful—unofficially, of course."

  "Of course." Derek settled into a grin, adding, "All right, Marsh, you've found the means to sway me.

  Marshall sat up, his expression incredulous. "You're joking! You'll really go, put off the wedding, break your word to your grandfather?"

  "Well, if you're going to remind me of all that. . ."

  "No, no, wouldn't dream of it."

  "Then I'll leave tomorrow."

  The Earl retired that night well satisfied with the day. He had managed to glean what information Marshall had without revealing his own, he and his grandfather were both in accord about his going to Barikah, and he had parted from Caroline without tears or recriminations. He now had no regrets about leaving. Certainly he would miss England and all it held dear, but he wouldn't be gone that long. When he returned, the wedding would take place as planned, he would start a family, and his grandfather would be satisfied.

  But right now he was looking at his last night on land before weeks at sea and nothing but male companionship. At the top of the stairs, Derek turned to crook his finger at a passing maid below. It didn't matter which maid she happened to be. He knew them all intimately.

  He smiled to hear her giggle, and waited while she rushed up the stairs to join him. She turned out to be Clair, a lovely little brunette with an insatiable appetite. A good choice.

  "We heard you was leaving, milord," she said as he slipped an arm about her. "Margie and I was planning to come and bid you good-bye later tonight."

  "Were you?" he replied lazily, his fingers casually brushing against her breast. "Then we can say our good-byes now, and I'll see Margie later—if you don't wear me out."

  She giggled again as he led her toward his room. It was a sound he didn't mind, a sound he had grown up with, having been raised in a harem. That he loved women in general was natural after such an upbringing. He had been afraid that his one regret in coming to England would be that he would never have his own harem. It hadn't exactly become a regret, not with a bevy of housemaids at his disposal, servants accustomed to pleasing a master. Yet he did miss the sensuality of the East, where a man rarely devoted his affections to only one woman. The ladies of quality here demanded eternal devotion for themselves exclusively. It was unthinkable, and yet he accepted this Western idiosyncrasy.

  He expected it in Caroline. In fact, he knew she now thought him faithful to her. That he wasn't was not cause for guilt, however. Not that he didn't adore her. He did. If they had been in the East, she would be known as his ikbal, his favorite. But she was more than that. She was also his dearest friend, an occurrence that could never have come about in the East, where women were not thought of as companions. So he fully intended to make himself a good husband to her by English standards, to give her no cause for grief. He would just have to practice discretion.

  But that was for later. He hadn't taken his one and only wife yet. Right now he was facing the long journey to Barikah, and a long time coming before he found anyone as accommodating as Clair.

  Chapter Eight

  "Come, lalla, you must
eat something."

  "Why?"

  Hakeem stared worriedly at the girl curled up on the low bed. Her eyes were bruised from lack of sleep. Her hair was a tangled skein of silver knots that she wouldn't brush herself and wouldn't let him touch. She wore the same dress she had put on four days ago, when her own bundle of clothes had been given to her—a tight-waisted lilac gown that added to her paleness. She wouldn't change it. She slept in it. The only thing about her that wasn't lackluster was her tone of voice, occasionally peevish, more often coldly hostile.