Night of a Thousand Stars

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I sat back in the chair, feeling suddenly quite bloodless. Her lover. That would explain everything. If he were in love with the dashing Mrs. Starke, it made perfect sense that he would throw all else aside and rush to find her.

  “Oh, Poppy, you utter fool,” I muttered. Why hadn’t I considered before the possibility that Sebastian might be in love with someone? “He just can’t be,” I said firmly. “I won’t believe it until I hear it from his own lips.” I was determined to find him, but for the first time in the course of my adventure it began to occur to me that Sebastian Fox might not want to be found.

  * * *

  By the next morning my usual high spirits had returned, and I couldn’t wait to tell Masterman what I’d discovered. I dashed through breakfast to be on my way and found Faruq waiting for me by the motorcar.

  I gave him a broad smile. “Hello, Faruq. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  He gave me a slow blink in return and opened the door. “Where shall I take you, miss?”

  “The Umayyad mosque, please,” I said, brandishing my Baedeker at him. “I wish to pay my respects to Saladin. Sal¯ah al-Di¯n,” I corrected quickly. He gave a nod, content that I should think so highly of his countryman, and without another word he delivered me to the mosque. I scurried inside and took up a heavy black robe. It was expected of all women to go veiled into the holiest places of the mosque, and I draped myself in the rusty black head covering. There was ritual handwashing and footwashing to be done as well, and by the time I reached the ladies’ corner, it was quite late in the morning, and I was desperately afraid I had missed Masterman.

  I sat for a long moment in quiet contemplation of the mosque. It was peaceful here, with the sound of trickling water from the fountains and the low voices of women in private conversation. I found it all quite tranquil and was just dozing off when I felt a sharp poke.

  “Wake up, miss,” Masterman hissed.

  I rubbed my arm. “I wasn’t asleep. And how on earth did you know it was me through all this?” I asked, nodding towards the encompassing black. If I hadn’t heard her voice, I certainly should not have known the creature next to me as Masterman. She had adopted a far more conservative costume than I had, with a veil and robe that concealed everything except the smallest portion of her face, two round greenish-brown eyes made darker with the heavy application of kohl. She had even darkened her eyebrows.

  “That’s quite impressive. I think under the right circumstances, you might be mistaken for a native,” I told her.

  “I endeavoured to blend in,” she told me with an air of satisfaction. “Tell me what you’ve discovered.” I plunged into my story, telling her at once of what I had discovered in the old newspaper I had found.

  “She’s alive?” she asked sharply. “Well, that’s unexpected.”

  “You know who she is?”

  “Of course,” she returned promptly. “I have followed her career with a great deal of interest. A great deal of interest indeed. I shouldn’t have thought there was a connection with Sebastian Fox, though.”

  “But why not?” I reasoned. “They’re both English, after all. And she worked in a convalescent home for pilots during the war. We don’t know what Sebastian did in the war. He might have been a flyer. Or they could have met any one of a hundred other ways,” I finished.

  “I suppose they could,” she said slowly. “And you think she might know something of his whereabouts now?”

  “I certainly think she is connected to his coming here. It stands to reason he has made some effort to get in touch with her. Goodness, he might even be staying with her! For all we know, they’re lovers.”

  She gave a short, sharp laugh, smothered by her veil. “I cannot see it.”

  I shrugged. “Neither can I. Evangeline Starke is so daring, so glamorous, and Sebastian is attractive enough, I suppose, but he’s—” I broke off, not entirely certain of how to describe him.

  “He is?” she prompted.

  I struggled. “Well, he’s quite good-looking really, didn’t you think? In the right clothes he’d be downright handsome. If he were a character in Peter Pan and Wendy, he would be John—all seriousness and rectitude. He’s jolly nice—I just think he’s frightfully conventional. I suppose a curate must be. He could hardly get on in the church if he went about flexing his muscles.”

  “Hiding his light under a bushel,” Masterman pronounced.

  “Precisely. And that’s hardly the sort of man to appeal to a daredevil like Evangeline Starke, particularly when you consider what her husband was. But I suppose the mysteries of the heart are entirely impenetrable,” I finished in a cryptic voice.

  “Quite,” she said, clipping off the word. “Well, then I suppose I shall make inquiries on the whereabouts of Mrs. Starke. She shouldn’t be difficult to find. I should guess every newspaper in the city would want to interview her about her experiences in the desert. Was that all, miss?”

  I hesitated. “Not entirely. It hardly seems worth mentioning, but I suppose it’s best if we share everything.” Hastily, I told her about my experience of the previous day, and as I related the tale, there was an almost imperceptible change in her face. All I could see were those eyes, but they grew chillier and more forbidding as she listened to my story of the beggar in the souk.

  “The East is a cunning place,” she said slowly.

  I sighed. “Masterman, it’s no worse than any place in England. Tell me you could walk down by the docks in London and not be accosted by beggars.”

  “Yes, but I might at least understand what they are saying. Besides, there are no harems in London. You might have been stolen right off the street.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Harims are a Turkish invention, and in case you hadn’t noticed, the Turks have been thrown out of here.” I thought it best not to mention Armand’s allusions to his ancestors’ proclivities. I hurried on. “Besides, there might not be harems in London, but there are certainly brothels, and you cannot tell me they are better.”

  “A nice girl wouldn’t know such things,” she said darkly. “I wonder what that word was, the one the beggar said,” she mused.

  I shrugged. “I can’t imagine.”

  “What did it sound like?” she persisted.

  I closed my eyes, conjuring in my memory the smell of the sun-warmed stone and the pungent scent of donkey and beggar. His hand had been firm but not painful on mine, and there was urgency in his voice.

  “Al mawt,” I said suddenly, opening my eyes. “Or something like that.”

  Her eyes went very wide and she did not blink.

  “What is it, Masterman? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  She shook her head. “There’s a little maid who cleans my room at the hotel. We’ve got friendly, and as her English is quite good, I have had her teach me a few words of the native lingo.”

  “And did she teach you that one?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, miss.” She paused. “It is the Arabic word for death.”

  After a long moment I burst out laughing, then smothered it immediately, remembering I was in a holy place. “Oh, Masterman, you can’t seriously think it was a threat.”

  “No, miss. I think it was a warning.”

  “A warning of what? I know nothing about anything.”

  Her eyes hardened. “I think it means you do know something. I think it’s about Mr. Fox.”

  “Oh, do be serious. First of all, no one could possibly connect me with him. We have nothing whatsoever to tie us together except that he drove me down to Devon.”

  “We’ve been asking questions in London,” she corrected.

  I shrugged. “Then why weren’t you the one who received the frightful warning of Death? You’ve asked a far sight more questions than I have. No, Masterman. It was a beggar, a simpleton who wanted a bit of money.�
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  “But why try to frighten you after you’d already given it to him?” she demanded.

  “Heavens, I don’t know. Why does anyone do anything? I already told you he seemed half-witted. He clearly wasn’t in his right mind, that’s all. There’s an end of it.”

  “I don’t like it,” she said coolly. “Perhaps we should go home.”

  “Go home!” I was aghast. “Masterman, I see that this has shaken you, and I’m sorry. But do be sensible. We have no real connection to Sebastian, and there’s no reason for anyone to be alarmed by the questions you’ve been asking. This was simply a poor beggar who amused himself at my expense. Now, get hold of yourself and let’s have no more nonsense about going home.”

  She gave me an inscrutable look. “Very well.”

  I gave her a miserable look. “Don’t be like that, Masterman.”

  “Like what, miss?”

  “All po-faced and perfect. We agreed that for the duration of this trip, we’re partners of a sort, not mistress and maid. Only now you’ve gone all distant and formal again, and it’s not a bit of fun.”

  “Some things are more important than fun, miss,” she said, unbending a little. “Your safety is one of them. I wonder if I haven’t made a very grave mistake in letting you come on this lark.”

  “Letting me! I like that. I’m a grown woman,” I reminded her. “I came on my own, with no one’s permission. Let me, indeed. What a thing to say. Now, you start to work on finding out what you can about where Mrs. Starke has gone since she’s been found. If we can locate her, perhaps we’ll find Sebastian.”

  I could tell from the stiff way she carried her head she was not happy, but I ignored it. “Where shall we meet next?”

  She motioned for me to take out the Baedeker, and flipped quickly to a map where she drew a small X with a pencil. “That is a Turkish hammam, baths for women only. It won’t be suspicious if you go in there without the driver or Mr. Talbot. Every tourist lady likes to take the baths there, and we can speak alone.”

  We set a date for our next rendezvous, and I put the Baedeker away as I rose. “Excellent work, Masterman. You may have a real talent for subterfuge,” I told her.

  “Thank you, miss,” she said. But her voice was grim, and after I walked away, I turned back to find her still sitting on the bench, lost in thought.

  As I emerged from the mosque, I saw Faruq standing next to the motorcar, chatting to someone. The comte turned as I reached them, a smile spreading slowly over his face.

  “Miss March. I am enchanted.”

  “Hello, Comte.”

  “Armand,” he said with a faint air of admonition. He was dressed in European clothes, the best Savile Row could supply, tailored to within an inch of indecency, and I wasn’t surprised that heads turned as people walked past.

  “Armand,” I said slowly.

  He extended his arm. “I am delighted that I have run you to ground. That’s one of your English hunting metaphors, is it not?”

  “It is,” I said, taking his arm. “It’s what the dogs do right before they tear the fox apart.”

  He gave me a look of mock horror. “What a terrible thing to suggest! No, Miss March, I can think of far better things to do with you if I had in mind to punish you. For example, you must lunch with me.”

  “I would hardly call that a punishment.”

  He smiled broadly, revealing beautiful even white teeth. “Only a few days in the East and already you have learned the art of the compliment.”

  “Surely the easterner doesn’t have a monopoly on that,” I argued. “The Frenchman must at least be his rival in the art of flattery.”

  “And I am both,” he said, giving me a long look from under his thick lashes. “So you are doubly in danger.”

  He laughed then and waved me into the motorcar. Danger indeed.

  * * *

  We lunched at one of the fashionable, expensive hotels that had been built by French hoteliers since the war had dropped the city into their manicured hands. Like my own hotel, this one had once been a private residence.

  “It used to be a palace,” Armand told me, waving his arm in a gesture that sketched the whole of the beautiful dining room and beyond. “You can still see traces of the pasha’s excesses.”

  “Pasha? So it was a Turk’s palace?” I asked.

  “The Turk held sway here for a long time,” he replied. “But his day is done. It is time for the native Syrian to rule his own country.”

  “You support King Feisal, then?”

  He did not answer as waiters scurried around, bringing glasses and plates full of tasty, costly morsels of beautifully crafted French food. There was nothing of the Levant here, no heaps of couscous and stewed meats studded with pomegranate and dripping with sauces. Instead we had cuisine straight from Paris, lobsters dressed in frills and drawn butter, and aspics with vegetables quivering inside like tiny museum specimens. It wasn’t the sort of food I enjoyed, but the comte applied himself to it with enthusiasm. He ate beautifully, with delicacy and refinement, just as he did everything else. I looked at the elegant hands holding the heavy silver knife and fork and I wondered what else those hands did well.

  As if he guessed my thoughts, Armand put down his cutlery and gave me an assessing look. “I owe you an apology. I thought you were just asking to be polite, but I believe there is more to you than I first anticipated. So I will pay you the compliment of a complete reply. I do not support Feisal. A king of Syria ought to be Syrian. Feisal is a Howeitat Bedouin.”

  “And the Howeitat are not Syrian?”

  “No,” he said, his face flushing a little with emotion. The colour crept slowly up his skin, touching first the smoothly shaven cheeks, rising up the sharp cheekbones until it crested them and passed onto the plain of his wide, unlined brow. “The Howeitat are Arabian. His father is the Sharif of Mecca, a very important position in the Islamic world, but not one calculated to find loyalty here. The Bedouin are not a single group, Miss March. They are like the Indians in America, tribes fractured by rivalries and warfare and blood feuds. They do not wish to be united, and even if they did, how is the Bedouin to understand his city-dwelling brother? It is like asking a fish to understand a cow. They are different species, and their language, their customs, their very values are not the same.”

  I mused over this while he returned to his aspic, spearing a bit of asparagus through the quivering jelly.

  “And you don’t think Feisal can unite them, not even for the chance at having their own country for the first time?”

  He gave me a thin smile and patted his lips with his napkin. “My dear Miss March, he hasn’t the slightest chance of success. The French will sweep him away like...” He paused then flicked a crumb from the table with his forefinger and thumb. “Like that.”

  “If you believe that, why are you here?” It was a bold question, but it did not displease him. Instead, he gave me a smile, perhaps the first authentic smile he had given me yet.

  “Because there are fortunes to be made upon the backs of desperate men,” he said simply.

  He waved the waiter over to bring more champagne and I returned to my lobster.

  While I ate, he talked on, telling me of his plans for building a villa outside the city. By the time they brought plates of mint sherbet, I found myself distracted, toying with my spoon.

  Instantly, his mood shifted. He pushed away his plate and levelled a look at me that seemed calculated to provoke a reaction.

  “Forgive me, Miss March. I have droned on about my plans, and you are bored.”

  “No, not at all,” I said, almost sounding convincing.

  He clucked his tongue. “I don’t like liars,” he said, drawing out the last word like a caress. “Remember, we did discuss my penchant for punishment.”

  I summoned
a thin smile. “Really, I am sorry. I was just wool-gathering.”

  “It is I who should apologise. I have gone on and on about myself, but you must understand, it is only because I dare not say the things I would wish to say, the things I would say, if only—”

  He broke off, his face twisted with emotion. I watched as he mastered himself with what seemed an heroic effort. “As I said, I apologise. I have already said too much. Your employer is a friend of my mother’s and you are a guest in our country. I would not violate the laws of courtesy for anything, no matter how great the temptation,” he assured me, his voice lingering again on the last word.

  I blinked at him. As far as seductions went, it was masterfully done. He hadn’t promised anything, hadn’t revealed anything. In fact, he had made a point to tell me he couldn’t promise anything. But the suggestion was there all the same. It was in his voice, the hands that rested, palms upon the table, supplicating. And it was in the eyes that rested warmly on my face. The eyes that never left mine as he waited for a response.

  It was an almost perfect performance. If he could have mastered his mouth, I would have believed it. But the little half-smile still tugged at his lips, and I knew this was nothing more than a gambit in a game.

  Well, if seduction really was on his mind, he’d be vastly disappointed if I capitulated now, I reasoned.

  I gave him a wide smile. “Think nothing of it, comte,” I said brightly. “I promise you, I won’t.”

  With another little prick to his amour-propre, he conceded the field. He gave me a gracious nod and summoned the waiter to bring the bill.

  Nine

  That evening after dinner, I pleaded a headache and excused myself early. Dinner had been served on trays in the colonel’s room, and the atmosphere had been stuffy. The truth was, the colonel and the comtesse seemed entirely happy to be left alone, and I wondered if a budding love affair was in the offing. It seemed only tactful to leave them to it, and so I excused myself and went to my room. But it was no night to be alone. I opened the shutters. It was a glorious night, the sort made for lovers and thieves, and I stood at the window for a long time, smelling the heady scent of the jasmine that bloomed under my window.