Night of a Thousand Stars

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “You can write a note. There’s paper and pencil on that shelf. I’ll see he gets it. That’s the best I can do,” he warned.

  “I suppose it will have to do. I could tell him I left to tend a sick friend or something.”

  “Feeble. Why would you leave your things behind?”

  I shrugged. “I could tell him I left in haste and would he please send my things along, perhaps to the hotel.”

  “You can’t go near the hotel. If Hugh has any sense, it’s the first place he will check.”

  “Then I’ll just have to be resigned to the loss of my things, at least for now. The hotel will keep them in storage,” I said stubbornly.

  He sighed and seemed to look at me for the first time. “Poppy, I know I said we ought to go after the gold, but I must have been mad. I was so outraged at seeing that devil pawing at you that my first thought was just to get you away. Now that I’ve had time to think on it, the smartest thing is to get you right out of the city altogether.”

  I felt a chill whisper in my marrow, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

  “You want to go on without me.”

  “I don’t want to, but you must see that it’s safer for you. Do you think I want to be responsible when something worse happens?”

  “But you saved me,” I pointed out evenly.

  He groaned. “I got lucky. Poppy, I’ve been in situations like that more times than I care to count. I know how to handle myself, but having another person in the same sort of danger, it changes things. If Talbot gets his hands on you, he won’t hesitate to use you as a hostage to draw me out again. Do you have friends in the city? Anyone I can take you to who would look after you, get you safely back to England so I can get on with this?”

  His voice was very nearly pleading, and it scorched me to see such a proud man almost begging. I thought of Masterman then, with her quiet competence. She would have been cool in the face of Hugh’s violence. She could get me safely back to England, I had no doubt. I thought of her sitting in her room at the hotel, waiting for word from me.

  And I slipped my hands out of his and crossed my fingers behind my back. “No one,” I said brightly. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

  I wasn’t cruel enough to leave Masterman dangling. I scrawled a note to her as well and slipped it into my pocket, determined to find an opportunity to send it to her.

  When I had finished writing my notes, Sebastian disappeared for a moment back down the darkened stairs. I heard the faint murmur of voices and then he returned, this time with a tray full of food. I fell on it, as ravenously as if I hadn’t just eaten a splendid dinner at the comtesse’s villa. It seemed a hundred years ago, and I said as much to Sebastian.

  He nodded. “This sort of work takes some people that way.”

  It seemed as good a time as any to ask. “So this is your work, then.”

  His gaze was level and calm. “It is.”

  “Are you even a priest?”

  He looked affronted. “Of course I am. I’d never lie about taking Holy Orders. But I don’t have a parish and I’m not a curate.”

  I looked him over again from bearded jaw to broad chest, scarcely able to believe my eyes.

  “You look so different.”

  He gave my evening frock an appreciative glance. “As do you. I must say I like this better than the wedding gown. Now, we haven’t much time, so let’s clear the air, shall we. You go first. Why did you come after me?”

  “I thought you might be in trouble of some sort. You see, I went to thank you for rescuing me from my wedding, only the curate at the church had never heard of you. And then I got curious, wildly so. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would lie about such a thing, so I began to trace your whereabouts.”

  “How?” he asked, quirking up one heavy brow. The gesture was surprisingly effective.

  “I remembered the name of your garage from the ticket I found in your glovebox. I went there and the garage man told me where you lodged.”

  “Impressive,” he told me. “But Mrs. Webb didn’t know exactly where I was bound. How did you trace my route to Damascus?”

  “Sheer hard graft. I searched the passenger lists of all the liners bound for the Holy Land. At length I found your name.”

  “My real name?” He cocked his head. “And how did you discover that?”

  “It was the garage man actually,” I told him. I didn’t bother to mention that Masterman had stolen his copy of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens from his lodging as confirmation of his name. It seemed like an intrusion somehow that I had the book, and I only hoped I could recover it eventually and restore it to him.

  He’d fallen silent, his expression pensive. “This isn’t just about an old myth of Crusader gold, is it? What are you doing here, Sebastian?”

  His jaw hardened. “For me to know and you to find out, dear child.”

  “That’s not a proper answer!”

  “It’s the only one you’ll get for now.”

  “That isn’t fair.”

  “Fine. You go first. You had a choice back there—Talbot or me. He was making tepid love to you under the jasmine blossoms and feeding you a ripping yarn about what horrors I’d got up to. You had no reason to choose me over him. Why did you?”

  I struggled to put it clearly into words. “Because when I was with Hugh, none of it felt real. He was playing a part with me. I don’t know how I knew it, but I did. There was more genuine emotion in riding in your car with you than any kiss he ever gave me.”

  Sebastian’s eyes gleamed, but he said nothing for a long moment. Then he swallowed hard.

  “Thank you for that.”

  “Your turn,” I prodded. “Why are you here?”

  “Later.”

  I opened my mouth, but he held up a commanding finger. “No more. At least not yet.”

  “When, then?”

  A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Persistent, aren’t you?”

  “It’s my best quality,” I told him modestly.

  He sighed. “Like water on a stone. But it’s too dangerous yet. People have disappeared—people have died because of this gold. If I tell you everything now, it will put you at risk. Now, I’ve got you safely out of Talbot’s clutches, but that’s as far as I’m prepared to take you. You simply have to get out of Damascus, but I’m damned if I can figure out how to make it happen. My connections aren’t what they used to be.”

  Masterman’s name was on the tip of my tongue. But the moment I told him the truth about her, he would pack me off on the first ship out of Beirut and that would be the end of it—my wonderful adventure, finished before it really began. I wondered what my Aunt Julia would have done under the circumstances, and I knew what I had to do.

  I smiled apologetically, giving him an angelic look. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Sebastian. Is it so terrible being stuck with me? Perhaps I could help? This hoard sounds intriguing.”

  “It’s more than intriguing. I’m beginning to think the damned thing is cursed,” he said slowly. “I’d take you home myself, but I’m so damned close....” He trailed off.

  “If you’re close, you mustn’t give up,” I insisted. “And I might be of assistance,” I pressed. “I have lots of skills that might come in handy.”

  “Oh, really?” He was clearly amused. “Of what sort? Cryptography? Cartography? Forgery?”

  “Well, perhaps not those,” I admitted. “But surely I can be useful in some capacity. If nothing else, I could provide you with a bit of cover.”

  “Cover?”

  “Yes, it’s what spies call the story they use to keep their disguise,” I told him.

  “Is that right?” He was amused again, but before I could push further, there was a noise, so slight I almost didn’t hear it.

  B
ut Sebastian did. He dived for the lamp and blew it out. He was like a cat in the dark, moving swiftly and silently so that when the secret door opened, he was ready. There was the sound of an almighty scuffle, and several blows being struck. I heard a groan and a thud, and then, unmistakably, an outraged English voice that wasn’t Sebastian’s.

  “For God’s sake, Slightly, don’t be such an ass!” followed by a string of rich profanity.

  I struck a match and it flared to life, illuminating a scene I would never forget. Sebastian and his assailant were heaped together in a tangle of muscled limbs and Eastern robes, both streaming blood and detaining each other in holds that looked excruciatingly painful. As they took stock of each other, recognition dawned. The newcomer released Sebastian, who promptly rolled to his feet and vomited in the corner. When he was done, he took a long draft from a wineskin and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, wincing as he put a hand to his ribs.

  “Goddammit, you might have warned me you were coming,” he said brutally. He waved towards me. “This is Poppy. March,” he said with emphasis on my surname.

  The newcomer smiled broadly and spat out a mouthful of blood. “How do you do, Miss March?”

  Sebastian turned to me and lifted a shaking finger to the other man. “Poppy, say hello to Gabriel Starke.”

  Twelve

  “But you’re dead!” I exclaimed. It sounded stupid even to my own ears but he was gracious enough to smile.

  “Dead is a relative term out here, Miss March.”

  The application of a few cold water compresses and copious amounts of new wine seemed in order, and I watched as they assessed the damages. Sebastian prodded a cracked rib or two and a bruised solar plexus while Starke had a bloody lip and a spectacular bruise coming up on his cheekbone. He also had a dislocated finger which he forced back into the socket in a manoeuvre that left me feeling queasy.

  “You ought to have taken notes,” he told me as he wrapped a cloth soaked in cold water around the swelling digit. “It’s a useful skill to have out here.” His eyes were a peculiarly opaque shade of brown, uncanny and not particularly attractive.

  “Miss March isn’t in our line of work,” Sebastian said quickly.

  Starke gave me an appraising look, blinking furiously. “Do pardon me, Miss March. This isn’t the most pleasant thing to watch.” He reached into his pocket for a small tin and flicked it open. With a deft gesture, he levered something out of his eye, holding it out for my inspection. It was a piece of glass, the centre of it painted a muddy-brown. He removed the other and blinked again, shaking his head a little. “God, I hate those things.” He peered at me again, thoughtfully, and I saw that his eyes were actually the most startlingly beautiful shade of blue. Little wonder he was forced to disguise them. No one, having seen them, would soon forget Gabriel Starke’s eyes. He tipped his head as he studied me. “Not in our line of work? You surprise me, Slightly. She looks like she might like an adventure.”

  I dimpled at him, and he smiled back, a pirate’s smile, and I passed him a plate of nut-studded pastries. “Eat these. You’ll need to keep up your strength.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, helping himself to a handful. Sebastian sulked in the corner.

  “Those were mine,” he said pointedly.

  “Don’t begrudge me, lad,” Starke said calmly. “I haven’t eaten in two days. I just got in from the Badiyat ash-Sham.”

  “The desert?” I asked, my ears perking up. I had read of it in the Baedeker guide. The vast stretch of desert reached from just beyond Damascus to the border of Mesopotamia. Within it lay Crusader castles and ruined monasteries, desert oases, and the fallen glories of Palmyra.

  “The same,” Starke said. “I was with our friend Hamid,” he added to Sebastian.

  Sebastian unbent a little. “How is he? It’s been a long time.”

  “He is well. Another wife, this one even prettier than the first two,” Starke told him. He turned to me. “Our friend Hamid is a Bedouin chieftain.”

  “A sheikh! How marvellous. Can we meet him?” I asked Sebastian.

  “No,” he said sternly. “Gabriel, I’m trying to get Miss March out of Damascus and back to safety, but she’s reluctant to go. I don’t need you swanning in here with tales out of Arabian Nights to make it more difficult.”

  Gabriel shrugged, and I might have pointed out that in his Eastern robes with his kohl-rimmed eyes and extremely snug trousers, Sebastian was doing quite enough to showcase the romance of the place. I primmed my mouth.

  “Pay no attention to him, Mr. Starke. He’s just cranky because I want to go with him to find the Ashkelon gold.”

  Starke’s expressive brows shot skyward. “That’s what this is about? The Ashkelon hoard? Is that why you’ve been looking for me?” he demanded.

  Sebastian folded his arms over the breadth of his chest. Anger simmered in the air between them. “Yes. Of course, the main reason I came was to make sure you were still alive, but since it didn’t seem to bother you to play dead without explanation, we’ll assume the friendship is of secondary importance and focus on the treasure, shall we?”

  His words were coldly clipped, and Gabriel answered him softly. “It bothered me, Slightly. More than you’ll ever know.”

  I looked from one to the other. “Slightly?”

  “Don’t ask,” Sebastian ordered. He waited, and Gabriel took a breath, steeling himself it seemed. He let it out slowly, and with it came the story.

  “I regretted it, Sebastian. I regretted every decision I made, from the moment I let Evie think I went down with that bloody ship. Everything I did after that was a lie. Except the friendships. Those were real,” he said, giving each word slow purpose. “The lot of you were the only family I had left besides the Bedouin. And when I saw how badly I was letting them down with that ridiculous charade, I realised I was letting the rest of you down, as well.”

  “What charade?” I asked.

  He turned to me. Every word seemed forced through his lips, as though he were heaving each one like a stone out of his heart and offering it as penance. “I presume you have heard of Colonel Lawrence’s exploits in Arabia?”

  “Of course! The newsreels were absolutely spectacular,” I enthused. But his eyes were shadowed, and his mouth was set in a grim line.

  “Yes, well, it was nothing like that glamorous in real life. Lawrence was tasked with uniting the southern Arab tribes and using them to harass the Turks wherever he could, mostly in the area of Aqaba and the Hejaz Railway. The rest of us were busy in the north, wreaking our own havoc on the Turkish border.”

  I blinked. “But Lawrence was a legend! How is it you were doing the same in the north and no one knew?”

  He smiled thinly. “Politics is a nasty business, child. There are competing offices and bureaus and ministries that don’t much care to talk to one another. And if two of them should happen to hit upon the same strategy at the same time, neither one will give ground to the other lest they get the glory. The Arab Bureau in Cairo directed Lawrence’s efforts, largely at his instigation. After he and I had a rather instructive meeting in Jerusalem,” he added.

  I gaped. “You mean Lawrence stole the idea of using an Englishman to unite the Arab troops to fight the Turks?”

  He shrugged. “Lawrence and I disagreed on the fundamentals. He felt the tribes would come to support Prince Feisal as their natural leader. I thought it was madness. The Bedouin of the Badiyat ash-Sham would never rally behind a Howeitat from Mecca like Feisal. The Bedouin are very like our Scots, all rival clans and blood feuds. Expecting them to rally to a single flag simply because they happen to speak Arabic and worship the same god is as preposterous as expecting a Campbell and a MacGregor to sit down to supper. It cannot be done.” He paused, a faraway look in his eyes, and Sebastian poured himself another drink and I thought of the similar conversation I ha
d had with Armand on the very subject.

  “But,” Starke went on, “there was something to be said for rallying the northern Bedouin around a figurehead of their own choosing, a legend from their own folklore. There was an Englishman, a rather bright lad with a head stuffed full of legends and poetry, who remembered that the Bedouin of the north had a fellow rather like Robin Hood in their mythology. A fellow called the Saqr, the falcon. And that was how we came to create our own legend,” he said, finishing the last word with a bitter twist of his lips.

  I turned to Sebastian. “The legend of the Saqr—you were the one who knew of it.”

  He gave a mirthless laugh. “I have a gift for useless information. Languages, history and folklore. Those were the talents I was recruited for, among others.”

  “Recruited?” I looked from one to the other. “By whom?”

  They exchanged glances and Sebastian gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  Starke spoke again, smoothly this time. “The exact organisation is unimportant. But Sebastian and I were amongst a very select group of young operatives deemed unsuitable for more conventional activities.”

  “Unsuitable? But why?”

  Starke’s mouth quirked into a grim smile. “I made the mistake of eloping just before I was due to begin training. That spontaneity made me suspect in the eyes of our superiors. They questioned my judgment and my ability to keep my wife safe from the complications of our work. As it happened, they were right.”

  “And that’s why you pretended to go down with the Lusitania,” I said, piecing it all together. “You were trying to keep her out of harm’s way.”

  “Oh, I was crueler than that,” he said, his eyes gleaming with guilty malice. “I told her I was going to divorce her. I broke her heart before I left her just to make certain she wouldn’t have a reason to regret me when I was gone.”

  My eyes stung with sudden tears. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Starke gaped at me. “How can you think so?”