Chapter Five
Constantinople, Turkey. The suq (bazaar), May 13,1811
A hot day outside. Inside the covered portions of the suq the temperature was considerably cooler. There were two groups of Europeans present. The first consisted of Lord Foye, Lieutenant Russell of the Royal Artillery, and two other soldiers from the same company. The second included Miss Godard, Sir Henry, and Sir Henry’s native servant Asif. The former were aware the latter were here, somewhere. The latter were unaware of the former.
Someone cursed angrily in Turkish, and Sabine turned to be sure the argument was not going to spread. Asif, the Syrian servant who attended to Godard, also turned. He, of course, being large and armed with a pair of pistols tucked into the sash around his waist, was the only one of them in a position to do anything if the altercation got out of hand.
After some shaking of mutual fists, the disagreement abated, and Asif returned to assisting Godard with trying on hats. Sabine did not return to the shopping effort because among the crowds in the suq, she saw the Marquess of Foye heading in their general direction. He was certainly easy enough to pick out.
Her pulse sped up as she watched him, wondering if he had seen them and whether it would be possible to avoid him. She wanted nothing to do with him. He continued toward them. He had seen them, though, because their eyes met across the crowd. Well, then. There was nothing for it now. She would have to endure another meeting with him, wondering when he would slyly, or perhaps even boldly. get around to her immoral past. What a shame Godard liked the man.
“Godard,” she said, placing a hand on her uncle’s arm. Her stomach clenched.
“What do you think of this one?” Godard said, holding up a hat that resembled a beret.
“It’s too large, isn’t it?” She leaned to her uncle and spoke in a low voice. “Lord Foye is here.” It occurred to her then that the marquess was alone. How odd that was. Perhaps he was lost, separated from whatever servants he’d brought with him.
“Lord Foye?” Godard swung around and the hat slipped off his head, fortunately caught by Asif at the last minute. The servant returned the hat to the vendor.
The marquess was almost upon them, quite plainly working his way to them. With a sense of dread, Sabine watched him move through the crowd. Most people simply got out of his way, but when that was not possible, he slipped with fluid grace between bodies or around knots of shoppers or merchants delivering goods, ignoring all the calls for his attention. A half-dozen children, many of them barefoot and in rags, ran after him, begging for coins.
She picked up an embroidered silk hat decorated with pearls and glass beads. The sort of hat that would be worn to a wedding. Godard would never buy such a bit of frippery, but that did not mean it wasn’t lovely. The spot directly between her shoulders tingled as she examined the needlework. She looked over her shoulder.
A few feet from where they stood, Foye had paused to take some coins from his pocket. He was passing them out to the children, who babbled happily at him in a combination of Turkish and Arabic. She pretended to be absorbed in her examination of the hat. And then, he was here. Standing not two feet from her. The children followed, begging more coins from him.
Done for the moment with the children pressing him for more money, he bowed, and she guessed would have offered his hand to her, but she held the hat in both hands. He deftly turned to her uncle. “Sir Henry,” he said. “How do you do, sir?”
“Fine, thank you. And yourself?” Godard extended a hand, and Foye hardly shook it, a gentle touch, for which she was very grateful. She already knew this trip into Constantinople would cost Godard dearly later in the day and into tomorrow. Godard knew, too, of course. His fortitude in dealing with his constant pain was only one of the many reasons she admired her uncle. They managed, the two of them. Even when they disagreed, even though Lord Crosshaven had destroyed Godard’s trust in her, they got on.
A fact for which she was eternally grateful. The outcome of their London trip could have been much worse than it had been.
Foye turned to her again. “Miss Godard,” he said. His blue coat made his eyes stand out even more than usual. They were the color of an early morning. Pale but not washed out.
She lifted her head but deliberately did not smile. He wore riding clothes, buckskin breeches that snugly covered his legs, a plain cravat, and a bronze and gold embroidered waistcoat with gold buttons. His knee-high polished boots looked soft as butter. He held a beaver hat in one hand. She wondered why he left his hair so long. He’d have some luck controlling his curls if he kept it short.
Sabine bent a knee. “My lord.”
Beside them Godard continued trying on hats. “No, Godard,” she said when he put on one of a violent red. She tried to ignore Lord Foye, but it wasn’t easy. Her back tingled with awareness of him.
“Asif?” Godard said, with a look at the servant. Asif shook his head and squinted as if the color hurt his eyes. “Hmm,” he said with a puff of air from between his pursed lips. “What do you think, my lord?”
Foye looked Godard up and down, then put a hand to his chin while he studied the hat. Slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t believe, sir, that red is quite your color.” He continued his perusal. “Might I suggest a richer color? Forest green or perhaps bronze or midnight blue?”
“A man milliner, are you?” Godard returned the hat to the merchant.
The marquess waited in silence, as if he knew Sabine would not be able to resist looking at him much longer, and, drat the man, he was right.
“I’ve found you without even trying,” he said when she broke down and looked. While she wondered what that meant he scrubbed a hand through his hair. A curl flopped over his forehead, then several more.
“You were looking for us?” she asked.
There. That was very blandly said. She did not at all sound as if she thought that remarkable. Godard continued his examination of hats, and she affected fascination with the process.
“Well, no.” With an oddly guilty glance behind him, he said, “I came here with others who are.”
That got Godard’s attention. He stopped with a hat halfway to his head. “Looking for us?” Godard said. “Pray tell, who? Mr. Lucey, perhaps? I should be pleased to see him.”
Sabine kept her expression as neutral as possible, but she knew her uncle’s too careful tone of voice. She knew precisely what he wondered.
Foye’s attention moved from Godard to Sabine. The moment his blue eyes met hers, her stomach filled with butterflies, and there was no reason for it. There was no reason at all that she should have any reaction to the marquess.
“Lieutenant Russell, for one.” He said the name as if it ought to be significant to her. It was not, but the damage had been done. At her blank expression, Foye added, “of the Royal Artillery?”
She barely remembered the name. She made a point of not remembering any of the gentlemen and officers she met and so could summon no face to go with the name. Not that it mattered She was acutely aware of Godard scowling at her. In London, he had sworn he believed her innocent, but he hadn’t. Not really. Not truly. She put down the silk hat. The air smelled of spices, saffron, cinnamon, pepper, sandalwood, and a dozen other aromas. If they were to walk to the spice merchants, the smell would overpower even the omnipresent thick and bitter scent of the coffee the merchants brewed for themselves.
“Red,” Foye replied. “He has red hair. A very nice red, to be sure,” he hurried to add.
Sabine bit back the urge to tell the marquess she didn’t care what color Lieutenant Russell’s hair was. She wanted nothing to do with him or any officer.
Godard waved aside the merchant’s offering of another hat. He wheeled about, his cane gripped hard with both hands, leaning a shoulder against Asif’s upper arm when he faced Lord Foye and craned his neck to see him. “What the devil does that young puppy want with Sabine?”
“I am unable to answer on his behalf,” Foye replied. He inspected the lay of his waistcoat. “Though I should think that obvious, given that he is a handsome young man and your niece a pretty young girl.”
The merchant, fearful of losing his customer, selected another hat from among his wares, speaking in rapid Turkish that, thankfully, required Sabine’s concentration. His hats were the most excellent hats in all the world The workmanship was exquisite, each hat so lovingly made that even an infidel should wear one.
She happily turned her back to the marquess while she told the merchant in no uncertain terms that she did not want her uncle wearing an inferior hat. Her stomach was sour; a very pleasant day ruined. She wished the marquess had never seen them.
At the end of her discussion with the merchant, Godard ended up with another hat on his head this time a dark blue felt embroidered with gold and silver thread. She rolled her eyes and made a gesture that was neither approving or disapproving. She did enjoy bargaining. In English, she said, “You look very handsome in that hat, Godard.” For the merchant’s benefit she gave the hat a scathing glance and shook her head.
Sir Henry removed one hand from his walking stick. “Asif,” he said, “what do you think?”
The servant kept his hand on the hilt of one of his pistols and bowed. In Turkish, he said, “It seems ill fitting to me,” a sentiment he punctuated with a dismissive gesture and an expression of distaste. Sabine agreed in the same language.
The merchant launched into a rebuttal.
“It is the finest one yet, Godard,” she said in English.
“Very well, then,” Godard said. “This one.”
And now, they must find a way to purchase that very fine hat for less man the money she had budgeted for the expense. She gestured to Asif, who bowed and bent to pick up a parcel that had been sitting at his feet.
The vendor began extolling the virtues of this hat in particular and why it was worth ten times what Sabine intended to pay. The marquess stayed at her side, listening intently. She wished him to perdition. At the end of the negotiations, she handed over two coins, and the shopkeeper wrapped the hat in paper and handed it to Asif.
Sir Henry craned his neck to look up at Foye, pushing up on his walking stick to gain another inch or two of height. Godard would be in bed the moment they returned to Buyukdere. Tomorrow, he would stay in, barely able to walk. His condition meant they traveled slowly with more days spent recovering than traveling. Perhaps they were slow, but so far they had seen a great deal more of the world than many able-bodied men. “We did not expect to see you in Constantinople, my lord. If we’d known, you might have traveled with us.”
“My visit was wholly unplanned, Sir Henry. I rode in with some officers who were coming to the bazaar this morning.” One side of his mouth pulled down. “As I said already, I suppose. At any rate, I’d not been to the suq yet and thought I should not miss the opportunity.”
Godard scowled terribly, and Sabine knew that if Foye had been a different sort of man, he would have quailed under that disapproving eye. He wasn’t and so did not. Whatever the marquess thought of her, he was beyond being intimidated by her uncle. But then he was a grown man. Mature in his years and experience of life. And of a social position few men matched and even fewer exceeded.
“Have you been here long? At the suq, I mean,” Foye said, as if he’d not noticed Godard’s displeasure at the mention of Lieutenant Russell.
Sabine said nothing. It would do no good to deny an interest in the lieutenant now. Godard, she was certain, was convinced otherwise. Why else would a soldier come haring all the way to Constantinople, if not because of some nefarious plot against her virtue? No matter how often he denied it, Crosshaven and the disastrous aftermath had instilled a bone-deep distrust of her in her uncle. And of every handsome man to show an interest in her. She was blameless, yet every day since the gossip had begun, she lived with the consequences.
She took her watch from a pocket of her frock. “It’s nearly two, Godard,” she said, fiercely glad to have a reason to put an end to this agonizing encounter. She pressed her fingers over the watch and felt the satisfying click as the metal cover closed over the face. “We have just time to find the rag makers, if you feel up to it.”
“That way.” Foye pointed behind him. “I passed them on my way here.”
“Thank you,” she said. She took care to keep any hint of thankfulness from her expression or the words.
Foye fell into step next to her. Godard was on her other side, clinging to Asif’s arm. His cane thudded on the ground. Unfortunately, Godard did not think the marquess posed a danger to her, or he would even now be attempting to chase him away.
Godard said, “My niece and I have been discussing our Roman history, my lord.” The curve of her uncle’s spine meant he had to turn his entire upper body in order to look at Foye.
“Have you?” the marquess said.
“Sabine is partial to the writings of Marcus Aurelius.” He lifted a hand from his cane, and Asif stepped forward. in position to assist if it were needed. It wasn’t. “But then,” he said in his gruff way, “she is a sentimental female.”
“You find the Stoics sentimental?” Foye asked her.
She leaned toward Godard because she did not like her awareness of the marquess. Perhaps the subject would distract Godard from the thought of Lieutenant Russell searching the suq for her. “Yes, my lord, I do.”
Godard cackled. “She is not a lover of Latin. If Aurelius had written in Latin instead of Greek, I’d have had a devil of a time convincing her to read him.”
“Really, Godard,” she said. “I enjoy the Romans as much as anyone.” She glanced at Foye. He was watching Godard, and Sabine took the opportunity to study his face. She did not have to like or trust him to find his face interesting. Perhaps when they were home, she would attempt to draw him from memory. All the lines and angles that did not meet in harmony, the mouth that, when he smiled, transformed him utterly. “Plato’s dialogues was my first great triumph, my lord.” In London, she had learned that gentlemen found her education both peculiar and off-putting. She smiled and wondered at her not thinking of this sooner. “When Godard agreed that I had mastered that—”
“She was sixteen, my lord,” Godard said with a look at Foye that made her wonder at the slyness of it. “Sixteen!”
“I never said I was an excellent pupil, Godard.” Sabine replied evenly but with a vicious and satisfying sense of irony. “Merely a proud one. I thought I needed no further improvement once I had Plato dissected.” She looked at Lord Foye. “I ask you, my lord, what could the Romans be after that but anticlimactic?”
They proceeded slowly along a passageway lined with merchants sitting cross-legged amid their wares. The noise was louder here, the scent of spices fainter, the smell of coffee and dirt stronger. More children ran after them, calling out, “Pretty lady! Beautiful lady!” Sabine passed out a few coins—she hadn’t many to spare—and in Turkish shooed the rest away. Above them, in a canopy spread over a vendor and his merchandise, a monkey on a leash chattered loudly.
“I suppose,” Foye said, leaning in so that she could hear him, “that I would say to you, what of Livy or Pompey or Cicero, or any of the Caesars?”
“I may grant you Cicero,” she said. She didn’t care what he thought of her. She only wished him gone. Without the children running after them, the noise was considerably lessened.
“Thank you,” Foye said.
“Which Caesar is your favorite?” Godard asked. “Is there one who captured your imagination as a young boy?”
“Don’t say Julius,” Sabine said, since she suspected that Julius Caesar would be exactly who he would name. “It’s too simple.” If Plato did not drive him away, perhaps the Romans would.
“Not Julius, eh?” Lord Foye scratched a cheek.
She smiled and didn’t care at all that he would take it for triumph. “Your reply may tell us something of your character, don’t you agree, Godard? Your favorite Caesar besides him. Or Marc Anthony. Let us exclude him as well.”
“Am I allowed Caligula?” Foye’s smile transformed him from plain to arresting. Her stomach dropped a mile. He wasn’t handsome. Not in the least, so why, then, did she find him so compelling? How aggravating that it should be so.
“That is acceptable,” she said.
“Caligula,” Godard said. “An excellent choice, my lord.”
“Thank you, Sir Henry.” Foye’s attention returned to her, and she felt that same soaring sensation in her stomach. “And your favorite. Miss Godard?”
Before she could answer, someone called out, “My lord! Is that you, Lord Foye?”
They stopped and all four of them, Asif included, turned to see a soldier running toward them. Foye remained beside her.
“Lieutenant Russell,” she said with a sinking heart. The soldier was, indeed, a handsome man. “I recognize him now.”
“Do you?” Foye said.
How appalling, she thought. With Lieutenant Russell bulling his way toward them, she was actually glad that Foye was here.
“His hair is red,” she said with a glance in the marquess’s direction. “I thought you were making that up.”
He looked down at her, eyebrows arched. “You really don’t recall him, do you?”
She shook her head and wondered what it was about Foye that made her stomach take flight.