Chapter Nine
About four o’clock in the morning. Lord Foye’s accommodations in Buyukdere. Specifically, Foye’s bedchamber. Foye was wide awake.
His bedroom was pitch dark and silent. Yet he could not sleep. Foye lay in bed twitchy with the urge to physically exhaust himself. Ever since he’d kissed Sabine Godard, he’d been on edge and uneasy in himself. He’d had no business allowing that to happen. None. But it had, and he wasn’t precisely sorry.
He knew he’d never get back to sleep. He called for his servant Barton, who acted as his valet, butler, footman, and general factotum, and after dressing ate a quick breakfast and gulped down coffee.
He headed for the center of Buyukdere. In addition to his unsettled state as regarded Miss Godard, his sleep bad been disturbed these past nights by dreams of her that were by turn too explicit for his comfort or else involved him saving her from some deadly peril, after which she would melt in his arms and confess her undying love and gratitude. Spiritually and physically.
Last night, he’d had both sorts of dreams. There was as well the fact that he was not the only man to have noticed Nazim Pasha’s attentions to her and interpreted them as sexual in nature. When the subject had been broached—he didn’t even recall who had first brought it up—the consensus had been one of concern for her safety. Miss Godard was universally liked. Nevertheless, the pasha’s admiration had been duly noted. There had been talk. Nothing to her detriment so far. She was too far from being a flirt for anyone to entertain the notion of her having, somehow, encouraged the pasha’s interest.
Foye continued walking, his hands clenched behind his back and his head down as he increased his stride. A long, hard walk, he hoped, would clear his mind. His vague intention was to see the sun rise and then, whenever it happened that he discharged the nervous energy that filled him, to return home and plan the remainder of his day. He wondered if he ought to leave Constantinople and avoid entirely his increasing infatuation with Sabine Godard. It would not do to entangle himself and possibly embroil her in scandal.
When he arrived in the village square with the sky still more dark than light, he knew if he returned home, he’d only need to walk out again. He headed for the strand. Not only would a walk along the Bosporus be pleasant, it would also allow him to extend his exercise in whatever direction he so decided: south in the general direction of Constantinople or in the opposite direction toward the Black Sea.
But for Lieutenant Russell’s silent suspicion, the incident between him and Miss Godard at Lucey’s ball had gone unnoticed. Aside from some hilarity over the toppling soldiers, and even one or two amusing non-actions, no one so much as mentioned that Foye and Miss Godard had been caught up in the mayhem.
But he could not forget the pure terror in her eyes when he’d caught her and held her to prevent her railing. She might have been injured, for God’s sake, if he’d done nothing. Ten steps slower or faster and they’d have avoided the entire debacle. He’d never have taken her anywhere alone nor lost his head. Nor discovered that Sabine Godard kissed like an angel. Nor would he have seen her expression when she claimed to find his face arresting. As if she found that a fine thing for his face to be. And he believed her.
It was also the case, he’d learned, that more than a few residents of Buyukdere had thought Sir Henry had boasted of his friendship with the pasha. The man’s arrival at the gathering, no more the personal conversational exchange between the two, put that lie to rest. There was yet more talk about Sir Henry when, the day after the ball, Nazim Pasha had called on them privately and made it known he had renewed his invitation for them to visit him in Kilis. He had also presented both of them with outrageously lavish gifts.
To Sir Henry, the pasha had given a kaftan embroidered with gold and silver thread, seed pearls, and diamonds, too. To Miss Godard he had given ivory hair combs topped with gold and inlaid with matching rubies, three of them the size of Foye’s fingernail, which detail he knew because Sir Henry had proudly displayed both their gifts to anyone who called. Yes, he had called. At one of the rare times when he knew she would not be at home. His express purpose had been to tell Sir Henry of Crosshaven’s infamy, to make him understand that she was innocent in the matter. It was the least he could do for her, and he had done so. That obligation was now discharged in full. He learned a great deal more, too, about the Godards and the pasha.
Her gift was not just the hair combs, extravagant all by themselves, but also a matching bracelet and brooch. From anyone else, such a gift was worse than inappropriate. From the pasha? Most excused the extravagance. The pasha was rich. He’d made other such gifts to various members of the various diplomats in Buyukdere and Pera. The rubies were of magnificent quality. Too personal, Foye felt. He’d taken one look at those gemstones, so exquisitely set, and known them for the sort of gift a man makes of a woman with whom he hoped to be intimate.
He reached the strand and set out in a southerly direction, toward Constantinople, though he did not think he would walk quite as far as that since he would have to walk the twelve miles back, too. Buyukdere Castle was a possible destination. Some six miles distant, it was built at the edge of the Bosporus with a sister fortress on the other side of the waterway. The two castles had been constructed for the sole purpose of choking off access to the Black Sea. There began and ended everything he knew about the castle.
He considered returning home, but he was too full of nervous energy, with too much on his mind. He would walk to the castle, he decided. Why not? No one expected him anywhere, and his valet, Barton, was used to his long and solitary excursions. He had a few paras in his pocket, a small denomination coin of the local currency; enough for a decent luncheon. He set out with the sun just barely over the horizon.
The trek took him less than two hours, heading south in the direction of Constantinople and staying more or less along the Bosporus. Another advantage to his size. With his longer stride, he covered more distance than a man of average height. This morning his body, as it did in general, relished being pushed. The walk itself was not difficult at all, but he moved as quickly as he could to put himself past a comfortable walk. He succeeded in putting Miss Godard out of his mind precisely twice.
The entrance to the castle was on the water’s edge. The structure was built on a hill overlooking the Bosporus and was in geometry a misshapen rectangle with three massive crenellated towers. In construction, the castle was very much like any number of English castles. The decorative stamp of the Byzantines clung to parts of the interior in the portions of carved marble edifice that must have at one time entirely covered the stones. A solitary column stood near a wall covered with the remnants of a typically Byzantine pattern carved in the marble facing.
There still remained some cannons, though many were rusted and in poor repair. No one would be firing across the Bosporus from here. He spent some time examining them and peering across the strait to what remained of the sister castle. A canny location, at once defensive and yet capable of preventing access to the sea or Constantinople. Since the barbican wall was in good repair, he decided to walk along the perimeter and enjoy the view of the water. He headed first toward the tower that overlooked the water.
Seabirds circled overhead, calling out for someone to provide them a ration of fish. Alas, he had none to give them. A native ship sailed slowly toward Constantinople. As he walked the ledge, he caught a glimpse of someone sitting near the first tower that was his destination. Some Turk, perhaps, mulling over his country’s history and contemplating what had been a glorious past. Foye was not one of those men who thought the Porte could protect its territorial reach much longer. Buyukdere Castle would not be in such a state of disrepair otherwise.
He continued walking, and before long it was plain that his Turkish contemplator was, in fact, a woman. And since no Turkish woman would be permitted here by herself, she must be European. Another few steps and he recognized the golden hair visible from beneath her hat.
Sabine Godard.