Chapter Twenty-Four
The suite at the Hotel de France resembled an art gallery. Art boards were stacked in front of the wardrobes. Watercolors dotted every raised surface – the tallboy, the console table, the dressing table – even across Sophia’s bed, lay canvases of finished paintings.
“Good grief! Did you buy every last blank board in Palermo?”
Sophia picked her way through the mess and collapsed on Laura’s bed, which – surprise, surprise – was free of clutter.
“Have you taken your shoes off?” asked a disembodied voice from behind a large canvas on an easel that blocked most of the afternoon sunlight. Sophia rose with a groan and unbuttoned her shoes before falling back onto the bed. Laura peered out.
“Selim Omar said he is already making arrangements for an exhibition in Turkey in six weeks, and I want to have at least thirty pieces ready.”
“In six weeks! When did all of this happen?”
“Well, I don’t just sit on the balcony and eat bonbons while you and Uncle Jonas look at old things all day. As it happened, I did a portrait of the Turkish men in the pavilion after you left, then the sheik arrived and was so impressed by it he offered me one hundred pounds for it then and there, and invited me to give him a private showing in his suite.”
“You refused him, of course.”
“I did no such thing. He bought my painting, and he’s wealthy enough to buy more – even to be my patron. And besides…” Laura emerged from behind her painting, wiping her hands on a cloth. “He’s handsome in a swarthy sort of way – Samuel might be marrying a lady, but I could marry a prince!”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
Laura lifted the completed canvas from the easel. Sophia flung an arm across her face to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun streaming in.
“As ridiculous as you having a secret lover?”
The question came across as an accusation. Sophia moved her arm and opened her eyes to find Laura standing over her, holding an envelope. Sophia took it and saw the seal was broken.
“You read it?”
Sophia’s censure was parried by one of Laura shrugs.
“A beautiful bouquet of flowers arrives unexpectedly. Naturally, I thought they were for me at first, but then I saw the envelope was addressed to you. So, of course I opened it.”
Sophia snatched the envelope and extracted the card:
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind
and therefore is wing’d cupid painted blind.”
When pressed, I’ll even quote Shakespeare for you.
—CJH
Sophia smiled broadly and held the note to her chest.
“I racked my brains for a good hour trying to work out the initials before I remembered Kit is short for Christopher,” Laura continued. “How long have you been having an affair with the captain of the Calliope?”
Sophia got up and went over to the bouquet of seasonal flowers on the console table and sniffed them appreciatively.
“Actually,” she said, pride filling her voice. “Kit Hardacre is paying me court.”
There was silence. Sophia turned back. Her cousin sat on the bed with her mouth open. As much as she loved Laura, there was selfishness in the girl that made her want to throttle her at times.
“Is it so difficult to believe?”
“Well, Captain Hardacre is a very handsome man but he’s…”
“Too handsome for me?”
“I was about to say adventurous.”
“For the timid little mouse of a cousin?”
“He’s also not Samuel.”
The accusation was clear.
“Samuel was never for me. You took great pains to tell me so. I may not be a wealthy heiress, but is it so unreasonable that a man might find me attractive?”
Laura huffed, furrowed a brow, and fired her next salvo. “Then you have no right to lecture me about proprieties with Sheik Selim Omar.”
“That is an entirely different matter.”
“Well, I don’t see how. If the man wants to flirt with me, then let him. What possible harm could it do? And besides, why is my precious virginity worth more than yours?”
“Laura!” Sophia was appalled.
“Oh, don’t get so missish, you know perfectly well what I mean.”
Sophia sighed. This was an argument she wasn’t going to win. It was better she bury the hatchet before Laura dug her heels in further. She went over to her cousin and hugged her.
“It’s only because I love you, Laura. You’re right, I can’t tell you what to do. I can only urge you strongly to exercise caution and recommend you do not meet alone with a man you do not know well or of whose intention you are uncertain – it doesn’t matter whether he’s a duke or a dustman. Or a prince.”
Laura leaned into Sophia’s embrace. Apparently, all was forgiven.
“I’m not going to the sheik’s apartments alone. Samuel has been invited along with me. Will you come with me, too?”
“When?”
“The day after tomorrow – that’s why I’m in such a fluster about finishing these paintings. Do you think Uncle Jonas can spare you?”
“I’m sure he can for a few hours.”
Laura looked up at her slyly. “You can tell Samuel about your lover and then you can see whether my brother is the jealous sort or not.”
Samuel poked his head into the room. “Who’s got a lover?”
Then he looked around at the artworks filling every surface, his question forgotten.
“Good God, Laura, the sheik wants to look at a few paintings, not take home a barge full.”
“Well, I don’t know which ones to take, Sam. Do you think he’ll like the streetscapes or the portraits?”
“How about these?” Sophia waved her arm over the paintings of the harbor, which lay on her bed.
“Do you think those are the best ones?”
“No!” she said with mock exasperation. “It’s because that’s my bed and I might actually want to sleep in it tonight.”
*
“So what do you make of it?”
Kit had just returned from a two day reconnoiter along the coast of Tunisia and stopped by Pantelleria to see Ahmed Sharrouf who claimed to have some news. He maintained a nonchalant pose by the mantel while Bentinck prowled the floor of his office.
“There’s some sort of gathering of pirates planned. Some of these men would sooner slit one another’s throats as not, so whatever it is would have to be important enough to put aside their own differences. Perhaps I should say someone important. I’m told Al-Min is preparing a feast fit for a sultan.”
Bentinck stopped pacing. “Do we know who?”
“I can guess.”
The pacing resumed. “Guessing isn’t good enough. I know you have good reason to dislike these people, but you can’t simply make unfounded allegations, and certainly not about the cousin of the Ottoman emperor.”
“Selim Omar is the only name that makes sense, William – since Napoleon is otherwise engaged.”
“Don’t be flippant. We still need the Ottomans, fickle allies though they are.”
“They’re no friends of ours while they allow their client states to freely plunder us for slaves.”
“Then give me something more, damn it! Something I can tell London. Proof. Not conjecture; not one of your tragic little stories.”
That Kit emerged into the sunshine less than satisfied was an understatement. Didn’t Bentinck understand the real danger here, or was he simply trying to keep a lid on a simmering pot? He fished out a cigar and struck a match on a stone wall.
Did he expect more? Even if there was more of the general and less of the politician in Bentinck, it would take months to get the Admiralty to agree to launch a barrage on Tunisia. He wasn’t sure they had that much time.
*
“Don’t drop it. I haven’t started cataloguing it yet.”
Kit turned the decorated jar over once more and placed it back on its shelf while Sophia took a small paintbrush, dipped it in a jar of water and wiped it across a piece of terracotta. She straightened the glasses on her nose. The water soaked in and faint engravings emerged from the piece. She sketched them swiftly before the image faded.
“If you’re going to hang around a musty old storeroom, you can make yourself useful by unpacking that crate there for me,” she said, barely looking up from her task. He obliged, examining the objects himself before setting them on the bench beside her.
“Where can I find out more about this Greek fire you mentioned?”
“Ah,” she said knowingly. She removed her glasses and set them down. “I wondered about your sudden interest in antiquities.”
“Not true!” he protested gamely, “but I do have a confession to make.”
“Hmmmm?”
“I only started to truly discover my passion when I met a smart, raven-haired beauty.” Kit punctuated his compliment with kisses, starting with her hair and moving on to her cheek, and then a tentative kiss to the corner of her mouth. He knew he was distracting her, but he didn’t care, although he did stop when she dabbed the end of his nose with her paintbrush.
“So what is it you want to know about Greek fire?”
“Elias and I have been wracking our brains trying to work out what it’s made of.”
“From the reading I’ve done, the concoction was a closely guarded secret. Kallinikos shared his knowledge with Byzantines and held Syrian invaders at bay for years with it, but no one seems to exactly know what it is made of.” Sophia shook her head. “A fire that burns on water… I find it hard to imagine such a thing. Perhaps it never existed – a myth like the city of Troy.”
“One might have said the same thing of Pompeii, but the proof of Greek fire is right here.” He picked up the brass figurehead, letting the hinged jaw drop open to prove his point.
Sophia closed the catalogue she had been working on to look at him.
“To quote Sir Richard Colt Hoare, the founding father of our science, ‘we speak from facts, not theory’. So let us summon up the facts.”
Kit made himself comfortable on top of a packing case. He imagined this was what being a student would be like. He’d never had any formal schooling, although he could thank a white eunuch, a man named Wauhope, for what education he did have. Wauhope had been a slave for thirty years when he first met the man, and he recalled Wauhope’s words: “An Englishman is always a gentleman, and a gentleman is always educated.”
These ruminations he kept private. He would tell Sophia everything about his past one day. Just not all at once. Now, though, the present was far more compelling.
Sophia left her seat and paced.
“As we all know, fire is a disaster on a ship, so it would have to be contained,” she said. “So it would need a container big enough to hold a usable amount.”
“A cauldron?” said Kit.
“Something contained – a boiler,” she answered. “Samuel has been working on steam boilers for engines. They’re powerful enough to drive locomotives and even ships. You’ll have to ask him the exact workings of it, but it has something to do with building up pressure and releasing it in a controlled manner.”
“Good idea. Propel the Greek fire under pressure, away from your own ship.”
“So what do you think it was made of?”
He shrugged, then gave it more serious thought. “Saltpeter, pitch, quicklime, sulphur, resin – some of those or all. As for the exact formulation, who knows?”
“You’re not thinking of experimenting with such a dangerous thing? You’ll burn the Calliope to the waterline.”
“We’ll practice on land first, I promise.”
She watched him, clearly not knowing whether he was serious or not. That suited him for the moment. The thought of the Calliope answering any enemy with a red-hot blast of fire appealed to him greatly. Any advantage over the galiots was worth pursuing.
He took in the figure of the woman in front of him with delicious curves that tempted him more than they should.
“Enough work for today,” he announced. “Join me tonight. I’ll teach you to dance the flamenco with me.”
The smile she offered him was one of relief.
“My savior!” she said, clutching her heart in mock drama before starting to put away her catalogue and Jonas’ research papers. “Laura has become completely unbearable. Our suite is filled with paintings for an exhibition she has been invited to give to the Ottoman envoy. She’s in a perfect panic, afraid she won’t complete them on time. I keep telling her ten paintings, fifteen are more than enough, but no, she’s set her heart on thirty.”
Kit was glad Sophia’s attention was elsewhere, it hid the sour expression he could feel cross his face. Was it naked prejudice that made him distrust Selim Omar? Perhaps it was something more. He was more than half-convinced Selim Omar was Kaddouri’s patron, but there was absolutely no evidence. But Kit had kept himself alive this last decade by learning to trust his instincts, and something told him there was more to the envoy’s invitations than diplomatic relations.
“When is her exhibition?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
Kit nodded although she wasn’t watching; an idea beginning to form.
“She will need a porter.”
Sophia looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. So, she was aware he was up to something.
“A porter?”
“You know, to take in her paintings and hang them for display.”
He had her full attention now and it was full of suspicion. Sophia folded her arms, expecting an answer. He hid a smile. She must have been a terror managing the Cappleman household.
“I know what a porter is. Why would you offer? You don’t even like Selim Omar,” she said.
He stood, put an arm around her, and fashioned his most innocent expression.
“But I do like you, and I know you’re fond of your cousin. Two of my men will deliver the paintings and pick them up the next day – unless, of course, the Sheik decides to buy them all.”
Sophia leaned back to look at him better, her brow furrowed. “How come I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
“You’re answering a question with a question again.”
Kit let out a short laugh.
“Let me put it this way, if Sheik Selim Omar is a true connoisseur of the arts then Laura will have nothing to worry about.”