And what a fascinating face he possessed. If she were to force herself to select Foye's best feature she would have to choose his eyes. They were lovely. Deep set, wide, and blue, with his lovely, thick, dark lashes. As for the rest of him? Quite unlovely. And unconscionably large. Not just in height but in sheer mass, and he was not in the least fat.
"Are you thinking of dragons?" he asked with a wry twist of his mouth.
"Oh dear." She felt her cheeks flush. "I have been caught out."
"In what transgression, Miss Godard?" His voice went low and inviting, and the sound made her shiver inside. My heavens, yes, he was dangerous. "Something amusing, I hope," he said in that tone of warm silk.
"Not very, I fear." She licked her lower lip. "I was thinking that Edward IV, the Black Prince, was said to have been six feet and three inches."
"I am taller than that by three inches." He held himself quite still, but his focus—and she was not mistaken in this—was on her mouth, and that made her anxious and something else as well that was not entirely unpleasant
"Is it inconvenient to be so tall?" The words were out before she could stop them. How trite, she said to herself. He must think her a fool.
"There are advantages," he said. The edges of his mouth tensed, and some of the warmth vanished from his eyes. She was sorry for that. Somehow, she had lost control of the conversation.
Sabine glanced away to hide the flush she knew was coloring her cheeks. "Forgive me, my lord," she said. "I have been rude. You must hear such questions far too often." With regret for the loss of even a hint of a smile from him, she clasped her hands on the table in front of her. "I am five feet and three inches tall. Provided I stand very straight when I am measured. A full twelve inches shorter than the Black Prince. And, my lord, because I know you are far too polite to ask, yes, it is often inconvenient not to be taller."
He didn't smile, but he did incline his head, and she was actually relieved to have succeeded even a little at smoothing over her blunder with him.
She pushed aside the teacup. "There. We are even, my lord. Now, tell me, after Constantinople, where will you travel? Have you an itinerary?"
"I've plans to visit Maraat Al-Numan, Palmyra. Damascus, of course." His near smile returned and without thinking, Sabine smiled back at him. He cocked his head to the side, a thoughtful look on his face. "But I am ever in pursuit of recommendations. You and your uncle have been in the country for a while. What should I see, Miss Godard?"
She pushed his teacup another inch closer to him. "We were in Egypt until recently. Before that, Greece and Crete. Macedonia because I was intent on seeing the home country of Alexander the Great."
"And in Minos did you find the labyrinth or the Minotaur?"
"No sign of either, I'm afraid," she said. "And Egypt was—not comfortable for us. We arrived shortly before Ibrahim Pasha's massacre of the Mameluks. After that event, the army was everywhere and the soldiers quite tense." Lord Foye was easy to talk to, and even though she knew it was unwise to speak so unguardedly, she did. He was not trying to flirt with her for one thing, his reference to Crosshaven notwithstanding, nor did he speak as if her gender required platitudes or meant she lacked a subtle mind.
"I'd heard something of that," Foye said. "You and your uncle were in Cairo at the time?"
She nodded. "Godard and I were glad to leave. Even here they whisper of another march through the desert There was some talk of Turkish reinforcements. I convinced Godard we would be more comfortable farther from the troubles in Egypt, so we came here to Constantinople."
His eyes stayed on her, and she could not for her life be sure of what she saw there. Curiosity? Admiration? She knew men often admired her looks. But his regard of her was not what she'd come to expect from men. There was so much more to see in Lord Foye's visage that she felt out of her depth where he was concerned, and that was a rare thing for her. Men did not often disconcert her.
"What have you seen that you would recommend?" he asked.
She considered whether to answer honestly or offer some polite and not very useful response. Before Crosshaven, she would not have hesitated to give her opinion. Until London, she hadn't known just how peculiar a woman she was, or what the consequences of that would be.
"Your honest opinion would be appreciated," he said.
Sabine was not entirely blind to her faults, and yet she did not want him to think her odd when he must already believe the worst of her morals. "Godard toured the mosque at Topkapi Palace, which I would heartily recommend to you."
Lord Foye remained leaning back on his chair. His face was remarkably fluid. There were fine lines around his eyes, but they added character rather than detracted. "What of the sultan's Seraglio?" He grinned at her, and her heart skipped a beat "I think I should like to visit the sultan's personal harem exceedingly well." He touched his teacup and gave her an innocent smile. "Perhaps my pleasant and successful journey will be to the Seraglio."
Sabine pulled his teacup back to her. "I see no portents of death or dismemberment in here. You will not visit the Seraglio, my lord."
"A very great disappointment, to be sure." He shook his head. "Or perhaps not" He shifted his long legs. "How long will you and your uncle stay in Constantinople?"
"I can't say," Sabine said. She glanced at her uncle. "Before much longer we'll head north to Kilis. Nazim Pasha has invited us to his palace there. Godard is quite keen to go."
"Kilis?" Lord Foye said. He turned to Godard and waited until he had her uncle's attention. "Are you certain that's wise, Sir Henry? To travel through the north of Syria? So many unpleasant stories of the Wahabi rebellion emanate from there."
Godard lifted a hand from his lap and let it fall back. "If we go, when we go, we shall be perfectly fine, my dear fellow. We will be the honored guests of Nazim Pasha. We could hardly be safer."
"Nazim Pasha." Foye grimaced. "An infamous man by all accounts."
"We shall be perfectly safe," Godard said.
That, as it turned out, was not the case.
Chapter Four
May 10, 1811
About four in the afternoon. Near the village square of Buyukdere on a day somewhat warmer than usual. Meaning it was more than eighty degrees Fahrenheit. Baking hot for the English who were not raised in such constant heat. At the shops nearby, a good many people sat under canopies or umbrellas eating sherbet sold at two paras the cup.
"I WAS VERY SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR BROTHER,"
Anthony Lucey said. "Mrs. Lucey and I were devastated by the news."
Foye nodded. He and Lucey were walking from Lucey's palace toward the village square at a leisurely pace. He'd rather take a brisker walk, but Lucey, though a trim and hale man, was years older than he. He let Lucey set the pace.
Their plan was to stay in the shade of the fruit trees that abounded here and to buy a cup of sherbet from a favorite vendor of Lucey's. "Your letter arrived the day before I left England. Your memories of him as a boy were a comfort tome."
"I am glad to know that"
"It was unexpected," Foye said. His father and Lucey had been friends since their Eton days and had maintained a correspondence throughout the years Lucey had been living in Turkey, up to the day his father died. After that sad occurrence, he and Foye had continued a warm and cordial exchange of letters. He'd corresponded with Foye's brother, too, though not quite as often. He'd found Lucey's letters among his brother's effects.
"High time you got married, don't you think? You're not going to let your disappointment put you off the idea, are you?" Lucey asked. The man was quite serious. Well. There wasn't anyone left to push him on the matter, was there?
"I do not expect to marry, sir." He suppressed a smile as they stood to one side to let a pair of Grecian ladies pass them by. Both women looked at Foye. One grabbed her companion's arm to hurry them past while the other gave him a glance that lingered at his groin.
"Not marry?" Lucey came to a full stop but hurried to catch up when Foye continued walking. "Not marry?"
"That is my decision, sir." He spoke firmly. Decisively. The problem was he knew it for a lie. He would marry. Eventually. To the woman of his choice. An older woman with some experience of life.
"Your father should have insisted you get married before he passed. I know he wanted to see you settled down with a wife and children. He told me so." Lucey kept his hands clasped behind his back. "More than once. What father doesn't wish to see his children happily married?"
They passed beneath an almond tree, and Foye reached up to snag a twig from a branch, "Oh, he tried, sir. But I didn't see the point in tying myself down then." He shrugged. He'd been too busy then with a string of mistresses, opera girls and ballet dancers. Besides, his brother had been married and at that time had a son. Who, alas, had not lived. At the time, he saw no reason to be married and a great many why he should not be.
But then he'd met Rosaline, and marriage had suddenly seemed the most desirable state in the world. For a time.
He had written to Lucey of his broken engagement, but perhaps in too few words; there was to be no wedding after all, he had said, and he was in the process of returning any gifts that had been sent in advance of the wedding. Nothing more.
"I would have been a wretched husband had I married."
"Nonsense," Lucey said.
He laughed to himself. "I appreciate your support of me." He dropped his twig, stripped bare of leaves now. "I suppose Miss Prescott thought so, too, though." He was pleased to discover that he could speak of Rosaline without feeling as if his heart were being crushed all over again. "I would have been a poor husband for her. Doubtless she is happier now than she would have been married to me."
"Tosh," Lucey said, releasing one hand and waving it in the air as if that proved Rosaline's error. "The girl was a fool to marry anyone but you, and that's a fact." He clapped Foye between his shoulder blades. "Didn't mean to stir up old wounds, my lord. I only meant to say that if you'd married when you were merely Lord Edward, as you ought to have done, you'd have been in a position to marry after your heart"
“I was very much in love with Miss Prescott," Foye said. He wondered, though, if that were true. Rosaline had not loved him. What would have happened if he'd married Rosaline and then discovered she did not love him? Well. She had saved him that humiliation, hadn't she? The prospect of unending years spent bound to any woman without love or even the smallest affection deadened him inside.
"You'll love again," Lucey said.
"No. I shan't." Foye held up a hand when Lucey started to speak. "Spare me the protestations. It's not a matter of meeting the right woman. Nor waiting for my broken heart to heal." Very true. When he married, his wife would be suitable and experienced enough to understand love would have no place in their marriage. "There's nothing more to be said on the matter."
Lucey sighed. 'The shop's just there." He pointed.
"I must warn you, my lord, that Mrs. Lucey has designs upon your single state."
Foye laughed despite himself. He had been dodging matchmakers for quite some time now. "What is her name?"
"Miss Anna Justice." Lucey looked at him, abashed. "A lovely girl, if that matters."
"No." They changed course for the direction Lucey indicated. A girl. Therein lay the problem.
"Who knows," Lucey said. "You might change your mind."
"Isn't that Sir Henry and Miss Godard sitting just outside?" Foye asked. He recognized them right off and was grateful for any excuse to speak of something else.
He shaded his eyes against the strong sun. "So it is."
"Interesting man, Sir Henry," Foye said, just to keep things on track.
"Ill-tempered, but brilliant Quite brilliant Mrs. Lucey finds him endearing. I don't know why. Fortunately, his niece hasn't inherited his disposition." Lucey gave him a sideways look. "Shall we join them, or would you rather not?"
"Join them, by all means."
Lucey chuckled. "A lovely young woman, Miss Godard."
"Yes." Foye saw no reason to deny the obvious. "But from that it does not follow that I will wish to marry her."
"Pity, really. You and Miss Godard would suit rather well."
Foye stopped walking. "She is too young, sir. I've no wish to marry a girl. Lovely or otherwise."
He threw up his hands. "I'll say no more!" He lifted his hat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Twenty-five years I've lived in this country and I still long for fog." He stuffed his handkerchief into a pocket They started walking again. "Whatever you think of her, she's a dear thing. She'll make someone a fine wife, I'll warrant you that"
Thank goodness word of her disgrace had not made it to this side of the world. He looked toward them again. He and Miss Godard had a great deal in common. "I did not have the impression she was looking to marry."