The Devil She Knows (8 page)

Newport, Rhode Island, February 1887

V
iola Donovan fought to bring the spyglass back into focus. She refused to curse either the high winds that kept her inside, far away from the fast moving boats, or her own weakness which left her unable to hold the heavy bits of steel and glass for more than a few minutes.

William and Hal were outside, standing in the sun and probably chatting about the Navy's recent annexation of Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. William knew more about it than any of the East Coast-based Lindsays, thanks to his San Francisco home. Hal's Great Lakes empire was immense but he always had a keen eye for his Lindsay cousins' potential advantage.

She'd always worried how he'd treat his own son but she never fussed over his handling of the various male relations who sought their fortune under his auspices.

Marlowe and Spenser, her five-year-old twins, raced across the finely manicured lawn, their black hair blowing in the wind just like their Irish father's did. Fourteen-year-old Neil watched them warily, ever careful to keep himself between them and the sea, despite the stout brick wall hidden by the steep cliff edge.

Thirteen-year-old Brian, on the other hand, willingly chased his little brothers in yet another game of tag. He even pretended to stumble and fall over a non-existent bump, no doubt hidden under the sere grass by last night's bitter frost. Little Spenser laughed and jumped into the air to clap, while Marlowe raced to victory atop the garden wall.

Brian sat up quickly—and her heart eased. She should have known nothing physical would injure her fairy-blessed second son. Not for him was Neil's horrified frown when Spenser's coat came unbuttoned, bringing the attendant horror of possible bronchitis. No, Brian chuckled and teased and fastened his little brother up again, while Viola shuddered and prayed that her youngest might be spared to live another day.

She'd paid too high a price to have him. She'd even sworn to her frantic husband that they'd never have another child, lest they not be able to dismiss death from both her door and the babe's.

But she didn't have to think about that today. This afternoon was for sharing family joys. She was with her father again, able to talk about the Lindsay clan's passion for boats. She was warm and comfortable behind her cousin's observatory's thick glass panes, no matter what else they might think about. Like the upcoming finalization of Portia's divorce.

“There, d'you see the triple-masted yacht? That's Gould's latest.” The old commodore, still unbowed by his many decades, pointed out to the foaming seas where a sleek black funnel sprang into life above the white caps.

“Very pretty,” Viola approved, remembering old lessons from her hometown's shipyards. More of the boat revealed itself coyly, glimpses snatched between waves reaching for the sky. “She's very big—and very seaworthy.”

“Aye, Gould builds them well.”

“Them?” She set the spyglass down and tucked her shawl around her more closely. She'd somehow grown less tolerant of drafts since the twins' birth. If William caught her without a coat, he'd blister her ears—or worse, look terrified. But she hadn't had pneumonia yet this winter so there was nothing for him to worry about.

Heaven knows they both spent enough time fretting about Portia's refusal to come directly back to America, with its baying jackals called newspaper reporters. The trial's coverage had been hell for her, with its mixture of a few facts and much fiction. Every British and American newspaper had discussed her for months, painting her in terms which made Jezebel appear virtuous.

Her family had tried to silence them, or at least reduce the baying jackals to printing only what appeared in court. Nothing worked. They'd bought newspapers in America, blackmailed, bribed, called in favors from politicians and anyone else who might help. Viola suspected their most successful tactic was Hal's unacknowledged use of bricks thrown by gangs of young thugs.

Even so, the only apparent difference was a slight slowing in the torrent of purple vitriol.

“Gould and his sons collect yachts, as well as railroad cars.” The former steamboat captain bit off the mention of railroads, despite his daughter in law's family attachment to his land-based rivals.

Viola tucked her hand into his and steered the conversation into less troubled waters. “Do they need so many?”

“I doubt it.” He hugged her, putting himself between her and the cold air. “This one is a new design that Gould's testing for ocean cruising. Rumor says his wife doesn't approve of how the cabins are decorated.”

“Does she plan to have them redone?”

“No, she wants an entirely new yacht—so she can have new paneling.” The old millionaire's tone was very dry.

“A new boat? Even for the Goulds, isn't that rather extravagant?” Viola couldn't imagine how much it would cost to satisfy the whim. “Has he given in?”

“No.”

“He's very thrifty,” she mused, remembering tales of how the railroad tycoon had raised his children to understand and manage their own money. “Perhaps we can help them both.”

“What do you have in mind?” Her father cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Portia has decided to see the world, once the divorce is final, rather than return directly to the States.” Where she'd face so many reporters, the poor darling.

“Harrumph.”

“What if she had a trustworthy ship and crew to match?”

The old naval officer stilled, as if he'd just heard drums beating the call to battle once again. Then he whipped his spyglass up and stared at Gould's yacht for a long time.

“Well?” Viola inquired, trying not to beg. This was the first time she'd ever asked her father's help in something more than planning a birthday party. “Do you think it would work? She wants to head east, through the Suez Canal, then on to Singapore, Hawaii, and California. I'm worried,” she finished in a hoarse whisper.

“That's a very good idea which will help our Portia.” Her father gripped her fingers reassuringly. “Once I buy that little lady, Hal and I will find crew for her. Don't worry, we'll keep our sweet Portia safe no matter where she goes.”

Viola leaned her head against her father's shoulder and let his certainty fill her as it never had before, not even when she'd been Marlowe and Spenser's age. She had to believe—and she had to pray, too—that Portia would come home safely.

Cairo, March 1887

H
orses' hooves and carriage wheels pummeled clouds of dust out of the street, like offerings to the ancient sun god floating overhead. Tall trees marched beside the curbs, providing color while great men's transient striped awnings supplied shade. White helmeted men rode strutting horses or hastened across the street.

Noontime had passed and the midday heat was rising inexorably to its brazen climax before Shepheard's Hotel, the highest example of Cairo lodging. Broad marble stairs led down to the street below a latticed, wrought iron awning. Tables crowded the terrace on either side behind finely etched railings.

A storyteller hooted at passersby, hoping for one last kiss from a coin. Dates, oranges, and slices of watermelon spun past on plates, their small vendors cheerfully willing to exchange them for silver.

It could almost—almost—have been Tucson on fiesta day.

Gareth Lowell would have spent hours among sights like these, wandering between the ancient river, the amusing tricks the young vendors played, and the tourists' slow saunter.

Portia Townsend Vanneck, who'd once been called Portia Countess St. Arles, dismounted from the barouche and turned to watch a particularly small, chocolate brown urchin. He was following a policeman, every step and gesture mocking all of the fellow's very self-important movements. He far outshone the snake charmer and trained monkey performing on the hotel's main stairs.

Best of all, unlike most of his brethren, all of his limbs were sound and muscles gleamed through his filthy rags.

Once, she too had dared the authorities like that, when she'd snuck out of her uncle's house with Gareth to gape at a burlesque show or leap for joy under forbidden fireworks.

Unbidden, her feet shifted into an answering dance, echoing a half-forgotten, insidious beat for a few steps. Some of the child's pure joy in successfully triumphing over his elders, even in so little as silently mocking one, slipped silently into her bones. Another day of sightseeing suddenly became a highlight.

She dug into her purse, the eye-catching movement which every guide cautioned visitors against. More than one person turned to look.

“There!” Cynthia Oates' voice rang with triumph. She caught up with Portia, an enormous parasol shading her petite figure. “She
is
smiling.”

Portia sniffed loudly at her dear friend's teasing, even while laughter still lurked in her toes. Few of her British or American friends—no, acquaintances—had continued to speak to her after the divorce. Cynthia's warmth and the ability to return it were an ongoing delight.

“Are you certain, my dear?” asked Sir Graham Oates, neatly unfurling his large frame from their small carriage. “Perhaps the bright sunshine has addled your brain and we should take you inside.”

“This was the third time today.” Cynthia tapped her husband on the chest in mock dudgeon.

Portia tossed a few coins at the little mimic. Somehow the tiny fortune vanished like wisps of smoke between his fingers.

She giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

He bowed to her as if he were a mighty wizard, all flourishes and twinkling eyes, then scampered away one step ahead of his jealous brethren.

Portia applauded him readily. She could celebrate a day if it brought sight of a success like his, which few did. Her own life was filled with silent, echoing spaces, albeit blessedly free of newspapermen's howling questions.

“There you see! I was perfectly correct!” Cynthia chortled.

Portia shook her head and paused on the hotel stairs to wait for her friends. Ever since they'd left London, Cynthia had made it a private crusade to make Portia relax, preferably by smiling. How could one be angry at a friend like that?

“Of course you were, my dear: all we needed to do was take Lady St. Arles far enough from London and she'd remember how to laugh,” Sir Graham agreed, smothering what sounded suspiciously like a guffaw.

Portia raised her eyebrow at him as if wielding a lorgnette. He countered by inclining his head before shooting her a wink. The three of them dissolved into soft laughter, the same gentle friendship that had kept them together on the long journey from London.

Sir Graham offered each lady an arm and they turned for Shepheard's Hotel, the ne plus ultra of Cairo lodging. Originally a harem, fifty years of catering to the very wealthy had adapted its stone bulk into a palace which promised comfort and privacy, rather than flaunting vulgar ostentation.

Cynthia leaned a little closer to her husband, their steps falling into harmony with the ease of long practice.

Bittersweet joy, too painful to be called envy, twisted Portia's mouth.

What would it be like to have someone who adored you so much it showed in something as simple as your walk?

But the past was better left behind, with the dreams' dust it contained.

The hotel's wide terrace spread before them, scattered with tables and palm trees. Red-jacketed waiters, topped by crisp red fezes and anchored by billowing white trousers, flowed between patrons like silent magicians, capable of any gift.

A man rose out of the shadows like a spitting cobra emerging from a basket.

Portia stopped, her feet immovably fixed to the stone paving and her blood spinning into Arctic realms.

“Mrs. Vanneck.” His pitch-black eyes ran over her and her friends, noting every wrinkle on a once immaculate sleeve, lock of hair sagging from the heat, and trickle of sweat slinking down a flushed face.

The so-called gentleman looked exactly the way he had the last time she'd seen him in that London courtroom, flaunting the gaudy cleanliness of a man who hired others to do his dirty work.

“St. Arles,” Portia acknowledged. The dust of ancient pharaohs would have tasted better than those words on her tongue.

What the devil was he doing here? The
London Times
had announced his marriage to That Woman months ago, within days of the divorce becoming final. He should be in England, breeding the heir who'd block his cousin from ruling St. Arles Castle.

A cup smashed down into a saucer only a few feet away, followed by hisses of surprise and the screech of chair legs being pushed rapidly backward. Clearly their reunion had acquired an audience.

Portia ignored them, something she'd learned far too well how to do, and instead scrutinized the man whose bed she'd once shared. In Arizona, she could have listened to her instincts and gone armed, however subtly.

Like him, she offered no gesture of greeting, neither handshake nor nod. If he collapsed before the whispering crowd on this busy Cairo street edge, she'd be the first to send the notice to The
Times
then drink a glass of champagne in private.

Something flickered behind his eyes and his diplomat's mask tightened over his knife-edged features. Could he be angry she hadn't immediately sought to placate him?

Surely not, given she was no longer married to him and therefore no longer owed him any duty.

Cynthia swept around her husband and linked arms with Portia to protectively flank her. Even her hat's feathers seemed to bristle like a bull terrier.

“Sir Graham, Lady Oates.” St. Arles gave them the same curt recognition he'd give street signs, as if they were necessary but not interesting.

Hot words protesting discourtesy to her friends surged forward but Portia forced them back, into the familiar cavern of useless remonstrances behind her gritted teeth. St. Arles loved only his country and his land; everyone and everything else was judged in terms of their usefulness.

“My lord.” Sir Graham's voice was even less friendly than the other man's, for all that he was an Army captain facing down an earl well-connected enough to crush him. “We were on our way inside when you caught us. Is there ought we can do for you before we depart?”

“I'll have a word with Mrs. Vanneck.” He'd have shown more consideration if he'd been ordering lunch at his club, the bastard. “She must postpone her trip to India.”

“Quite unnecessary, St. Arles,” Portia returned, determined not to argue with him again. She was free and he had no claim upon her whatsoever. “Our lawyers have already said everything necessary.”

“She has already booked passage with us for India and on to Australia,” Cynthia added.

“After which, I'll return to San Francisco and my family. Good day, sir.” Portia started to walk past the earl.

“You might want to hear the latest news from Mrs. Russell,” St. Arles suggested and polished a fingernail with his thumb.

The housekeeper at St. Arles Court? Why would he carry a message from her? He never troubled himself with the servants except to make their lives miserable.

“And Winfield? Or young Maisie and Jenkins, I believe he's called?” He shot a speculative glance at her then returned his attention to his always important manicure.

The butler, housemaid, and under-groom? A chill, which had nothing to do with the spring breeze, or the verandah's shade, crept into Portia's fingers.

She tried to kick her recalcitrant brain into action.

What would Gareth look for in this situation
?

St. Arles had just named the ringleaders of her supporters during the divorce. How much did he know or suspect?

Now that she was gone, they lacked a protector—unless That Woman had changed her stripes and become someone capable of considering others more than herself.

Portia sniffed privately, remembering maids weeping after being slapped by the over-bred, ill-mannered breeding machine.

No, she had to hear out the two-legged male rat. Her duty to her friends demanded nothing less.

“Yes, of course, I would.” She started to move away from Cynthia and Sir Graham.

“Surely you can't mean to take her very far,” Cynthia exclaimed. “We're promised to have tea together in a few minutes.”

Actually in a few hours. What was she thinking of?

“Why don't you join us and share all the latest gossip from home?” Cynthia burbled, in the style most men expected from a blond of her looks but her friends rarely encountered.

St. Arles frowned, his disgust almost tangible.

Portia's lips curled, despite the ice fighting for possession of her skin under the brazen desert sky. The Fifth Earl only talked to women if he hoped to bed them or tease a state secret from them.

“No, I'm afraid I cannot stay that long,” he refused curtly. “A few minutes should see us done.”

“In that case, you and I can walk in the Ezbekieh Gardens on the hotel's other side, ahead of Sir Graham and Lady Oates,” Portia said sweetly. She'd be safer roped and tied by Apaches than alone again with him. But everything Gareth had taught her about duty in the face of danger insisted she needed to learn what the brute wanted.

St. Arles opened his mouth to object then measured the intensity of their growing audience, spilling in waves across the hotel terrace. His gaze swung back to his former wife's rigid determination and her friends' wariness.

His jaw clenched. “I'd be delighted to escort you,” he gritted out.

“Thank you,” Portia returned with less enthusiasm and took care not to touch him. Sir Graham and Cynthia followed at a distance, close enough to see but not to hear.

They passed through the great hotel's shadowed dimness without speaking and into the great garden's verdant square surrounded by massive palaces and hotels. Closely cropped hedges and green grass echoed Paris's famous parks, while an ornate bandstand offered a place for the well-to-do to congregate. Only the ancient palm trees and the sweet scent of flowers for Egypt's famous perfumes evoked Oriental mysteries.

Gareth would have looked far more commanding striding across the grass, than any of the bronze statues of kings and emperors lurking behind shrubbery. Or the well-bred varmint beside her.

“How are they?” Portia asked, without glancing at her companion.

“Well enough—for now.”

Exactly as she'd suspected: another bout of the haggling which had wracked their marriage. She waited, determined to hear him out then walk away. This time, she had no reason to beg her father for money to advance St. Arles' ambitions.

“A steamer trunk is being delivered to your rooms at this moment. You will take it to Constantinople—”

“What?” That had to take the prize for greatest harebrained conversational topics.

“Where you will receive instructions on who and how to transfer it.”

She came to a complete halt and stared at him, her tailor-made suit snapping against her boots.

He didn't even pause but continued to stroll forward, armored as ever in arrogance—and the certainty he'd made the proper decision.

He'd tracked her down in Egypt so she could take a piece of luggage to Constantinople?

Fear, which she'd thought she'd forgotten, or at least escaped, bloomed in a rising tide through the hairs on the nape of her neck.

She shook herself fiercely. A quick glare warned Cynthia and Sir Graham to stay back before she caught up with her damnably confident ex-husband.

St. Arles planned to strand her in a very foreign city with an enormous oak box, which would be impossible to hide, and demand she wait until somebody happened along to take it off her hands? She'd carried gold into Apache country but it had been a small amount, hidden in a money belt, and taken on a scheduled stagecoach route.

Still, if she'd survived the Apacheria, she could manage this. Somehow.

She ignored the little voice which reminded her of Gareth Lowell's aid.

“Why Constantinople? Surely somebody else could take it to the capitol of the Ottoman Empire.” She deliberately kept her voice honey sweet and rational, suitable for a proper diplomat's wife. It was one of the few weapons which had been useful during her bitter marriage.

“It's a woman's piece of luggage, not a man's. The Turks won't pay any heed to it.” He paused to watch two little boys playing hide and seek behind a large hibiscus bush. His stern expression softened into something approaching charm.