The Orphan Pearl Page 2

  “Good thing you put a stop to that,” drawled John.

  Clive’s lips twitched. “So you are following the news.”

  “Congratulations,” John deadpanned. “You caught me red-handed.”

  The woods opened up on a wide lawn, the grass patchy and unshorn. The rambling manse at the center of the green, an eyesore that clumsily incorporated every major architectural trend to reach England over the past two hundred years, had once belonged to the Earl of Harewood.

  Harewood had gone broke, and sold it. John’s father had got rich, and bought it.

  Times do change.

  “We need you in London,” said Clive.

  “I agree.”

  Clive paused, his pale eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Excellent. I’ll see you there.”

  “Not until I know what you’re after.” Then, after a pause, “Not until I know what’s in it for me.”

  Clive smiled. “You mean it’s not enough to sit down at the table and watch the rest of us eat crow?”

  “Not by half.”

  “All right.” Clive linked his hands at the small of his back and advanced a few steps, apparently in deep thought. The grass rustled and crunched, tall enough for the blades to brush against the back of John’s gloved hands as they walked.

  The duke glanced over with a quick, surprising smile. “Luckily, that’s the answer I expected. I came prepared.”

  “Then come in,” said John. “State your case.”

  He kept only one wing of the old Harewood home open, and it was still more than he needed for personal use. The rest hibernated, windows shuttered and bolted, furniture shrouded in thick canvas. All of it very fine, much of it imported from abroad. Buy quality, his father used to say. It’s cheaper in the end.

  Doubtful, in John’s opinion. But it would sell well, when he finally put the place on the block. In the meanwhile, he lived in the only section of the house that hadn’t been renovated. His father had died before he could finish his favorite project, and his mother had never approved the expense.

  The furniture here was comfortable but mismatched. Wallpaper covered the bare walls, green vines on a white background, the colors crisper in the spots where Harewood’s paintings had once hung. Not grand accommodation, by any means, but it didn’t give him an itch. The rest of the house did.

  “Have a seat.” John gestured to the sofa. “Should I have a room made up?”

  “No.” Clive sat, stretching his long legs. “My wife is expecting me.”

  “Your wife?”

  “We wed last year.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “If you come to London,” Clive said, “I’ll introduce you.”

  John laughed. “It’s not going to be that easy.”

  “Then let me explain my dilemma. We have a problem that we can’t solve through official channels.” Clive leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and knitted his fingers loosely together—totally at ease, casually elegant. If he felt any lingering embarrassment about their past history, it didn’t show.

  But Clive had always been cool, hard to read.

  Of course, people had been known to say the same about John himself. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Go on.”

  “You must know that the great powers have gathered in London. We’re preparing a treaty that we can send to Mehmet Ali. A unified show of force.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you guess which, among our European allies, has caused the most trouble?”

  John cocked an eyebrow. “Just one?”

  “We’re close to an agreement,” Clive said. “Damned close. Russia, Austria, and Prussia are ready to sign.”

  John whistled, low and faint. “France?”

  Clive nodded. “They make unreasonable demands. When we compromise, they delay. The plenipotentiary they’ve sent, Guizot, is always happy to engage—because diplomacy wastes time. I want you to find out what’s holding them back.”

  “I can tell you that right now,” said John. “France already boasts a substantial Mediterranean coastline, but they’ve spent the last decade consolidating their hold on Algeria. If they forge an alliance with an independent Egypt, France will have effectively turned the entire Mediterranean Sea into a private pond.”

  “But only if Mehmet Ali wins the day. Which he won’t.”

  “So the French are taking a gamble,” said John. “They have a great deal to gain, not much to lose.”

  “A gamble—yes. But they haven’t played their cards yet, and that means we still have time to bring them around to our way of thinking. If they’re holding an ace up their sleeve, we need to shake it loose.”

  “And you want me to hunt down this ‘ace’?”

  “There’s a post waiting for you if you succeed.” Clive shifted to a low, singsong tone. “Just think. One little job and you could have it all back. More. You could be on a ship, a consul on your way to a new diplomatic posting, before spring of next year.”

  The spike of longing John felt at those words shamed him utterly. He knew better than to trust Clive’s promises. He’d learned a hard lesson, and he’d learned it in a hard way. It should have stuck.

  “And if I don’t succeed?” John asked.

  “It’s an opportunity. Not a guarantee.” Clive shrugged. “What are you doing here in Yorkshire? Local geography? Ware, five years ago you were mapping the mountain passes of Afghanistan. Leave Short Sump for the amateurs and come back where you belong.”

  John looked out the window. Even without an army of gardeners, it was a pleasing tableau: crickets chirping in the summer grass, a clear blue sky, distant bells that clanged as livestock on surrounding farms migrated with the shade. Peaceful, idyllic, slow.

  No, he didn’t belong here. He used to think that he belonged at the Foreign Office, but he’d spent the past few years convincing himself that he’d been wrong.

  Had he been wrong?

  “The Ottoman Empire could collapse,” Clive urged. “You know the Russians would love to drive a wedge between Britain and France. Divide and conquer, hmm? The fewer allies we have, the less we’ll protest while they gobble up Ottoman territory. You used to care about this, Ware. Don’t you want in?”

  “Of course I want in,” snapped John.

  Clive smiled, sharp and satisfied.

  A maid wheeled in a cart piled high with tea and pastries, but Clive stood before John could offer him any refreshment. The duke snatched up a biscuit and jogged it in his palm as he walked backward toward the door, facing John. “It’s an open invitation, but don’t delay too long. I’ll see myself out.”

  John poured himself a cup of tea. In an effort to distract himself, he flipped through the morning mail. He had letters from all over the world—Rio de Janeiro and Trieste, Moscow and Marrakech. One, from Lord Wilsey in London, he opened immediately.

  John had met Wilsey seemingly by chance in a tavern in Switzerland. He’d been fresh out of Cambridge, on a Grand Tour, when a robust man of middle years sat down next to him and said, “Well, my boy. I’ve been looking for an opportunity to meet you for some time now.”

  “Pardon?” John had asked.

  “You’re John Ware? I’ve only had descriptions to go by until now.” Wilsey had held out his hand for a shake, eyes twinkling. “I’m an old friend of the family. Your mother let me know that you might be in the area, and wanted me to make sure you were well. I’ll write to her tomorrow, and she’ll be glad to learn you’re in good health and good spirits.”

  The hairs at the back of John’s neck had stiffened. In retrospect, he had no idea what had tipped him off. There hadn’t been anything suggestive in Wilsey’s manner. Quite the contrary. And while, over time, he’d found some points of resemblance—the dark, deep-set eyes, especially—it wasn’t enough to prove anything. Hardly enough to justify his suspicion.

  “And, while I’m happy to ease her worries with good news,” Wilsey had continued, “I plan to squander all the goodw
ill I’ve earned by offering you a place on a mountaineering expedition though the Alps. I’ve been planning this trip for months now, but one of the climbers in our group has fallen ill. He’s fled to balmier climes to recuperate and—well. You’ve come this far. It would be a shame to miss out on the glories of the high Alps.”

  John would have sworn that, up until that moment, the thought had never occurred to him. That neither of his parents had ever given him reason to wonder, nor seemed to tiptoe around some dark secret. But they were practical people, preferring action to reflection, looking forward to looking back.

  After an hour with Wilsey, he’d been certain. By the end of the night, he’d accepted Wilsey’s invitation. He’d come to the mountains planning to arrange a trek through the Alps, but that wasn’t why. He’d wanted to know Wilsey better. He’d wanted to find out how alike they really were.

  The answer? A very great deal.

  Today, Wilsey’s letter was brief. A perfunctory greeting followed by a stark request: Come to London as soon as you are able, he wrote. Be discreet.

  John folded the paper and took another sip of tea. So. No need to agonize or debate. For better or worse, his course was set.

  Chapter Three

  Cities wilted in the summer. While the countryside bloomed, vigorous and healthy, in London even the cobblestones sweated. The city’s winter patina softened into grime, and the air needed laundering.

  He’d arrived early that afternoon. Looked up Clive first thing and agreed to accompany him on a visit to Lord and Lady Sewell. He’d spend the evening out with Clive, establish the reason for his return, then slip quietly over to Wilsey’s townhouse in the morning while the rest of Mayfair slept.

  Spying for Clive would divert attention from the real purpose of his visit.

  “There are only two people you need to pay attention to tonight,” said Clive, as they strolled up Park Lane. Sunset smudged the western sky, while the perfume of sun-heated grass still hung heavy in the air. “The Duke of Hastings and his daughter, Lady Lily.”

  “Hastings I know.” While he held no official position in the government, Hastings made his presence known at every level, in every department. The man was a titan. Ruthless, clever, with near-boundless resources he could leverage to his own advantage. “But his daughter? I didn’t realize he had one.”

  “Understandable. She disappeared mysteriously almost ten years ago, and was generally assumed to have met a bad end.”

  “Disappeared how? What’s the mystery?”

  “She vanished out of a hotel room in Cairo.”

  John stuttered to a halt. “Good God. What was the Duke of Hastings’s daughter doing in Cairo?”

  “Sidestepping a bit of scandal. She was the sort of girl—well, she was lucky to have a rich and powerful family behind her.”

  “Wild?”

  “To put it mildly,” Clive agreed. “She’s just turned up—out of the blue—and can you guess where she’s been hiding all this time?”

  John tried to imagine it. He couldn’t. A well-bred girl, alone on the streets, unable to speak the common tongue? Cairo, like any city of that size, would have swallowed her whole. “The woman we’re about to meet, you mean? I’d wager she’s an actress, and she’s been ‘hiding’ in a band of traveling players.”

  Clive snorted. “If so, the resemblance is uncanny—and Hastings an unlikely candidate to orchestrate such a deception. Though he has been quick to put her to use. She’s out and about every day, telling stories about how weak the Sultan has become.”

  “So if not an actress, a willing puppet?”

  “And I need you to follow the string back to the puppet’s master.”

  “To what end?”

  “Hastings is a staunch supporter of the French,” replied Clive. “He’d abandon Turkey to Russia, if that’s what it took to preserve the alliance he cares about. If anyone is privy to French secrets, it would be him. Win the daughter’s trust, and she’ll tell you what the father knows.”

  “You want me to… befriend her? Court her?”

  “I won’t dictate your methods.”

  They reached the Sewell townhouse, a narrow building of white stone with five stories of bay windows facing Hyde Park. Clive lifted the knocker and a butler shepherded them upstairs.

  The elegant front salon fed into a second, almost identical room, which fed into a third—the residence was much deeper than it was wide. A single violinist played behind a screen halfway down, a gentle melody to confuse the quiet murmur of voices.

  John halted Clive in the landing before they crossed the threshold. “If you need someone who speaks Turkish or Persian or Arabic, I can help you. If you want to know about landing troops in Acre, or Mehmet Ali’s army, I can give you an opinion. Wheedling secrets out of women is your kind of work. Not mine.”

  “It used to be,” Clive acknowledged, unruffled. “Would you rather approach Hastings directly?”

  John snorted.

  “So talk to Lady Lily. Find out if her father has taken her into his confidence. Win her over, and we’ll have a Trojan horse in Hastings House.”

  John’s first thought, when he saw her, was: This is a joke. A very, very bad joke.

  This laughing creature with sunrise hair and sunset eyes was no Trojan horse. Arms bare, breasts plumping out of her bodice as though she’d never known shame. Nor hardship, or even discomfort. She was the human equivalent of a meringue, all air and sugar.

  “Find somebody else,” said John, through his teeth.

  Clive ignored him. “Let me introduce you.”

  John glared.

  “You’re already here, Ware. Humor me.”

  To give the woman credit, she seemed unmoved by Clive’s handsome face. She had a bright, birdlike way of focusing her attention. Curious but impersonal. She greeted Clive warmly, smoothly, and only faltered when she heard John’s name.

  Her breath caught. Her pupils dilated. And the pieces fell into place.

  What, realistically, did John have to offer that nobody else in the Foreign Office could duplicate? He had more firsthand knowledge than most, yes. He’d read widely, true. But his snide comment to Clive hid a deeper truth, one anyone who’d seen him fumble his way through society affairs would know: he had few social graces, and little experience with women.

  Clive hadn’t dragged him out of disgrace for his knowledge, let alone his nonexistent charm. He needed John because, ten years ago, John had been famous.

  His first brush with notoriety had followed the mountaineering expedition that Wilsey had invited him to join. One of the more experienced climbers had fallen and broken a leg. John and Wilsey had carried him through the wilderness, for two days, until they reached the nearest town.

  The rescue made the London papers, and for a while stories of John’s exploits had been popular. He’d even written a couple books. But his work for the Foreign Office took more and more of his time, demanded ever greater discretion, and he’d faded from public consciousness after a few years.

  But Lady Lily had vanished at the height of his fame.

  She extended her hand for his bow. “I believe I’ve read some of your books, Mr. Ware.”

  “You have?” Of course she had.

  “In the Footsteps of the Crusaders made me realize there was a world beyond England.” A wash of blood stained her cheeks pink. “Perhaps I shouldn’t admit that it needed explaining.”

  “I—” John glanced at Clive, who rocked back on his heels, trying not to look smug. “Thank you.”

  Lady Lily didn’t notice the exchange. She watched John with her great, amber eyes. Round, owlish maybe, sharp and startled and… rapt. “You really drove a mule train across the desert for a year?”

  John smiled tightly. “I did.”

  “It’s all right,” intruded Clive, an undertone of humor to his voice. “Go ahead and brag a little, Ware. You were preparing a paper for the Royal Geographical Society, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right.
A paper.” He’d been spying, of course. Drawing maps, carrying messages. But he had written a paper. “About irrigation.”

  “You mean those ingenious clay canals?” Lady Lily leaned forward and the bodice of her dress gaped enough to reveal the deep, shadowed crevice between her full breasts. She reached out as though she would touch him, but paused with her arm floating midair. He imagined a warm palm on his biceps, a light rake of her fingers down his forearm. She smelled like jasmine, sweet and cool. “I remember riding through some sugar fields—”

  “Darling,” interrupted their hostess, Lady Sewell, swishing up behind Lady Lily and clasping both of her shoulders. She gave Lady Lily a little shake, coupled with a chiding laugh. “Enough of these horrible stories! We know you’ve been through an ordeal, but you’re home now!”

  “You’re right, Lady Sewell.” Lady Lily’s arm fell. She straightened and cast a quick glance about the room before letting her gaze settle on Clive for the first time since he’d made the introduction. “I forgot myself.”

  “Was this in Egypt?” John pressed. “I’d like to hear more.”

  Lady Lily flashed a smile that stopped his heart. Openmouthed, unrestrained, the apples of her cheeks squeezing her eyes into a pair of warm golden slivers. “Are you a good listener?”

  “I believe so.”

  “How odd.” She tapped him with her fan—his forearm, where he’d imagined the scrape of her nails, but this touch established distance rather than bridging it—and slanted a quick, sly glance at Clive. “Odd things, I’m told, are highly suspicious.”

  And that was it. She slipped away, weaving through the guests and melting into another conversational group with practiced ease.

  John touched the spot on his arm where her fan had hit. “I think she passed your test.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Clive. “The opportunity was too good to pass up. She idolized you as a girl.”

  “This is in poor taste.”

  “But it will work.” Clive clapped him on the shoulder, scanning the room for his next target. “And that’s what matters.”

  §

  Lamplight streaked across her vision. Lily turned away from the sconces, but the light hadn’t changed. Her heartbeat had. Her humors, her nerves. At the edge of her vision, silk gowns vibrated with intense, saturated color.