Stepping forward, the servant they’d been following began calling out a long string of words that William took to be an elaborate salutation of some sort. He then fell to his knees before the sultan’s feet and spoke in a low tone. The sultan said something that William once again did not understand.
As the servant rose and bowed back down again, William, Ryan, and Trenton all took their cue and swiftly performed a series of sweeping bows before the regent. They straightened and waited for the sultan to wave them forward, which he did without too much preamble, much to William’s relief.
“Please be seated,” he spoke in French, surprising William with a perfect accent as he gestured toward the other divans. He then reached for his glass and ordered the slave girl to fetch some more wine for his guests. Directing his attention toward the servant who was still present, he issued what William presumed to be a series of orders, to which the servant performed a low bow before backing out of the room on shuffling feet and vanishing altogether.
William took the glass of wine offered to him and leaned back against the cushions in a hopeless attempt to find a comfortable position. British fashion was clearly far too restrictive to allow for such a thing, so he eventually sat back up, discreetly eyeing his brother and Trenton before turning his full attention on the sultan.
“As you will no doubt understand,” the sultan began, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin upon them as he stared at each of his guests in turn, “I’ve been rather busy today with some political issues. It is unfortunate that such matters must come in the way of life’s greater pleasures, but such is the case. Thus, the reason for the delay—you will accept my apologies, of course.”
William hesitated only a moment before inclining his head and saying, “Naturally, Your Majesty.”
The sultan nodded his approval and lowered his hands to his lap. “Then let us proceed with business. I understand that there is a matter you wish to discuss with me. I assume it is of great importance and that you are not wasting my time?”
“We have come to seek your assistance,” Trenton told him as he took a sip of his wine. “There is a woman…”
The sultan chuckled and then plucked a grape from the fruit bowl on the table and popped it into his mouth. “There is always a woman. Is that not so?”
A jingling of tiny bells filled the air, and William instinctively turned to watch as a group of women enter, all dressed in flowing veils and translucent fabrics that left little to be imagined. His breath caught at the unexpected display, and his eyes widened as they all started singing and dancing, their bodies writhing like elegant serpents as they moved their h*ps and bellies most seductively. They really were a long way from England, William realized. Intent on ignoring the visual distraction, he turned his back on the lot of them. “This one is special,” he told the sultan pointedly, “for she is my wife, and she has been kidnapped. I wish to get her back.” He opened his mouth to add more, but the sultan cut him off.
“She is here in Constantinople?” he asked. William nodded. “You are certain of this?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” William replied, his stomach a tight knot of nerves.
He watched as the eased back against his divan. “And you wish for me to help you find her. What makes you think I won’t just toss you back out into the street? If you’ve traveled all of this way to find your wife, then she must be quite exquisite, indeed. Perhaps I should find her and install her in my harem.”
A growl of rage left William’s lips, and he instantly rose, intent on strangling the arrogant bastard with his own bare hands.
It was enough that he had Stanton to contend with; he didn’t need this as well. But he hadn’t made it more than half way out of his seat before a gleaming blade touched his abdomen, and he froze. He lifted his gaze, only to be met with a fearsome expression coming from a bald guard with a broad chest. Glancing sideways, he saw two other guards with their hands ready on the hilts of their yatagans. He didn’t stand a chance if he decided to take them on and chose instead to settle back down again.
Once more, the sultan chuckled. “As you can see, I am thoroughly protected.” He sipped his wine with an annoying slowness.
Ryan cleared his throat as if readying himself to speak. He took a cautious look at William and then turned away to face the sultan. “Your Majesty, coming here today was my suggestion. In fact, I believe you are acquainted with my wife and her late father.” William tried to gauge the sultan’s reaction, but he merely appeared bored if anything. The situation did not look promising at all. “Indeed, my wife speaks quite highly of you. Her name is Mary, and her father was John Croyden, a rather exceptional—”
“By all that is holy, why didn’t you just say so from the start,” the sultan exclaimed, tossing back his wine and waving for one of the servant girls to refill his glass. “John was a good friend, and as I believe you were about to say, an exceptional surgeon. His daughter was remarkable too, both smart and determined and at such a young age. I trust they are well?”
“Mary is quite well, but my father-in-law unfortunately died before I had the opportunity to make his acquaintance.”
A shadow flickered across the sultan’s face. “I am so sorry to hear it.”
“We were hoping that, in light of our relationship with Mary, that you would be kind enough to consider helping us find Lady Summersby, my brother’s wife.” Ryan gestured toward William with a bit of a sympathetic expression.
“Yes, yes of course,” the sultan waved his hand, dismissing Ryan’s words as if they were completely inconsequential. “But first things first, you must call me Mahmud, for we are friends now, yes?”
Trenton was the first to reply. “We are, indeed,” he said with a smile as he then began to indicate each of them in turn, “and we are Michael, Ryan, and William.” He gave William a look of warning.
“Now then…” Mahmud clapped his hands together, and the dancers stopped singing and dancing before quickly filing back out of the room, leaving only a couple of servant girls and guards behind. He leaned forward, and there was an intense gleam in his dark, almond-shaped eyes. “Tell me everything you can about your wife, William. The more I know, the easier it will be for my men to locate her. Tell me what she looks like.”
William quickly did, and as he spoke, he painted a verbal picture of Lucy that was so vivid he could practically see her standing there before him. He suddenly frowned, realizing that he’d inadvertently left out the most relevant detail. “She is the daughter of Lord and Lady Hampstead, our former ambassador to your country, and the man who has her is the very one who killed her parents.”
Mahmud finally looked well and truly shocked, for his mouth had dropped open and his hand had paused in midair on its way to the fruit bowl. He blinked, abandoned whatever piece of fruit he’d planned on sampling this time, and sank back against his plump cushions with a dark expression upon his face. “You tossed me a bone before when you mentioned John Croyden and his daughter, but I have just now realized how much meat there’s on it.
“Lord Hampstead was a guest in this country. I knew him well and considered him a friend. We met on many occasions, both publicly and privately. Following his death, my men searched for over a year for the culprits who did it, but they came up empty handed and…well, we eventually allowed the case to rest.” His eyes met William’s in a shockingly sincere expression. “Helping you find your wife and the man who killed her parents will be most satisfying.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Confined to a small, sparsely furnished room, Lucy stared out of one of the three small windows that lined the wall. They offered her no means of escape, for she would never be able to fit through any of them, and even if she did, she’d likely break a limb or quite possibly her neck in an attempt to jump, for she was quite high up. Even if the windows did not give her hope, they did serve to distract her from what had become of her life—a thin thread connecting her to the outside world.
There were people down there, each of them going about their business, completely oblivious to her existence as she stood there watching them go by. She’d noticed a few days ago that a family of six lived across the street, and she now followed their daily routines with keen interest—the father as he left the house in the mornings in order to go to work and the children when they came out to play in the afternoons.
A slow ache tugged at her heart as she wondered if she would ever have children of her own. She’d long since lost whatever hope she’d had of William coming to her rescue, though she hadn’t decided on the reason for him not showing up. Had he simply been unable to find her? Or was it because he didn’t care enough? She took a deep breath and expelled it again as she strained her neck to watch a group of women walk by, their heads covered by scarves and their faces concealed by veils.
It no longer mattered why he hadn’t come, just that he hadn’t. Thinking about him only made the pain so much worse, so she tried not to remember how safe and warm she’d felt in his arms—the way her heart had leapt and her stomach fluttered whenever he was near. She thought of his tender kisses, the touch of his hand, and she shook away the memory, knowing that she was only adding to her own torture if she did. And to what avail? She would never see him again.
Determined to think only of the present, she forced her mind back to her current situation and to Stanton. He had told her very little about what was in store for her, but he’d kept her alive. A deep, blinding rage trickled through her veins at the very thought of him. She’d had one chance at revenge during the last six weeks—one moment when he’d left her unguarded in the room of whatever inn it was that they’d been staying at for the night. Having finished his meal in her company, he’d stepped outside for only a few moments, but when he’d returned, she’d been ready for him. She’d smashed the carafe that had been forgotten on the table, grabbed the longest shard, and waited for him to come back.
Tears burned before spilling down her cheeks as she recalled her failure. She’d been so close, but he’d been swift to dodge her attack, sustaining only a minor cut to his arm while her fingers had taken the worst damage. She lowered her gaze to the palm of her hand and to the two bright lines that now crossed it. Blood had gushed from the wound, the pain of it overshadowed only for a moment by the beating that Stanton had delivered to her in a fit of fury. Lucy drew the now trembling hand to her face, intent on wiping away the tears, when she heard a key scrape against the lock in the door.
“Wallowing in self-pity again, I see,” Stanton remarked as he stepped inside the room, locked the door again, and popped the key inside his jacket pocket.
Lucy drew a deep breath as she turned to face him. She hated that he had seen her cry, and she hated herself for being too weak not to.
He stood before her now, studying her with that same charming smile of his that merely suggested that they might be old friends. She wanted nothing more than to rip it from his face and trample on it until it turned to dust.