# Desert Rake

Louise Allen

## About the Author

LOUISE ALLEN has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember, and finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past. Louise lives in Bedfordshire and works as a property manager, but spends as much time as possible with her husband at the cottage they are renovating on the north Norfolk coast, or travelling abroad. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations. Please visit Louise’s website – www.louiseallenregency.co.uk – for the latest news.

## Desert Rake. Louise Allen


www.millsandboon.co.uk

## CHAPTER ONE

The Hertfordshire countryside. January 1817

‘TURKEY? You want to go to Turkey? Have you taken leave of your senses? A titled lady, a widow, travelling alone? Outrageous! I absolutely forbid it.’ Sir Hubert Morvall fixed his stepmother with what he no doubt believed was a look of firm authority, suitable to the head of the household.

‘I fail to see how you can stop me, Hubert.’ Caroline, Lady Morvall, returned the glower with a smile of sweet reasonableness which she knew was bound to inflame him further. Try as she might to love her stepson, she had never found him anything but a humourless, self-absorbed bore, who seemed indecently pleased to have stepped into his father’s shoes and become fifth Baron Morvall.

At her side, her pregnant daughter-in-law produced a faint cluck of distress. ‘But you are not out of mourning yet, Caroline Mama,’ Clara whispered, her small hands fluttering above her swelling figure, ignoring Caroline’s tightened lips at the form of address.

Why a woman scarcely two years younger than herself insisted on calling her Mama she had no idea—unless it was Hubert’s influence. It made her feel ancient.

‘Tomorrow is the anniversary of dear Sir William’s death,’ Clara persisted, dropping her voice to a reverential whisper.

‘And the day I intend putting off my blacks and packing my bags,’ Caroline responded briskly. Her husband would have hated this mawkish sentimentality. She could think of no better way to honour the memory of darling William than by making the journey he had read and dreamed about and which he had planned in such minute detail for years; she could almost hear his whisper of approval in the stuffy room now.

The death of his first wife and then the restrictions put on travel by the long war with France had first postponed the journey. Later, his second marriage had made the Baron reluctant to expose his young wife to the rigours of such an expedition. Finally they had decided to go—just when he was struck down totally unexpectedly.

‘I have it all organised,’ Caroline added, pushing away the bad memories and cheerfully heaping fuel on the flames of Hubert’s wrath. He reminded her of the turkey cock at the Home Farm, gobbling with indignation, his incipient double chin quivering. ‘I have hired an experienced courier whom I shall meet in London on Tuesday. We sail on Saturday.’

For an awful moment Caroline feared Hubert was about to succumb to a heart stroke, like the one that had carried her husband off at the age of fifty-six, then the puce colour faded a little to crimson, and she breathed again. ‘You have been planning all this behind my back. To do such a thing at your age is outrageous!’

‘Hubert, I am twenty-six. You are twenty-seven. I fail to see what my age has to do with it. Or what you have to say in the matter, come to that. As you well know, I am legally and financially independent of you, and may do as I wish. I most certainly do not have to make you privy to my plans or my correspondence. I am simply informing you now for Clara’s convenience.’ She turned to the younger woman. ‘I am sorry not to have confided my plans before now, but I knew we would find ourselves having this discussion, and I could not bear weeks of Hubert’s opposition.’

Clara took her hand and whispered, ‘But Sir Hubert is head of the family now. We must obey him.’

Caroline, as so often, marvelled at Clara’s sheeplike obedience to Hubert’s pompous demands. It was hardly that she loved him—or at least if she did physical passion did not enter into it. Only the other day, when Caroline had sympathised with her morning sickness, she had confided that the discomforts of pregnancy were amply compensated for by an absence of what she referred to coyly as marital demands.

Caroline had enjoyed a short but extremely happy marriage to Hubert’s father. Sir William had proved to be a man of abundant physical energy, a huge appetite for life and an undoubted talent for making love to his young wife. Caroline was well aware that he had acquired his ability to please her from years of extramarital adventures, and could only be grateful for it. She had to conclude, looking from Hubert to Clara, that amatory skills, and the desire to acquire them, were not inherited traits.

She missed William’s enthusiastically noisy company greatly, but she also pined for his lovemaking. Twenty-six was far too young to learn to be celibate, she concluded with an inward sigh. Although how one went about solving that without finding oneself tied to another husband, one whom she was certain not to like so much as the first, was a puzzle.

‘What are you smiling about, Caroline?’ Hubert snapped. ‘This is not a laughing matter.’

‘Nor are your manners,’ she rejoined coolly. ‘I was just thinking how very unlike your dear papa you are, Hubert. Must I remind you again that I do not have to have your permission to do anything?’

‘Papa must have been besotted to leave you so much money without the slightest provision for control or guidance. You will end up like that dreadful Stanhope woman,’ he scolded, pacing in front of the fire, which was smoking sullenly.

‘Living in a Lebanese palace with a succession of virile young lovers, do you mean?’ she teased. ‘That is what the gossip says about Lady Hester, I believe. It does not sound such a bad situation to be in. Certainly more amusing than another dreary Season at Almack’s.’

Could I take a lover? Would I dare? It would answer the risk of finding oneself permanently tied to a man. It was a scandalous thought—although she suspected William, were he able to advise her now, would be quite encouraging. Her pleasure had always been his first consideration, and he had had little regard for the conventions. But how did a respectable widow set about finding a lover without finding a scandal at the same time?

This intriguing train of thought was cut short by Hubert. ‘How dare you mention such a thing in front of Clara?’

‘Clara is a married woman. I hardly think she is going to be corrupted by mention of subjects which are common knowledge.’ Clara was like all the married women of Caroline’s circle, regarding sensual matters as shocking, and apparently considering that respectable women could take no possible pleasure in them. Clara Morvall would certainly not be titillated or tempted by the prospect of a lover.

Caroline got to her feet and gathered up the book she had been reading—Travels Through Ancient Anatolia by Andrew Fenton—her notebooks and her reticule. ‘My mind is quite made up, Hubert. I am leaving tomorrow.’

The rain spattered against the window as she turned to leave her fuming stepson, and she drew her sombre black shawl defensively around her shoulders. It seemed a year had gone by when she had hardly glimpsed the sun or felt true human warmth; now she was determined never to feel cold again.

The Sea of Marmara: five months later

Caroline leaned on the rail of the ship and narrowed her eyes against the sun-dazzle on the waves. Over there was Asia. Asia. She could hardly believe that she was here at last. The long sea voyage, the excitements of calling at Naples and Malta, the discomforts, all faded into unreality as the shore that was her destination drew closer.

She turned a little, away from the Asian side, straining to make some sense of the jumble of minarets, spires and domes that crowded the skyline of the city ahead. Which mosque was the Blue Mosque? Where was the Sultan’s harem located? Where was the Golden Horn? The other passengers, apparently familiar with this amazing scene, were all below, packing or gathered round piles of belongings further back near the hatches. Her courier was somewhere below too, and there was no one to ask which building was which.

Before her, inching closer through the haze, was Constantinople, an exotic city of Muslims and Christians and Jews, all worshipping and trading and existing in a city large enough to swallow the population of Essex. It could not be real. It must be a dream, a mirage.

The warm wind picked up a little, shifted and brought with it the scents of spices and woodsmoke, fish and more than a hint of drains, and the dream vanished, replaced by exotic reality. Caroline found herself sighing, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders—one she had hardly been aware of carrying.

She truly was here at last. A strange shiver passed through her: part fear, part excitement, wholly—and strangely—sensual. This was not a place to be alone. This was not a place for buttoned-up English restraint and respectability. This was a city for all the senses. Faintly, the sound of music from some unfamiliar high-pitched flute drifted across the water.

The breeze ruffled her thin skirts around her legs, caressed her unveiled face like the touch of soft hands, warm fingers stroking languidly down her limbs, teasing and soothing. Involuntarily her own fingers tightened on the rail as her breasts became heavy with the memory of skilled kisses and, stirring from long months of celibacy, the achingly familiar, intimate pulse of desire began to throb.

In a sensual daydream Caroline was scarcely aware of the tip of her tongue running over the fullness of her lower lip, of the soft flush rising in her cheeks. I wish I had a lover. The thought whispered through her mind. A tall, handsome, charismatic man.

It is incredible how powerful the imagination is, she thought hazily. It was conjuring him up even as she dreamed. Her heavy-lidded gaze, which had fallen to the deck as she mused, travelled up a pair of long, well-muscled legs to narrow hips and a flat belly. Her fantasy was even obliging by responding to her in a way that the cut of his snug-fitting trousers made quite outstandingly clear.

Caroline felt the pulse in her throat beat harder and let her eyes drift up, away from that disturbing piece of imagination, up to a white shirt exposed by a carelessly open coat, up to broad shoulders, a firm chin and a mouth that was curved in a slow smile of lazily erotic recognition of her needs. Oh yes.

With a little sigh Caroline met the grey eyes. The grey eyes fringed with black lashes. The very amused, very real grey eyes, belonging to the very real, completely non-imaginary man who was leaning against the rail six feet in front of her.

Oh my God… Caroline could feel the blush flooding her face and stared round wildly for some sort of salvation. A tidal wave, a pirate attack, a raiding party of Circassian slavers. Nothing. And the man was straightening up and coming towards her.

She was the most beautiful, most desirable, most erotic thing he had seen in a very long time. And, given years spent in one of the most exciting and cosmopolitan cities in the world, that was saying something. Drew kept very still, willing the tall blonde to hold the trance she was locked in. He did not flatter himself for a moment that he was the object of her heated—very heated—thoughts. If she could see him at all through that haze of desire, then her imagination had taken over and was superimposing some other man on his form.

But, even so, it was a thoroughly arousing experience to be on the receiving end of all that carnal longing, and Drew felt more than a twinge of envy for the lucky man who would benefit from it.

He was aware of the very physical effect she was having on him, and tried, without any success at all, to control it by making himself focus on those wide, mistily unfocused blue-grey eyes. They were wandering up his body like a caress, and the soft lips were parted, with the tip of her tongue just touching the fullness of the lower one. He tried to ignore the enticing swell of her breasts and the long, slender legs outlined as the breeze whipped her muslin skirts tight against them.

Hopeless. Sooner or later he was going to have to break this spell, or they were both going to faint from the sheer strain of it. Despite the potential embarrassment of appearing in public in a state that could only be described as seriously over-excited, and an increasing feeling of jealousy of this woman’s lover, Drew’s sense of humour was beginning to get the better of him. He knew that, despite his best efforts to remain both still and expressionless, his mouth was curving into a smile.

That delicious gaze moved to his mouth, hesitated. There was an answering curve of her own full lips that nearly had him moaning aloud, then the grey-blue eyes met his and he caught the precise moment that she came to herself, snapped out of her daydream and realised she was staring lasciviously at a real flesh-and-blood man—and a complete stranger.

How would she react? She was experienced; there was no doubt of that. Whatever had been going through her mind it had not been the romantic daydreams of a virginal young lady. He found himself hoping against hope that this delicious girl was not going to turn out to be a hardened woman of pleasure, and was rewarded by the wide-eyed shock in her eyes and the furious blush which stained her face.

She was exquisitely confused, her eyes darting round in search of escape or rescue. Drew got his face under control, straightened up and strolled over to close the narrow gap between them.

He was going to speak to her. Caroline’s hands closed together in an agonising grip, as though the pain might punish her for her wanton thoughts, and as a reward this man would vanish. It did not work. He kept coming.

He lifted the wide-brimmed straw hat he was wearing to reveal black hair and a tanned face. He was still smiling that devastating smile, half gentle mockery, half unblushing recognition that she was a woman and he was a man and that there could be consequences of that fact.

‘Sir—’ Her voice quavered and she shut her lips tightly before she could add squeaking like an idiot to her tally of embarrassments.

‘Madam,’ he rejoined gravely, replacing his hat. Even shadowed, the grey eyes sparkled with emotions she did not dare contemplate. ‘Might I make a suggestion?’ His voice was deep, easy, like warm honey running over her skin, with beneath it the hint of strength he was keeping tightly under control. His accent told her he was English—and yet something about him had convinced her he was not. She gave herself a little inward shake. What on earth did it matter what nationality he was?

‘Mmm?’ she managed. Oh, heavens, what is he going to say? Is he going to proposition me? He hardly needs to, does he? I must have been looking at him as though I wanted to tear his clothes off. I do want to tear his clothes off, here and now. Shameless… I wished for this, and now I do not know what to do…

‘If you move to the rail on the other side you will get the best view of the city. We are approaching the Sarayburnu, the Seraglio Point. You can see the Topkapi Sarayi clearly now. This is your first visit to Constantinople?’

What? ‘Mmm! I mean… yes. Thank you…’

‘Enjoy,’ the tall man said, with a smile that seemed to touch her mouth. He raised his hat again and strolled off across the deck, to where a man in robes stood guard over a trunk and a pile of portmanteaux.

Enjoy, indeed! Caroline made her shaking legs take her to the spot he had indicated. Mercifully, she found herself screened from the rest of the main deck by a stack of casks. He did not mean Enjoy the sights or Enjoy the food or even Enjoy the shopping. He meant Enjoy doing what you were dreaming about. I wish I could! He must think I have a lover on board, or a husband, or I am travelling to meet one or the other. Could that possibly have been any more embarrassing and awful?

Well, yes it could, she realised ruefully as the hectic colour began to ebb from her face and her thoughts became a little more coherent. He could have come across and made a very crude proposition—or even a tactfully worded one, come to that—and she would not have had the slightest justification for resenting it.

## CHAPTER TWO

‘LADY MORVALL?’ The voice at her elbow made her jump.

‘Yes, Mr Lomax?’ It was her courier. Caroline smiled upon the rotund figure with something like affection. Certainly with relief. No one could ever find themselves incorporating Mr Lomax into an improper fantasy, bless him. He was a head shorter than she, with a shiny bald pate under his straw hat, a pince-nez perched on the end of his nose and a little pot belly.

He was also an experienced and knowledgeable courier and had shepherded her and Gascoyne, her maid and dresser, all the way from England with impeccable organisation and without the hint of an unpleasant incident. Unfortunately, he could not be expected to save her from the consequences of her own torrid imagination.

‘I must apologise for having been away so long, Lady Morvall, but the canvas cover of your larger travelling trunk had been torn in the hold and I have had to stand over the ship’s sail-maker to make sure he repaired it properly. Gascoyne has everything packed, and our luggage is over there.’

Caroline followed his pointing finger and located the maid, waiting watchfully by a pile of familiar baggage—right next to where That Man’s robed attendant was standing. Hastily she turned back.

‘Please point out the major buildings, Mr Lomax. I do not wish to go and stand in the crowd before I need to.’ That Man’s directions had been enough for her to orientate herself, given all the reading she had done, but she wanted an excuse to stay apart. Her heart-rate was slowly returning to normal, and she had no intention of raising it again.

‘Of course, my lady. The large mosque on the left is the Blue Mosque, in the centre is Aya Sofya mosque, which was built as a Christian church, and all the rest of the buildings as far as the point are the Topkapi Sarayi—the Sultan’s palace. Very soon we will sail into the mouth of the Golden Horn.’

‘So that will be Seraglio Point, where courtesans who offended would be tied up in silken sacks and thrown into the water?’ She pointed to where the stranger had indicated.

‘Er… yes.’ Mr Lomax did not seem comfortable discussing courtesans. ‘And not only such… er… ladies. Constantinople is still at heart a violent city in many ways; it is essential that you take the advice of the staff at the Embassy and do not go out without your escort.’

Caroline nodded with a meekness that would have stunned Sir Hubert. But defying her stepson’s pompous demands for respectability was one thing; taking advice from an expert in an alien city was simply common sense. Besides anything else, to travel outside Constantinople she would need a firman, the equivalent of a passport, showing the Sultan’s permission to go freely about the countryside, and to secure that she must behave with impeccable regard to all the conventions.

They remained at the rail as the ship swung into the Golden Horn and slowly glided into dock on the opposite bank to the old city. Above them loomed the hill where the quarters of Galata and Pera housed the Westerners and their embassies.

‘I think we should get back to our luggage,’ Mr Lomax pronounced. ‘If you would just care to take my arm, Lady Morvall, then there will be less risk of you being jostled in the crowd.’

Jostling was the least of her anxieties. Wishing her smart bonnet possessed a veil, Caroline kept her eyes down, only risking raising them as she negotiated the gangplank to the dockside. There, in front of her, a clear head over most of the jostling throng of porters and passengers, was an instantly recognisable pair of broad shoulders and a rakishly tilted broad-brimmed hat. Then she was down on the firm ground and he had gone.

She did not realise she had sighed aloud until Mr Lomax looked at her with some concern. ‘Are you quite well, my lady? Perhaps you are feeling a little unsteady after so much time at sea? I have sent a porter for a carriage; it will not be long coming.’

‘No, no, I am quite well, Mr Lomax. I was merely reflecting on my first Turkish… encounter.’ And hopefully all the rest would consist of colourful sightseeing and interesting exploration. It had, at least, taught her the foolishness of dreaming about taking a lover. I simply do not have the courage for that sort of thing, and it is as well to discover it now. Imagine what I would have done if he had made me a proposition!

The British Embassy was a handsome double-fronted residence, with overhanging enclosed balconies and great double gates through which the carriage bearing Caroline’s party swung, followed by the carts with their luggage.

Feeling slightly dazed by the crush of the streets, the babble of different tongues, the colour and endless details that had her head swivelling from one side to the other until she was dizzy, Caroline was only too glad to allow Mr Lomax to take control. She was going to have to learn to manage affairs herself soon, she knew, for she had only hired him as far as Constantinople, and he would return as soon as he acquired a new client to escort.

‘Lady Morvall—welcome.’ The thin, scholarly man who hastened down the steps of the inner courtyard held out his hand and shook hers with enthusiasm when she extended it. ‘Terrick Hamilton, ma’am, I am the Foreign Languages Secretary to the Ambassador, who sends his most sincere apologies for not being here to greet you in person. Unfortunately there is a tricky matter with some English and Russian traders on the Black Sea coast, and Sir Robert has found it necessary to deal with it in person. Do come in, ma’am.’

He snapped his fingers at a number of men who were waiting in the shadows. Caroline studied the turbans—no two seemed exactly the same—and noted the baggy trousers beneath the knee-length tunics that most of them wore; they would form the first subject for her Constantinople sketchbook, she resolved. The men began to unload the trunks.

‘Dikkat! Yavafl!’ Mr Hamilton called as one or two bags were dropped.

Caroline tucked the words away in her mind: careful and slow. She had seen them written down; now she tried to pay attention to pronunciation, determined to learn the language as much as possible. She would need guides and a dragoman, but the more she understood of what was going on around her, the less vulnerable she would be.

Established at last in her room, with only Gascoyne for company, Caroline cast off her bonnet and light pelisse and flopped down on the bed. ‘Phew! Gascoyne, do sit down and rest a while. The housekeeper says she will send up some refreshments and warm water shortly. How good it is to be in the quiet and to have nothing moving about!’

‘Indeed it is, my lady.’ Gascoyne, who had been with her only since William had died, and was outwardly the most conventional and starched-up of dressers, had amazed Caroline by offering to come with her on her journey. She had expressed a desire to visit what she described sweepingly as foreign parts, but, much to Caroline’s secret amusement, insisted on maintaining herself and her mistress in a state which would pass muster in Bond Street.

Suggestions that bonnets might be replaced with sunhats, that corsets need not be laced quite so tight, and that the weather was hot enough to dispense with the lightest of pelisses outside, were met with a disapproving sniff. ‘You are an English lady, my lady,’ Gascoyne would pronounce. ‘And I know what is due to one of my ladies, whatever heathen customs might prevail.’

Caroline had given up explaining that Italy and Malta were far from heathen, and knew she faced an impossible task in convincing the dresser that Constantinople might be different from what they were used to, but its inhabitants were God-fearing, each in their own way, and that it could be considered as sophisticated and highly developed as London. More so in some ways, if what she had read about the baths was true. Caroline was looking forward to trying out a hammam.

With a characteristic sniff Gascoyne shed her gloves, bonnet and pelisse, placed them neatly on one chair and sat, bolt upright, on the edge of another. Even that appeared to strike her as frivolous idleness, for she drew a portmanteau towards her and began lifting out underwear and sorting it onto the camphor wood chest next to the chair.

‘What happens now, my lady, if I may be so bold as to enquire?’

‘We rest here at the Embassy, and one of the secretaries will send a request to the Sublime Porte—the palace—for us to be granted a firman which will allow us to travel. Then I can find a suitable dragoman and porters, and buy pack animals, horses and supplies. Then we set out for Anatolia.’

‘Where’s that, my lady?’ Gascoyne frowned at a minute mark on a camisole and placed it to one side. ‘I thought we were arrived, now we’re in Turkey.’

‘It is part of Turkey—the land to the east.’ Caroline rolled over onto her stomach and propped her chin on her hands. ‘It is unchanged for centuries, and there are many beautiful natural features and fascinating archaeological treasures that are hardly known about. This book—’ She pulled over her bulging reticule and dug out the volume she had been carrying around since leaving England. ‘This book tells all about what has been discovered so far. It is by the best-known explorer of the area—Mr Fenton. He writes so compellingly.’

Gascoyne looked down her long nose at the proffered volume. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t understand it, my lady. It doesn’t sound very suitable for English ladies either. How many carriage dresses do you think I should pack? And what about evening wear? Full dress, or only demi?’

‘Neither!’ Caroline rolled off the bed and straightened her gown at the sound of a knock on the door. ‘Come in. Oh, thank you; will you also send bathwater to my dresser’s room, please?’

The housekeeper bowed, and supervised the setting out of a cold collation, while menservants struggled in with a bathtub and ewers of hot water. Disappointingly it seemed that the Embassy did not have its own hammam.

‘No evening gowns, my lady?’

‘No. I shall take two gowns, and otherwise all those riding habits I had made.’ Caroline bit her lip as a thought struck her. ‘Provided I can find a lady’s side-saddle out here. If I cannot, then I shall just have to resort to breeches and a long coat over. It can’t be so difficult to ride astride, can it? Men do it all the time.’

‘Astride? In breeches? But, my lady, that is enough to ruin your reputation!’

‘Amongst whom?’ Caroline enquired tartly. ‘Anatolian shepherds?’

‘But are we not taking a travelling carriage? I cannot ride on any sort of saddle,’ Gascoyne wailed.

‘I will hire a small carriage for you and the luggage,’ Caroline promised, firmly trampling down the thought that roads to run a carriage over might not exist. The idea of Gascoyne on a camel was irresistible, if cruel, but she kept it to herself. Time enough to worry about that if the problem arose. ‘Now, shall we have our baths before we eat?’

Gascoyne, despite an initial protest that she should stay and attend on her ladyship before taking her own bath, was surprisingly easy to persuade—presumably too shaken by the awful revelations about their mode of transport to protest about anything else. She went off, after unlacing Caroline’s corsets and abjuring her to lock the door behind her.

Caroline sank into the cool water with a sigh of relief and lay back, idly twiddling her feet over the edge. It was a nice big tub, with a high back and deep sides. William and she had used to have a lot of fun in baths. He would sneak in and pounce with a soapy sponge when she least expected it, or pour in far too much scented oil and then rub it in all over her until she was as sleek as a wet seal and twice as slippery.

And then, when they were both thoroughly wet and laughing, he would tumble her out onto the piles of linen towels and they would make love…

‘Stop it!’ Caroline sat up abruptly, slopping water over the sides onto the highly polished wood. For goodness’sake, I have got to stop thinking about that! I have just made a complete fool of myself with a man, and proved I haven’t the temperament to even think about taking a lover. And I certainly don’t want to get married again: I would never find anyone as sweet as William, and I would probably end up with an insensitive lump like Hubert. So I had better learn to stop thinking about sex once and for all.

Which was an extremely sensible resolution, of course, if only one knew how to carry it out. And if only the memory of a mobile, sensual mouth and a pair of mocking grey eyes did not intrude every time one closed one’s own lids.

Two days’ rest in the Embassy served to restore the tone of Caroline’s mind somewhat. She had not ventured out yet, taking Mr Hamilton’s advice to adjust to the air and food, to rest, and decide what equipment she needed to purchase for her onward journey.

‘You will be visiting Bursa, I expect,’ he said confidently. ‘That is a relatively easy journey by land. If you wish to explore further along the coast, then I suggest hiring a boat.’

‘I am sure it is fascinating,’ Caroline replied politely. ‘And I will visit there at some stage. But my purpose in coming is chiefly to go into Anatolia.’

‘Anatolia? But very few westerners ever do that. It is wild and quite unchanged for centuries.’

‘Exactly—that is why I want to see it.’ She could see he was anxious, and added, ‘Will I have a problem getting a firman for that area? Is it restricted in some way?’

‘I do not think so—but it is so unusual, especially for a lady.’

‘I did not come all this way to do the usual thing,’ Caroline said briskly. ‘Now, what must I do to get my firman?’

‘I have sent a note to the official at the Sublime Porte who deals with such things. I expect an answer within a few days.’

Caroline told herself that she should not expect an instant response, and requested the loan of an interpreter who could show her around the city while she was waiting. Mr Lomax had departed even more promptly than he had expected, in the service of a returning diplomat rendered temporarily lame as a result of an injury.

She had been promised a guide for the afternoon, and had retreated to the sitting room placed at her disposal to con her notebooks for those sights she wished to visit first, when the Secretary reappeared, an expression of mixed alarm and satisfaction on his face.

‘The most extraordinary thing, Lady Morvall. A message from the Topkapi Sarayi: the Sultan will receive you personally in audience.’

‘The Sultan? But I did not ask for an audience! How has he even heard of me?’

‘Possibly officials dealing with your application for a firman were intrigued by the fact that a titled English lady is asking for such a thing. Lady Hester Stanhope caused no little stir, you know—she still does, for all that she is now in Syria.’

‘Well, I am no Lady Hester.’

‘Indeed not, I am glad to say,’ Mr Hamilton pronounced, reminding her forcefully of Hubert for a moment.

‘I presume declining is out of the question?’

‘Most certainly. I beg you would do nothing so deleterious to British interests, ma’am. This is a great honour.’

‘But what should I wear? How should I behave?’

‘Dress and behave as though you were summoned to a daytime audience with the Prince Regent, Lady Morvall.’

‘Should I wear a veil?’

‘No—His Majesty will want to meet an English lady in her native habit, as it were. His Majesty the Sultan Mahmud has a French mother, you know. She is a great influence upon him.’

‘His father married a Frenchwoman? I had no idea.’

Mr Hamilton coughed discreetly. ‘Not… er… married as such. Aimée Dubucq de Rivery, the Queen Mother, was captured by slavers and sold into the harem. She is the cousin of the late Empress Josephine.’

‘My goodness.’ Caroline was virtually speechless. It was like a sensational novel. But this was real. ‘When must I go?’

‘Tomorrow, after morning prayer. I will send a guide with you who can then take you on a tour of the old city, if you wish. Or you can return here if the visit has wearied you.’

‘Thank you.’ Just getting through an audience in a palace where the Queen Mother was a captured French slave was as far ahead as she could think. ‘I must go and tell my maid, and decide what we are to wear.’

‘Your maid is not included, Lady Morvall. To take her would imply a lack of faith in the protection His Majesty is able to extend to a visitor.’

‘Oh.’ One could only hope that in 1817 keeping female visitors was not considered an acceptable way of filling vacancies in the harem. ‘Well, I had better choose a gown and practise my court curtsey, Mr Hamilton.’

## CHAPTER THREE

BUMPING down the hill to the dockside, taking the Embassy caique to the far shore and then climbing into the Embassy’s best coach, which had been sent over the night before, Caroline tried to recall if she had felt this nervous before being presented at court in London. She rather thought not.

There had been the towering and hideously expensive ostrich plumes in her coiffure to manage, and the long-outdated hooped skirts to worry about, so, really, making her curtsey and dealing with the Prince Regent’s rather broad compliments had seemed a positive anticlimax.

Now she had neither hoops nor feathers to distract her—simply her very best half-dress gown and a bonnet which she could remove to display an elaborate coiffure suitable for Charlton House in the afternoon, if not the Topkapi Palace in the morning. She had been far too nervous to eat any breakfast, or do more than sip distractedly at a cup of coffee. If she made a poor impression, and the firman was refused, she would have made this journey for nothing, and her gesture towards William’s memory and his dream would end unfulfilled.

Opposite her sat the translator and guide the Secretary had given her, introducing him simply as Ismael. He was tight-lipped with nerves, obviously wondering what he had done to deserve having to guide a mad Englishwoman to the very steps of the Sultan’s throne.

‘We arrive, my lady,’ he said, twitching the lowered blinds back for a moment. ‘As part of the Ambassador’s household we may drive through the gate into the first court: it is a great honour.’

Caroline removed her bonnet and patted her hair into place. The carriage stopped, the door was opened and the steps let down. Hardly knowing what to expect, she stepped down into a large courtyard, bustling with people. All were men; she felt as conspicuous as if she was wearing a placard.

‘The Court of the Janissaries,’ Ismael whispered. ‘See?’ She followed the direction of his gaze and saw the groups of tall men in belted robes, their strange headdresses falling in long flaps of cloth behind. She noted the swords pushed through their belts and averted her eyes.

An official, his head swathed in a white turban of infinitely intricate folds, approached, spoke to Ismael and gestured for them to follow, barely sparing her a glance. It occurred to Caroline that, although she was the only woman in the courtyard, anyone could be behind the myriad of shuttered windows, watching.

‘The Ortakapi—now we enter the Second Court.’

Caroline tried to move with dignity across the seemingly endless space, managing her skirts, attempting not to start in surprise as a gazelle bounded out from behind a bed of roses, chased by a scolding peacock.

‘The Gate of Felicity and the Third Court.’ Ismael seemed steadier now he was working. ‘The Audience Chamber is before us.’

Caroline knew she should be making mental notes, that she should fix all this in her memory so that she could write it up as soon as she got back to the Embassy, but it was rapidly becoming a blur. The Prince Regent would faint with excitement at what she was seeing: the Pavilion at Brighton was a pale shadow of this confident sophistication.

They moved through a great portal, heavy brocade curtains were opened, and she was in a lofty square chamber, every surface decorated in marbles, vivid blue tile, ornate carving. And in the centre at the back stood a wide golden throne, half-chair, half-bed, covered in massed cushions.

An attendant in a sweeping fur-trimmed caftan thundered some announcement she could not understand. On the throne the man sitting cross-legged lifted his head from the document he was perusing, and at her side Ismael fell to his knees and prostrated himself.

Control, Caroline murmured, sinking as slowly as her shaky knees would allow into a deep curtsey. She held it for a long moment, then rose again, took six steps forward, sank again, rose and took a final six steps, sinking into the deepest curtsey yet, holding it until her thigh muscles screamed. She rose to stand before the Sultan.

The man regarding her with piercing black eyes was broad-shouldered in his purple brocade robes, black-bearded, and gave the impression of holding himself in stillness by sheer will-power. He was younger than she had expected, handsome. And he exuded a kind of virile, ruthless power that did not have to be expressed to be perfectly understood.

He spoke, a rich rumble of words, and the man standing to his side translated. ‘His Majesty the Sultan Mahmud, Commander of the Faithful, Lord of the Golden Horn, bids you welcome.’

‘I am deeply honoured by His Majesty’s gracious condescension in receiving me.’

‘His Majesty wishes to know what brings you to Constantinople.’

‘I desire to visit his beautiful city and his great lands, and to learn from what I see, should His Majesty be so gracious as to grant me a firman.’

The jet-black eyes regarded her steadily, then Mahmud spoke again.

‘Where is your husband?’ the translator asked.

‘I am a widow, Majesty.’

‘Of what years?’

‘Twenty-six years, Majesty.’

Silence. She forced herself to stand without fidgeting, her eyes modestly lowered. The Sultan raised a hand and a man stepped out of the shadows behind the throne. Caroline glanced up, and for a moment almost lost her composure. Then she realised she must be mistaken. She did not know him, although this man was black-haired, tall and broad-shouldered. He moved with a grace that reminded her of a big cat—and of a fantasy who had proved to be only too real.

But this was no Englishman: this man wore robes—yet another variation of the Ottoman court dress she saw all around her. His tall frame was clad in a silver-grey brocade robe, trimmed with black fur and worn over full black trousers; he was bareheaded and his black hair fell loose to his shoulders. It was not—of course it was not—the man from the ship.

He was stooping respectfully next to the Sultan, answering some question. Perhaps he was the official who had been dealing with her application? With a low bow he withdrew back into the shadows, and Caroline forced her attention back to the Sultan.

‘What man protects you?’ the interpreter asked, making her jump. He must have assumed she failed to understand him. ‘You have no husband; who then has you in his protection?’

‘No one!’ Idiot, he does not mean a lover. He means a bodyguard. ‘I mean, I shall hire such guides and escort as I require when I travel, Your Majesty.’

‘What garment is it that you wear now?’

‘It is described as a half-dress gown, Majesty. I thought it proper to dress as I would for an audience with my own sovereign.’

‘You do not then dress in men’s clothes, as your countrywoman does?’

‘Lady Hester, Your Majesty? No. I do not.’ Was that a bad thing, or good? Was she appearing dangerously inexperienced, or reassuringly respectable?

‘His Majesty graciously grants you your firman. May you travel safely, if the Prophet wills it.’

Yes! I have my firman—now all I need to do is to get out of here. ‘Your Majesty is most gracious.’ Caroline curtseyed, backed away, curtseyed again and finally found herself outside the door, Ismael mopping his brow at her side.

‘Oh, my goodness, what a relief that is over.’ Her hands were trembling, she realised. ‘Do you think we could sit down for a moment?’

‘No, my lady, we must go back to the carriage by the most direct way.’ A slight movement of his head towards a turbaned figure with the inevitable curving sword waiting behind them underlined the point. Ismael began to walk, pausing only as a man with a black panther on a chain crossed their path. The beast’s green eyes swivelled to examine Caroline. She held her breath, then it responded to a tug on its jewelled collar and padded on.