Silk and Secrets
Book Two
The Silk Trilogy
by
Mary Jo Putney
© 1992, 2011 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc.
Prologue
Autumn 1840
Night was falling rapidly and a slim crescent moon hung low in the cloudless indigo sky. In the village the muezzin called the faithful to prayers and the haunting notes twined with the tantalizing aroma of baking bread and the more acrid scent of smoke. It was a homey, peaceful scene such as the woman had observed countless times before, yet as she paused by the window, she experienced a curious moment of dislocation, an inability to accept the strange fate that had led her to this alien land.
Usually she kept herself so busy that there was no time to think of the past, but now a wave of piercing sorrow swept through her. She missed the wild green hills of her childhood, and though she had made new friends and would soon dine with a surrogate family that she loved, she missed her own blood kin and the friends who were now forever lost to her.
Most of all, she missed the man who had been more than a friend. She wondered if he ever thought of her, and if he did, whether it was with hatred, anger, or cool indifference. For his sake, she hoped it was indifference.
It would be easier if she felt nothing, yet she could not regret the pain that was still, even after so many years, a silent undercurrent to her daily life. Pain was the last vestige of love and she was not yet willing to forget love; she doubted that she would ever be.
Her life could, and should, have been so different. She had had so much, more than most women ever dreamed of. If only she had been wiser, or at least less impulsive. If only she had not succumbed to despair. If only...
Realizing that her mind was sliding into a familiar, futile litany of regrets, she took a deep breath and forced herself to think of the responsibilities that gave her life meaning. The first lesson of survival that she had learned was that nothing could change the past.
For just a moment she touched the pendant that hung suspended around her neck, under her robe. Then she turned her back on the empty window and the darkening sky. She had made her bed and now she must lie in it. Alone.
Chapter 1
London October 1840
Lord Ross Carlisle sipped his brandy, thinking with amusement that watching two lovebirds bill and coo was enough to drive a man to the far corners of the earth, which was exactly where Ross was about to go. It did not make it easier that the happy lovers were his best friends. Perhaps that made it harder.
His gaze drifted over the comfortable lamplit drawing room where they were enjoying an after-dinner drink; brandy for the two men, lemonade for Lady Sara, who was in the early stages of pregnancy and had lost her taste for alcohol. The three of them had spent many similar evenings together, and Ross would greatly miss the conversation and companionship.
Finally remembering his obligations, Ross's host broke away from the silent communion he had been sharing with his wife and lifted the decanter. "Care for some more brandy, Ross?"
"A little, please. Not too much, or I'll have no head for traveling in the morning."
Mikahl Connery poured a small measure of amber spirits into both of their crystal goblets. Lifting his goblet, he said, "May you have an exciting and productive journey."
His wife, Lady Sara Connery, raised her glass and added, "And after all the excitement, may you have a safe return home."
"I will cheerfully drink to both of those goals." Ross gave Sara a fond glance, thinking how well marriage suited her. She was his cousin and the two of them shared the unusual combination of brown eyes and burnished gold hair, but Sara had a quiet inner serenity that Ross had never known. For many years the only peace he had found had been in travel, in challenging himself in ways that engaged all his mind and strength. "Don't fret while I'm gone, Sara. The Levant is less hazardous than many of the other places I've been. Certainly it's safer than the wild mountains where I met your alarming husband."
Mikahl drank the toast, then set his glass down. "Perhaps it's time to give up your restless wandering and settle down, Ross," he said, lazy humor in his intensely green eyes. He laid a large hand over Sara's. "A wife is far more exciting than a desert or a ruined city."
Ross smiled. "There is no zealot greater than a convert. When you came to England a year and a half ago, you would have laughed at the idea of marriage."
"But I am so much wiser now." Mikahl put an arm around his wife's shoulders and drew her closer. "Of course, there is only one Sara, but somewhere in England you should be able to find a satisfactory bride."
Perhaps it was the brandy, or perhaps it was pure mischief on Ross's part. "Doubtless you're right," he replied, "but such a paragon would be of no value to me. Didn't I ever mention that I already have a wife?" With immense satisfaction Ross saw that for once he had managed to surprise his friend.
"You know damned well that you never told me any such thing," Mikahl said, his black brows drawing together. Not quite believing, he looked questioningly at his wife.
Sara nodded confirmation. "It's quite true, my dear. In fact, I was maid of honor at the wedding." Transferring her grave regard to her cousin, she added, "A dozen years ago."
"Fascinating." Mikahl's gaze became unfocused for a moment, as if reviewing the past from a different perspective. Then, since he was totally lacking in polite British restraint, he said with vivid interest, "You've certainly done a good job of hiding the woman. What is the story, or shouldn't I ask?"
"You shouldn't ask," Sara said, aiming a stern wifely glance at her husband.
Ross smiled faintly. "You needn't scowl at Mikahl like that, Sara. It's not a secret, merely very old news." Feeling the need for more brandy, he poured himself another glass. "I was just down from Cambridge when I met Juliet Cameron. She was a schoolfriend of Sara's, a tall red-headed vixen quite unlike any other female I'd ever met. As the daughter of a Scottish diplomat, Juliet had spent much of her youth in exotic places like Persia and Tripoli, and since I was a budding orientalist, I found her quite irresistible. We married in a blinding haze of mutual lust. Everyone said that it would never work, and for once, everyone was right."
Ross's casual tone must have been unconvincing, for Mikahl narrowed his eyes with an uncomfortable degree of perception. However, he asked only, "Where is your Juliet now?"
"She is no longer my Juliet, and I haven't the remotest idea where she is." Ross downed his brandy in one swallow. "After six months of marriage, she ran away, leaving a note saying that she had no desire to see either me or England again. According to her lawyer, she is prospering, but I have no idea where or how. Knowing Juliet, she probably set up as a pasha in the Sahara and has the world's only male harem." He stood. "It's getting late. Time for me to go home if I want to be off before dawn tomorrow."
Sara rose and crossed the room to enfold him in a heartfelt embrace. "I'll miss you, Ross," she said softly. "Be careful."
"I'm always careful." Ross kissed her forehead, then turned to his friend.
He had intended to shake hands, but Mikahl, once more un-English, gave him a quick, powerful hug. "And if being careful isn't enough, be dangerous. You're rather good at that, for an English gentleman."
Ross smiled and clapped the other man on the shoulder. "I've had good teachers."
They were all laughing as Ross left. He always preferred leaving with laughter rather than tears.
* * *
Constantinople
January 1841
The British ambassador to the Sublime Porte lived a dozen miles from Constantinople, in a large village on the Strait of Bosphorous. As Ross entered the embassy to pay a courtesy call, he was amused to find an interior that would not have looked out of place in Mayfair. As a bastion of Englishness, the ambassador's residence could not be faulted, even though on the outside it looked like the home of any wealthy Turk.
A servant had taken Ross's card in, and only a few moments passed before the am
bassador himself, Sir Stratford Canning, came out to greet the distinguished visitor.
"Lord Ross Carlisle!" The ambassador offered his hand. "It's a great pleasure to finally meet you. I've read both of your books. Can't say that I always agree with your conclusions, but they were most interesting and informative."
Ross smiled and shook Canning's hand. "To a writer, it is enough to be read, Sir Stratford. Being agreed with would be too much to hope for. I recently finished another book, so soon you will have more things to disagree with."
The ambassador laughed. "Will you be in Constantinople for long, Lord Ross?"
"Just a fortnight or so, until I've made arrangements to go south into the Lebanon. After that, I intend to visit northern Arabia. I'd like to travel with the Bedouins."
Canning gave an elaborate shudder. "Better you than me. My fondest wish is to spend all of my time in England, but the Foreign Office persists in sending me abroad. This is my third posting in Constantinople. Flattery, you know; they keep telling me that no one else can fill the position as well."
Knowing Canning's formidable reputation, Ross smiled. "Very likely the Foreign Office is right."
"I was about to have some tea in my study. Would you care to join me?" After Ross nodded, Canning led the way down a hall and into a neat office with book-lined walls. "There have been letters waiting here for you for several weeks."
"Originally I had planned to reach Constantinople at the beginning of December," Ross explained as he took a seat. "But I decided to stay for a few weeks in Athens. That is the advantage of traveling purely for my own pleasure."
Canning rang for tea, then crossed the room and opened a drawer in a cabinet. After a moment of rummaging, he brought out a packet of letters tied with ribbon and brought it to Ross. His face suddenly sober, he said, "I'm afraid that one of the letters may contain bad news, for it is black-bordered."
The ambassador's words dispelled Ross's light sociable mood. Taking the packet, he said, "Will you forgive me if I read it immediately?"
"Of course." Canning handed his guest a letter opener, then sat down behind his desk and made a polite show of busyness.
Ross flipped through the letters quickly, noting the handwriting of Sara, Mikahl, and his mother, among others. The black-bordered letter was near the bottom of the pile. He was relieved to see that the address was written in his mother's bold hand, which meant that she at least was well.
He steeled himself before breaking the seal. His father, the Duke of Windermere, was nearly eighty, and though his health was good for a man of his years, it would not be surprising if death had called for him. If so, Ross hoped the end had been quick.
Having prepared himself to accept the death of his father, it took Ross a moment to comprehend that the letter did not say what he had expected. When the contents registered, he exhaled softly and closed his eyes, rubbing his temple with one hand while he thought of the ways this news would change his life.
Quietly Canning said, "Is there anything I can get for you, Lord Ross? Some brandy, perhaps?"
Ross opened his eyes. "No, thank you. I'm all right."
"Is it your father?" the ambassador asked hesitantly. "I met the duke some years ago. A most distinguished man."
"Not my father." Ross sighed. "My brother—half-brother, actually—the Marquess of Kilburn, died unexpectedly last month."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know Lord Kilburn, but I'm sure that it must be a great loss to you."
"Not a personal loss." Ross stared down at the letter, feeling a distant regret that his only brother had lived and died a virtual stranger. "Kilburn was considerably older than I and we were not close." In fact, they had barely been on speaking terms, and now there was no chance that they would ever be able to close the breach that pride and anger had put between them. Kilburn had not approved of his father's second marriage, nor of the child of that marriage. It had been a great sadness to the Duke of Windermere that the marriage that had brought him such happiness had also alienated him from his older son and heir.
A speculative look came into the ambassador's eyes. "I am not acquainted with your family's circumstances. Did your brother leave a son?"
Therein lay the crux of the problem. "Kilburn had a daughter by his first marriage," Ross said. "After his first wife died a couple of years ago, he remarried, and his new wife was with child when I left England. The baby was born a few days after Kilburn's death, but unfortunately, it was another girl."
"So you are now the Marquess of Kilburn." Canning's gaze studied his guest narrowly. "You think that is unfortunate? Forgive me, Lord Kilburn, but most men would not be sorry to become the heir to a dukedom. It is hardly your fault that your brother did not breed sons to succeed him."
"It was never my ambition to be the Duke of Windermere." Face set, Ross tried to adjust to the fact that he now carried the title of the brother who had spurned him. "Becoming the heir means that my traveling days are done. My parents want me to return to England immediately, for my father cannot afford to lose his last son. Besides, there is a great deal of family business that must be attended to."
Canning nodded slowly. "I see. I'm sorry. I hope you will find some comfort in the fact that you have already been to many places most men only dream of."
"I know." Ross made an effort to master his disordered emotions. "I have had a great deal of freedom and privilege in my life. Now the bill has come due and I must take up the responsibilities that go with privilege."
The tea tray arrived then, and for the next half-hour they spoke of more impersonal topics.
When Ross rose and took his leave, the ambassador said, "I hope you will dine with us before you leave Constantinople. Lady Canning most particularly desires to meet you." He stood to escort his visitor out. "Perhaps tomorrow night?"
"It will be my pleasure to join you."
The two men left the office and had almost reached the reception hall when another visitor was announced. Canning muttered a mild oath under his breath when he saw the new arrival, then smoothed his features to diplomatic impassivity. "Excuse me, Lord Kilburn. This will take only a moment."
Ross stayed back in the shadowed hall, momentarily struck dumb at the sight of the tall auburn-haired European woman who had just arrived. His instinctive reaction was over almost before it began, for the auburn hair was shot with silver and the strong, attractive face was lined by half a century of living. But he knew the woman, and her presence here was almost as much of a surprise as her daughter's would have been.
Canning stepped forward and greeted the newcomer. "Good afternoon, Lady Cameron. I'm sorry, I have heard nothing new since your last visit."
"But I have learned something, from a Persian merchant who just arrived in Constantinople. He was in Bokhara for months, and he swears that no Englishman was executed there." Lady Cameron fixed her intense gaze on the ambassador's face. "My son is alive, Sir Stratford. Isn't the British government going to do anything to rescue a man who was imprisoned while on the queen's business?"
Patiently Canning said, "Lady Cameron, there have been a hundred rumors concerning your son's fate, but almost all of them agree that he has been put to death.
McNeill, the British ambassador in Teheran, has no doubt about what happened, and he is closest to Bokhara." His voice softened. "I'm sorry. I know that you don't want to believe it, but your son is beyond mortal aid, even that of her majesty's government."
Ross stepped forward and joined the other two. "Lady Cameron, I could not help but hear. What has happened?"
At the sound of his voice, the woman turned toward him. "Ross!" She stepped forward, hands outstretched and her face brightening. "You are the answer to a prayer."
"You know each other?" Canning asked, surprised.
"Rather." Ross caught the woman's hands, then bent to kiss her on the cheek. "Lady Cameron is my mother-in-law."
Canning grimaced. "Then this is a doubly unlucky day for you. I gather that news of Major Cameron's tragic f
ate had not reached England before you left."
"I have heard nothing." It had been several years since Ross had seen Jean Cameron, but he had always been fond of her, and had been grateful that she hadn't blamed him for Juliet's defection. He frowned as he studied her drawn face, seeing that her usual vagueness had been replaced by the steely determination that was more characteristic of her formidable daughter. "Something has happened to Ian?"
"I'm afraid so. He has always had the greatest talent for getting into trouble, except for Juliet. Letting her run wild with her brothers was the worst mistake of my life." She tried to smile, but her hands clenched on her son-in-law's. "As you know, Ian has been stationed in India. Early last year he was sent on a mission to Bokhara, to ask for the release of all the Russian slaves being held there. The idea was to remove any provocation that would give Russia an excuse to invade the khanate, since Britain prefers Bokhara to remain independent. The amir not only refused the request but took Ian prisoner as well." She gave the ambassador a scathing glance. "Now the government that sent my son there has abandoned him."
Canning regarded her sorrowfully. "If anything could be done, we would do it. But, Lady Cameron, you must accept that it is too late. The Amir of Bokhara is dangerous and unpredictable and he dislikes Europeans. Your son was a brave man. He knew the risks when he went there." The words were an epitaph.
Lady Cameron had opened her mouth to speak, when a new group of visitors was admitted, this time richly dressed Ottoman officials. After a quick glance at the newcomers, Canning said to Ross, "I must leave now, but if you and Lady Cameron would like to speak further, you may use that room across the hall."
She said earnestly, "Yes, Ross, we must talk."
As Ross followed his mother-in-law to the small reception room Canning had indicated, the faint but reliable voice at the back of his mind told him that trouble was brewing.