It wasn’t what he wanted to here, but William knew that he was right. This was a personal issue for him, and because of it, he was letting his emotions run away with him. He wanted Stanton’s blood, no doubt about it, but he would have to accomplish it some other way. If nothing else, he knew that Stanton would be arrested for committing murder in this country and that his sentencing would be swift. Still, it would be easier if the matter could be settled out of court. He’d have to think on it.
“You look very convincing,” Mahmud told him a short while later as they sat across from each other in the Sultan’s carriage. William was no longer dressed like a British gentleman but was wearing a pair of gray şalvar trousers instead, beneath a deep blue caftan. His dark blonde hair had been perfectly concealed by an equally blue turban, and on his face he wore a fake beard. Even Ryan had failed to recognize him.
“Just as long as nobody tries to engage me in conversation,” he said, knowing full well that it might be considered odd if he didn’t respond to a potential question.
Mahmud waved his hand, dismissing his concern. “All you have to do is look threatening. Nobody will dare speak to you then, for they will realize soon enough that you are present merely to protect me.”
“I also won’t have any idea of what is being said.” This bothered him the most. He hated not being in full control of a situation.
Mahmud frowned as the carriage jostled through an open archway and into a large courtyard. “Parts of the discussion will naturally be conducted in Turkish; that is unavoidable. However, I shall try to say as much as I can in French. I’m sure that Lord Stanton will offer the necessary excuse for this.”
The carriage rolled to a halt, and the steps were set down, affording no more time for William to ponder the situation. Stepping down to the ground, he waited for Mahmud to follow, and the moment the sultan’s head appeared through the doorway, a holler went up, heralding his arrival. Other shouts and cries filled the air from the open windows above them, and William knew that the Ismet Pasha’s home had just been turned on end by their arrival.
A tall and stocky man of William’s height came out to greet them, bowing his head with respect as he muttered words that William presumed to be some sort of greeting. Mahmud said something in return, upon which the man rose to his full height and beckoned for them to follow. They were shown up a wide staircase until they reached the third floor. Here, two more men waited, both rising the minute they walked through the door—one was Stanton.
William’s hands clenched and unclenched at his side, his palm brushing lightly against the hilt of the yatagan that was strapped to the sash around his waist. He could feel his heart rate begin to rise and drew a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. A lot was at stake and he couldn’t afford to risk failure just because he found himself incensed by Stanton’s arrogant demeanor. So he nodded a greeting instead and then followed Mahmud over to a pile of awaiting cushions.
Wine was poured for each of them by a young, blonde-haired girl who floated around the room with unusual grace, while Mahmud exchanged a few words in Turkish with Ismet and the other guest whom William presumed to be another pasha, judging from his clothing. He then turned his attention toward Stanton. “It has come to my attention that you have brought a young lady with you—one whom you consider too valuable to sell in the common market.”
“Oui, Sultan,” Stanton replied, bowing his head in a show of reverence. “You will see that she is quite exquisite.”
“Hm…” Mahmud snapped his fingers, and the blonde girl appeared by his side. He issued an order, and she immediately left the room. “Who is she, if I may ask? Where did you find her?”
“The story is a little sad,” Stanton said with a pitiful smile. “She is from my homeland, but her family is terribly poor. They needed money, so…” He shrugged his shoulders to indicate that there wasn’t much else to tell.
“In other words, she is not a woman that will be missed…not a woman that somebody might come looking for?” Mahmud asked.
“On the contrary, she will no doubt have a much better and easier life here than she would have had if she would have remained in England, and so will her family.”
William felt hot rage thrumming through his veins at the audacity of the man before him. He wanted to reach out and strangle him and felt his whole body stiffen as he tried to hold himself in check. He had to think of Lucy.
“Well then,” Mahmud said, “let us not waste any more time, for it is precious, and I have grown weary of waiting. Ismet, tell your servant to show her in.”
The pasha did as he was asked, and a small, thin-looking man scurried off to do his bidding, passing the blonde-haired servant girl in the door; she had returned with a large bowl of fruit, which she immediately set before Mahmud. He nodded and muttered something beneath his breath—a thank you perhaps.
The sound of voices drifted toward them, coupled with the shuffle of scurrying feet—then silence. And then, the door opened again, admitting the same slim man who’d run off just a moment earlier.
From his position on the floor, William could see another pair of legs and feet behind him, but he couldn’t make out a face. His breath caught, and he was certain that his heart must have stopped as the man stepped aside, giving way to the woman who stood with the poise of a soldier about to defeat an entire army.
Lucy.
He barely managed to get a proper look at her before she was on the floor, performing a series of bows similar to what the servant was doing.
“Rise!” Mahmud said from beside him, and she slowly did, her body stretching itself upward while her fiery red hair cascaded over her back and shoulders.
She was wearing…William stifled a low growl at the sight of how she was dressed in front of these men. Indeed, she might as well have been standing there stark nak*d for all the good the sheer, green fabric was doing to cover her body. She was still as lovely as he recalled, perhaps more so if such a thing were possible. But there was a deep-rooted pain and fear in her eyes that could not be dismissed, and it only made him want to kill Stanton so much more for having done this to her.
Ismet said something, to which the other pasha nodded. Mahmud regarded Stanton with a scrutinizing slyness. “How much is the opening bid?”
Stanton smiled and William could practically see the greed burning in his eyes. “Three hundred thousand pounds.”
Silence filled the room. William felt certain that he must have misheard. It was an astronomical amount. Surely more than either of these men…
“Three hundred and fifty,” Ismet said, speaking in French.
Stanton gave him a slow nod of approval, but Mahmud raised his hand and said, “She looks familiar.” He then rose to his feet and stepped toward Lucy.
William wanted nothing more than to join him, for he knew she must be well and truly terrified by everything that was going on—her fate exacted in such businesslike fashion by men she did not know and with, as far as she could tell, no sign of him to save her. But he steeled himself for a moment, like a general holding back his army until the right moment to strike presented itself.
“I don’t see how that might be,” Stanton replied with the skill of a natural liar. “I doubt that Your Majesty has ever visited the slums of England.”
Mahmud circled Lucy, and it seemed to William as if everyone in the room held their breath as he did so. “Non—my memory is quite superb when it comes to faces. Tell me, Cheri—who are you really?”
William saw the look of uncertainty that flooded her eyes, replaced a moment later by hope, and then snuffed as her gaze found Stanton’s. Her lip quivered, and she shook her head. “Je suis désolé. Lord Stanton is right. I am nobody of consequence.”
“And yet you speak French perfectly,” Mahmud pointed out, and Lucy appeared to shrink away, like a small child about to be punished for her disobedience.
William’s jaw clenched, and he wondered how much more of this he could take—how much more he could possibly allow her to suffer. But they had Stanton within their grasp, and William saw Mahmud’s plan now. At present, he had no reason to act against him—not without causing scandal and a potential political uprising. He would need proof first or perhaps something that might cause Stanton to make a mistake. As difficult as it was for him to do, William chose to watch the situation unfold.
“Unusual perhaps,” Stanton replied with a casual shrug of his shoulders, “but not unheard of.”
Mahmud appeared to accept his excuse, but then his fingers went to the gold heart pendant that Lucy wore about her neck, seemingly admiring the trinket with great approval as he turned it back and forth. “A gift from you, I presume?”
William watched as Stanton’s face turned slightly grimmer, but then he smiled and nodded. “I thought it fitting, given the circumstances. It is also my belief that a lovely woman should always be adorned with pretty things.”
William’s eyes returned to Lucy. She looked as stiff as a starched cravat and about ready to topple sideways onto the floor. But Mahmud seemed not at all affected by her or by Stanton or anyone else for that matter. He was completely calm and collected as he returned to the table, bent down, and picked up a bunch of grapes, which he then began popping into his mouth one by one. He chewed about seven of them while everyone watched in silence until a look of confusion finally settled upon his face in the form of a deep frown. “Hm…And yet I recall seeing one exactly like it a few years ago, although it hung about a different woman’s neck then.”
Ismet and the other pasha must have sensed that something was afoot, for they both shifted with exceptional uneasiness, scooting away from the center of conflict until they found themselves backed up against a wall. Stanton’s eyes grew dark and angry. “What exactly are you suggesting, Your Majesty?”
But however frightening Stanton might have looked, it was nothing compared with the quiet hatred that seeped from Mahmud’s eyes as he turned on the earl in disgust. “I believe you know well enough.” He gestured toward Lucy, his eyes still trained on Stanton. “I am suggesting that she bears a startling resemblance to her mother, the Countess of Hampstead, that she speaks French because she was raised as an aristocrat, and that the pendant she wears was a gift from Lord Hampstead to his wife—a special order that was acquired with my assistance. So do not feign ignorance with me, Lord Stanton, for I know exactly who this woman is.”
Mahmud turned away, and it was then that William noticed that Stanton had begun to seethe with rage. In one swift move he was on his feet, holding a tiny dagger that he’d pulled from the back of his boot. He charged toward Mahmud in a fit of fury and with a growl so full of loathing that it would have frightened away the vilest of creatures. Mahmud turned, eyes widening as he realized Stanton’s intent. With the instinct of a man who’d honed his skills in battle, William sprang forward, drew the yatagan, and didn’t even pause to think as it sliced through the air and made contact with Stanton’s torso.