by Beth Elliot
‘And you plan to escort me there and guard me?’ When they both nodded, he laughed. ‘But how dull. My stay in your country is almost at an end. I would see something of your entertainments while I have the chance.’
‘Well, I do believe there is a group of villains trying to murder you, sir.’ Tom grinned when Kerim Pasha shrugged as if to say that was nothing new.
‘First we must get out of this building without anyone knowing which way we went. And then we will decide on an entertainment for this evening.’
*
Some hours later, the three men were sitting in a private gaming hell, the only three people there, thought Tom sourly, who were still entirely sober and not focused on the gaming. He and Seb were playing a desultory game of piquet while Kerim Pasha strolled about, watching the play at different tables with keen interest.
From time to time he came back to Tom with another question.
‘Why is it that some men play on even when all their money is gone? They are writing notes to cover their debts.’
‘We call those “vowels”.’ put in Sebastian.
‘I have been invited to join in the game at some tables,’ said Kerim Pasha, resuming his seat at their small table. ‘What happens when they have spent more than they possess?’ he asked.
‘Then they are ruined.’ Tom said shortly.
Kerim Pasha shook his head slightly. ‘In every land there are quick ways to ruin.’ His narrowed eyes suddenly pierced Tom. ‘Do you play these games of chance.’
Tom gave a short laugh and gestured at the cards on the table. ‘As you see, I have little skill. I learned to play just to entertain my grandmother. I play occasionally with friends but the cards have no fascination for me.’
Kerim Pasha looked satisfied. He gave both of them a gleaming smile. ‘Tomorrow, gentlemen, we will go to Tattersalls. I wish to see your finest horses and your methods of selling them.’ He shot Tom a keen glance. ‘Our villains do not appear to like cards but maybe they are interested in horseflesh.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Something was not right. Tom leaned his head against the high back of the chair in the study and frowned in concentration. They had taken the Pasha to Tattersalls at Hyde Park Corner and returned without mishap. As well as Tom’s own agents, they had been accompanied by Kerim Pasha’s personal bodyguard, Ferdi. He was a silent and rather sinister individual, dressed in a frogged green jacket and breeches in the Hungarian style.
They came back to a narrow house in Bolton Street, the third change of dwelling for Kerim Pasha. Tom had assembled a good team of watchmen, mainly former soldiers and comrades from his army days. Old Hanley, acting as the butler, was more at home on the battlefield than receiving polite guests. Only, there were no guests. Hanley’s job was to keep strangers out. He could smell an enemy at fifty paces and he would not hesitate to use force if he suspected a caller was a threat to ‘Count Varoshenyi’.
When they arrived, Hanley gave a nod to say that all was well. Tom left the others to go inside, while he checked the street one more time. There were plenty of people passing through so it took him some time to be satisfied that they were all going about their own business.
As he returned he saw a man in rough clothes, with a bonnet pulled down over his ears, looking up at the first floor of the house. When he saw Tom the man turned his head away sharply and set off down the street, disappearing into the nearest crowd of people. It was not the fact that they already had a spy following them that worried Tom but the fact he was sure he knew that man.
He was still trying to recall who it could be when the door opened and Sebastian came in. He looked at Tom and raised his brows. ‘Opera,’ he said.
Tom raised his brows. ‘He’s not going to enjoy that, surely.’
Sebastian threw himself down in the chair opposite Tom’s. ‘Says he wants to see the English version of dancing girls.’
Tom shook his head gloomily. ‘We must hope he just wants to look at them. What a nightmare if he takes a fancy to one of them…’ He grinned briefly at the expression on Sebastian’s face as he digested this remark.
‘Oh, Lord!’ said the younger man, aghast.
Tom nodded. ‘Just so.’ Reluctantly he unfolded himself from his chair, stretched, then shrugged his jacket back on. ‘I must talk with Timms about security for this expedition.’
Tom found Timms in the kitchen with his feet up on a chair. There was a large flagon of homebrewed on the table beside him and a saucy kitchen maid had brought her bowl of potatoes close by so she could talk to him while she peeled them. When she saw Tom’s scowl, she bobbed a curtsy, picked up her bowl and fled.
‘Now don’t go agetting agitated, gov’nor,’ said Timms in his rich drawl. ‘We all be in need of a rest. Bless me if ever I met such a restless gent as the Count there. So cool he was, yesterday, every inch the fine lord… an’ then, well, I ask you, gov’nor, what came over him.’ He shook his head solemnly and took a long pull of his beer. ‘An’ here’s us, all atrying to keep him safe. Fair worn out I am.’
‘Just save your strength for this evening,’ growled Tom. ‘We have to organise security for a visit to the Opera.’
Timms groaned and looked longingly towards the range, from where came the savoury smell of roasting meat, mingled with the scent of fresh baked bread. ‘I hope we’ll have time for our dinner first. Need our strength, we do.’
‘Have you got anyone outside?’ asked Tom.
‘Course I have,’ said Timms indignantly. ‘We’re safe enough in here. But all this running around the town, that’s when we must look out for trouble.’ He straightened up. ‘Never fear, gov’nor, the boys ’n me, we won’t let you down.’
Tom nodded. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. ‘Thank you, Timms. We just have to make sure nobody can get a clear shot at him.’
‘Nobody’s going to shoot a gun at the Opera, so you just rest easy, gov’nor. An’ when we’re in the street, we’ll take care of things.’ Timms picked up his flagon again, then caught Tom looking at it. ‘You want one o’ these?’
Tom decided he could spare five minutes.
*
Count Varoshenyi drew all eyes that evening. Seated in a first floor box at the theatre, he appeared unaware of the glances constantly cast his way. His dark blue jacket and cream brocade waistcoat set off his starkly handsome features. A diamond pin winked among the folds of his snowy cravat. His hair shone blue-black in the candlelight. He sat still and calm but Tom could see that he was examining every detail of the theatre and the audience as well as the performers on the stage.
Tom, smartly dressed himself in a close-fitting jacket of his favourite claret colour and with linen to rival Kerim Pasha’s for dazzling whiteness, sat on one side of the ‘Count’ and Sebastian on the other. Timms was stationed outside the box. Even so, Tom felt uneasy.
It was all very well to try and tempt the spies to show themselves. That was what Kerim Pasha wanted but Tom’s chief concern was to make sure the Pasha stayed alive. That was going to be the tricky part of the evening. In such a public place, it would not take long for word to spread. It would be easy for Gripper Browne’s villains to ambush them as they left after the performance. And who was that individual who had been looking up at the house? Again, something stirred in Tom’s memory but he had to give it up.
He made an effort to follow the plot, in case Kerim Pasha wanted to discuss it later. The man lost no opportunity to study the customs and interests of English society. No doubt it was all useful material for when he was planning future policy back home. Tom was willing enough to humour his charge – except where Rose was concerned.
Of course Sir Philip was full of gratitude to the man who had taken in his wife and nieces, so he had offered an open invitation to Kerim Pasha to visit the house. Tom glowered. Rose had gone riding with him. It was clear that Kerim Pasha wanted her. At this, the usual blaze of anger consumed him and he glared unseeing at the stage. He brooded until
the lights went up for the interval. With a start, he forced himself to uncurl his fists. Kerim Pasha stood up. Tom and Sebastian rose also.
‘I believe it is the custom to visit friends during this pause,’ smiled Kerim Pasha. ‘I can see Lady Westacote and her family over there,’ he gestured at a box on the other side of the theatre. ‘I wish to do everything properly.’ He gave Tom a shrewd glance. ‘We will all go together.’
Tom was sure that the corridor outside the boxes had never been so crowded. He and Seb managed to keep either side of Kerim Pasha as they made their way through the throng of staring, gossiping people. It was with profound relief that he followed his charge into the Westacotes’ box. But his relief was short lived. He stifled a groan even as he admired Lady Benson’s strategy!
She had guessed where the ‘Count’ would go. She was already in the box, talking to Lady Westacote. She glanced up triumphantly when she saw Count Varoshenyi at last where she could be introduced to him. A stealthy glance round showed Tom she had brought those two bouncing girls with her. Horror of horrors, one of them had her eye on him! That was the last straw. He edged towards the door, planning to wait outside until the Pasha decided to return to his own box. But then he looked again and saw Rose had her face turned towards him. When she met his eye, she smiled. Tom brightened and found himself standing by her chair.
He was struck, as always, by her sweet expression. Those deep blue eyes were smiling at him in just the way he remembered from that long ago time when they were the best of friends and trusted each other with all their secrets. The noise, the other people filling the cramped box, everything faded away and Tom saw only Rose, smiling at him and lifting her face towards his with that little tilt that always made his heart beat faster.
He gazed at her, unaware of how tender his expression had become.
‘You have not had any problems, then?’ she whispered.
‘Problems…?’ he stammered. He was drowning in those blue eyes and could not remember ever having any problems.
‘You know – in the Picture Gallery. And I see he is still safe.’ She nodded towards Kerim Pasha.
‘Oh… er… no problems,’ gulped Tom, coming back to earth. ‘What about you? Have you recovered from the scare.’
‘Thank you for helping me.’
Tom grinned at her. ‘That was a pleasure.’
Her eyes opened even wider. She hastily unfurled her fan and wafted it in front of her heated cheeks. She looked away. Tom wanted to keep her talking but a tall figure appeared by their side. Kerim Pasha was greeting her.
Rose smiled at him. ‘Are you enjoying the performance, Count Varoshenyi?’
He gave a low laugh. ‘I am not sure that enjoy is the correct word. I find it very interesting. So different from our own music, of course.’
Lady Benson pushed in between Tom and Kerim Pasha. Her elbow dug into Tom’s side and he glared indignantly but she was intent on her prey and ignored him, merely edging her bulk forward into the small gap.
‘Are you fond of music, dear Count?’ She gave him no chance to reply. ‘You positively must come to my musicale on Thursday evening. My husband will be so pleased to make your acquaintance – and my daughters perform so well on the pianoforte and the harp.’ She beamed at him, darted a cold glare at Rose and Tom and reluctantly moved back.
Kerim Pasha’s gaze went from Rose to Tom. ‘What kind of event is a musicale? From your faces, I guess it is not very interesting.’
‘That would depend,’ said Rose carefully, ‘on who is performing.’
He nodded, eyes dancing. ‘I understand you.’ He turned his head to survey Lady Benson and her daughters, then shot a quick glance at Tom. His eyes gleamed with mirth and he nodded again. Tom’s lips quivered but he kept a straight face. The next moment he lost all desire to laugh as he heard the Pasha say to Rose, ‘It is an age since I saw you.’
She laughed and protested. ‘Two days cannot be called an age.’
Tom felt a searing flash of anger. Just how friendly were they? He did his best to keep his expression neutral. ‘It is time to return to our seats, sir.’ His voice was deeper than usual with suppressed anger. He squared his shoulders and led the way back, just remembering to watch out for possible villains.
When the lights were dimmed, Tom sat, frowning and fuming inwardly. No less a personage than the Foreign Secretary had ordered him to keep a close guard on Kerim Pasha. But at present, Tom was struggling to repress a strong urge to smash his left fist into the man’s jaw. He sat grim-faced at the irony of his current situation. He must protect his rival. That meant he was obliged to watch the same rival trying to woo Rose.
Lately she seemed more friendly towards him again. But now she was showing a warm attachment to this man he was sworn to defend but who he would happily toss out of the box. Tom made himself recall how Rose had smiled at him. He did not think she had been quite so welcoming to Kerim Pasha – had she?
His gaze slid sideways. Kerim Pasha was still sitting upright, intently studying the action onstage. Good! He was not looking at Rose. Then Tom saw him raise his chin a little and lean slightly forward. The chorus girls had come on stage. Tom could see Sebastian’s head turn towards Kerim Pasha as well.
There was some clapping and whistling from the spectators, especially those in the parterre. The girls danced and sang and when they reached the end of their song the applause was tumultuous. One or two of the girls blew kisses at certain gentlemen in the boxes close to the stage.
Kerim Pasha turned to Tom. ‘This is so strange to me. I did not find their dancing enticing. And yet,’ he glanced down at the frenzied audience, ‘they have caused so much excitement.’
Eventually above the din came shouts of ‘Encore’ until the music started again and the girls performed another verse of their song and danced even more enthusiastically than before. The whistling and shouting continued. Yet the three of them heard the thud at the back of their box. Timms was sprawling on the floor in the open doorway. Two black clad figures darted inside. One stood over Timms, the other advanced towards Kerim Pasha.
‘No noise,’ he grated out. ‘Just come quietly.’ He gestured with the knife in his hand.
The girls were still singing and the audience was intent on them, cheering and clapping. Kerim Pasha stood up and took a step towards the intruder. Sebastian held his breath. Tom jumped up with his fists clenched. The man snarled and glanced at Tom. In that instant Kerim Pasha sprang, grabbing the intruder’s right arm with one hand and his throat with the other.
Tom reached them in one stride and gripped the man’s upper arms to hamper him. He jabbed his knee into the man’s legs, forcing him down. The second intruder now lunged at Kerim Pasha. The next moment he shrank back. The Pasha now held the knife and there was murder in his face.
For a second the villain wavered, arms hanging, his eyes swivelling from the knife to his mate, held down by Tom’s iron grasp. Sebastian took a step towards him and the man turned to flee. He checked again when he saw that Timms was back on his feet. The angry Timms drove his fist hard into the thug’s stomach. When he doubled up Timms kicked his legs out from under him and sat on him.
Kerim Pasha turned his furious gaze back to the first villain. He drew the knife across the skin of the man’s throat. ‘Shall I kill him now?’
‘You cannot do that here.’ It was Sebastian who spoke. ‘I will go for help to have them arrested.’
‘Young fool!’ Kerim Pasha spat the words out. ‘Do you think you will get as far as the street?’ He flashed a glance at Tom. ‘I kill this one, yes?’
‘No! He’s more use to us alive.’
The noise in the auditorium was subsiding. Tom used the man’s neckcloth to tie his hands then helped Timms to do the same with the other brute.
‘How many more of them do you think there are?’ asked Sebastian.
‘At least enough to take the ‘Count’ away. They must have a coach outside.’
Tom grimaced as shushing noi
ses came from the boxes on either side.
‘So how are we going to get these men out of here without attracting attention?’ whispered Sebastian.
‘We must wait.’ Tom pulled out his handkerchief and mopped the blood from his cut hand. He looked at Kerim Pasha, whose hands were also bleeding.
The Turk shrugged. ‘A small price to pay,’ he murmured, ‘but I do not suffer a man to wound me, without killing him.’ His eyes burned as he pointed the knife at his attacker. The man stared back sullenly.
Chapter Twenty-six
The final bow had been taken and the curtains closed for the last time. Rose still leaned forward, her arm resting on the rail as she gradually came back to reality after the stirring last scenes of the drama. She had enjoyed the fine singing and the lively dance of the chorus girls. What a pleasure to spend an evening in this way. It was so agreeable to be dressed in her new evening gown and with her hair swept up in a sophisticated style ornamented with a jewelled clip and a silk flower.
A smile touched her lips as she heard behind her the less than melodious sound of Uncle Philip snoring. He always claimed that music was just a lullaby. Aunt Emily was tut-tutting and trying to rouse him discreetly. Helena sat beside Rose, who was talking in a low voice to Max. These days, Helena and Max never seemed to have enough time to discuss everything. They were so happy in each other’s company.
Rose felt very glad for them but their closeness meant she was going to be lonely again. Now there were two pairs of antiquarians in the family and she was isolated. True, she was necessary to them all because of her drawing skills. But she did not share their passion for the objects they dug out of the sand. She was not looking forward to leaving this town life behind to return to the heat and dust of Cairo, where the others would search happily for ancient remains and spend whole days seeking clues to the lost language of Egypt.
And so she sat on, watching the people in the theatre and wishing her life could be like theirs. She smiled at the kaleidoscope of colours and the sparkle of jewels as the other spectators gradually stood and moved around in preparation for leaving. She watched the gentlemen holding the elegant and expensive opera cloaks for their female companions. Rose had always loved listening to her mother’s tales about when she and Aunt Emily had been girls enjoying a London season with its entertainments and splendid fashions. It had always been her dream to live that life also.
