Silk and Secrets

by Mary Jo Putney

  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 observed, "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 union. 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. 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 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 fate 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." 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.

  As soon as the door closed, Jean Cameron began pacing back and forth restlessly. "It is such a relief to see a friendly face." She smiled without humor. "Canning and his people are polite, but they all dismiss me as a foolish, unbalanced woman who won't face facts. They shudder whenever I come around."

  "They are uncomfortable knowing that they are helpless," Ross said quietly. "Canning seems to think that the evidence of Ian's death is very strong."

  "But he isn't dead! I would feel it if he were gone." She gave Ross an oblique glance. "It's maternal instinct, you know. Even though I miss Juliet dreadfully, I do not worry about her, for I know that she is well, at least physically. Ian is not well, but he is not dead—I am absolutely certain of that."

  He hesitated for a moment before saying carefully, "Considering how prisoners are treated in that part of the world, Ian would have been lucky to be killed quickly."

  She glared at her son-in-law. "That is easy for you to say. Do you even care whether Ian is dead or alive?"

  "Today I learned that my own brother is dead." Briefly Ross closed his eyes, thinking of his red-haired brother-in-law. Ian was only a year older than Juliet, as exuberant and full of life as his sister. Opening his eyes, Ross said bleakly, "I do not regret his loss half as much as I do Ian's."

  His quiet statement shocked Lady Cameron out of her anger. Drawing a weary hand across her forehead, she said, "That's right, Sir Stratford said that you were doubly unfortunate today. I'm sorry, Ross, I should not have lashed out at you." Being knowledgeable about the Carlisle family, she went on, "Did Kilburn manage to father a son on his new wife?"

  When Ross shook his head, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "So you are going to become a duke. I suppose I should start calling you Kilburn."

  "You've known me too long to become formal now." His mouth twisted, "Being a future duke is a dashed dull business. I'll be sailing for London in a few days."

  "I envy your mother. A pity my own children haven't the sense to stay safe at home in Scotland, but they're scattered to the four winds. That's why I'm here alone." Lady Cameron sat on the sofa, spreading her full skirts gracefully.

  Returning to the subject closest to her heart, she said, "Sir Stratford spoke as if there is clear proof that Ian is dead, but that is not the case. You know what this part of the world is like. It's over two thousand miles from Constantinople to Bokhara, and there is no reliable method of learning what happens there. The closest British consul is Sir John McNeill in Teheran, which is still a thousand miles away."

  "What reports have McNeill and Canning heard?"

  She gave an eloquent shrug. "That there have been no English visitors to Bokhara for years, that there is an Englishman there who converted to Islam and is now chief of the amir's artillery, that an Englishman arrived last year and was shot, or beheaded, or imprisoned in the amir's Black Well. It is also said that the amir has a dozen European prisoners, but they are all Russians. So many rumors—and they add up to nothing. The Persian merchant I spoke with this morning was in Bokhara recently and he swears that he heard nothing to indicate that a European has been executed. However, the embassy prefers to believe that Ian is dead because that is easier for them."

  "I think you do the embassy an injustice. Even if there has been no public execution, that doesn't prove Ian is alive."

  She scowled, half-humorous and half-serious. "The one thing I have always deplored about you, Ross, is your fair-mindedness. It is enough to drive a hotheaded Scot wild."

  He turned away and strolled across the small room, stopping in front of an undistinguished painting of an English landscape. "Quite right. It had that effect on Juliet."

  He heard a small intake of breath behind him and knew that Lady Cameron was regretting her remark. In spite of their mutual affection, it was easier not to see each other, for conversations between them were always fraught with tension as they tried, usually unsuccessfully, to avoid painful topics.

  Speaking quickly to fill the silence, she said, "I've given up trying to get any help from the embassy here. I've thought of going to London and raising interest among the British people, but time is precious and it would take months to get results. I just don't know what to do."

  Turning to face her, he said, "I know you don't want to hear this, but the best course of action is to accept that there is nothing you can do. As Canning said, Ian had to have known the risks of going to Bokhara. The odds are about even whether a European who visits there will be welcomed or killed, and I don't think an officer bearing a request from the British government would have been welcomed, no matter how diplomatic he was."

  She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. After a long speculative pause she said, "Do you know, I have been so distracted that I forgot that you went to Bokhara with Lieutenant Burnes several years ago. I've wondered why you haven't published an account, as you have with your other journeys."

  "Alex Burnes was the leader of the expedition, and his own book said everything that needed to be said. Besides, at the time I was more interested in traveling through the Sahara than going home and writing." Ross caught her gaze with his, then said slowly, every word emphasized, "It is precisely because I have been to Bokhara that I think the situation is hopeless. The amir is a whimsical man who believes that the desert will protect him from all reprisals. He would not have hesitated to order the execution of an inconvenient or irritating European prisoner."

  He saw the exact moment when Jean Cameron's weary frustration turned to excitement. "Ross, you are one of the few Englishmen who has actually been to Bokhara," she said eagerly. "Will you go there now to learn what has happened to Ian? If he is alive, you can ask for his release. And if not..." She gave a shuddering sigh. "It is better to know for sure than to spend the rest of my life wondering."

  So Jean was not as confident that Ian was alive as she pretended. Ross felt deeply sad for her, but that did not alter the facts. He had seen sudden death in too many places to believe in miracles. "I'm sorry, but I can't go. With my brother's death, I am needed back in England. Having just canceled my plans to go to Arabia, I can hardly jaunt off to Bokhara. It would be one thing if such a journey would serve any useful purpose, but it wouldn't. One way or another, Ian's fate has surely been decided long since."

  "But going there will serve a useful purpose," she argued. "And not just for me. Ian is betrothed to an English girl in India, the daughter of his colonel. How do you think she feels, not knowing if he is dead or alive?"

  Until now Ross had kept his equilibrium, but Jean's words struck deep. "I'm sure that she feels as if she is in hell," he said harshly. "No one would know t
hat better than I. But my obligation to my family must come first."

  Her face colored, but she did not give up. "Please, Ross," she said softly. "I am begging you to do this. I could not survive the loss of another of my children."

  In her intensity, for a moment she reminded him unbearably of Juliet. Ross spun away and stalked angrily across the room. Over the years he had felt many things about his failed marriage: grief, fury, and endless despairing questions about why Juliet had left him.

  Inevitably there had been guilt as he wondered what nameless crime he had committed that had sent his young wife flying away to bury herself in a distant land. If they had not married, she would never have felt the need to declare her independence in such catastrophic fashion.

  He and his mother-in-law had never discussed the subject, but he was sure that she knew how much he blamed himself for what had happened. Now Jean was using that knowledge to coerce him into undertaking a dangerous, futile mission.

  He stopped and stared out the window, where the slanting rays of the late-afternoon sun illuminated an exotic un-English scene of domes and minarets. Deliberately he studied the window as he fought to regain control of his emotions. Unlike Turkish houses, there were glass panes to keep out the winter air. Several inches beyond the glass, a gracefully shaped iron grille served as both decoration and protection in case a local mob ever decided to direct its anger at the infidels.

  The fragile foreign glass was a fitting symbol of the British presence in Asia. A foreigner could die a thousand ways here: of disease, from fierce heat or cold or thirst, at the hands of robbers or an angry mob. Ross had risked all those things many times before, but now he owed it to his parents to have more care for his life.

  As his anger faded, he released the breath he had been holding. In truth, having just left England, he had little desire to return so soon. And no matter how hard he worked to fulfill his obligations to his family, ultimately he would fail because of the foolish, headstrong marriage he had made when only twenty-one years old. As long as Juliet lived, he would be unable to produce an heir to carry on the Carlisle name.