“Well?” Kit asked, picking up a shiny, black olive and popping it between his teeth. The taste of the dark, flavorsome fruit filled his mouth.
“The Arabs in the far right corner,” said Jonathan, keeping his voice to a low murmur. “I recognize one, the one in green with the thin beard. He is Ahmed Sharrouf, definitely one of Kaddouri’s men.”
Kit resisted the natural urge to look. Being too curious in this place could lead to having your throat slit.
“Well, he doesn’t seem to recognize us. But as I recall, we didn’t give them much of an opportunity to.”
Kit stared at the dirty window in front of him, which reflected a distorted view of the other patrons behind. He would never have sat with his back to the room otherwise.
He identified the man Jonathan spoke about. The man laughed at something one of his compatriots said and shifted in his seat. The man’s left arm was missing at the elbow.
Elias also watched the men from the corner of his eye. “I guess he’s no longer sailing with Kaddouri, then.”
“No, but his friends might. Keep an eye on them.”
Elias raised his voice and regaled them with a story he had told a dozen times before. With the practiced ease of spies, Kit and Jonathan joined in the conversation but with full senses engaged.
After a while, he heard wooden chairs scrape over the tiled floor. Kit read a look in Jonathan’s eyes that told him Kaddouri’s man and his companions were about to leave. He acknowledged it with the barest incline of his head. Through the reflection in the dirty window, he watched them approach their table.
Sharrouf and his companions stopped on the way to the door. “Dirty infidel dogs. Sons of apes and pigs,” Sharrouf slurred in Arabic.
So – the man recognized them after all.
“You hear what I said, pig?” he demanded, this time in Italian.
Kit was proud of his men. They were hardened to insults – they had all heard much worse from friend and foe alike, although Elias wasn’t comfortable with it. His lips had thinned to a tight line.
Kit waited for Jonathan to catch his eye. The black man drew his eyes up from the table.
“You’re sure about this?” Kit asked.
“Never more certain.”
A gob of spittle from Sharrouf landed at Jonathan’s feet.
“Elias?”
“With you all the way, Captain.”
“I’m talking to you!” Sharrouf shouted, bringing the tavern to silence once more. Kit and his two men rose slowly from their seats and the Arab’s two friends squared their shoulders.
“We have unfinished business, English dog,” he continued.
“Yes, we do,” Kit replied mildly. He was aware of every eye on them, an eager front seat audience.
“Get out! Get outside with your brawling.” The tavern keeper yelled from behind his bar, a club ready in his hand. “I’m sick and tired of mopping up blood.”
Sharrouf stepped closer, putting himself right in Kit’s face, and whispered, “Make your first punch a good one, we’re being watched by others.”
*
Sophia sat under a small marquee, protected from the heat shimmering over the ruins of Syracuse on this fine, hot summer’s day. She sketched the object in front of her, a stone tablet measuring not more than five inches by three, featuring a carved relief of a robed figure. An example of a personal idol discarded by the Greek inhabitants from a time when Rome was little more than a city-state fighting off the Etruscans.
When the illustration was complete, she added a detailed description in the field journal. She might have thought it an exciting object, but it had been passed over by the dozen local men whose job it was to help the professor comb around the foundation of a Greek temple dedicated to Hieron the Second.
The men were more excited by a trove of tarnished silver coins, fused solid in a brass wirework basket. But for her, this was the real treasure – the intricate carved idols or the magnificent bas relief work on an amphora, the colors of which, when new, would have been as vivid and bright as the finest Chinese porcelain.
Out in the sun, a glint of metal caught her attention. Uncle Jonas waved his trowel in his hand like a conductor, admonishing workers to take care digging. Sophia smiled. She had presented the tool to him as a gift. She hadn’t intended to buy a trowel, in fact she had not thought to buy anything at all from the via Ballaro markets. Sophia shook her head, still embarrassed in her recollection…
“It’s not like you to be keen on spending your money – usually I can’t get you to part with a penny,” Laura had said.
Sophia shrugged her shoulders. “I would certainly like some sort of keepsake from our travels – a little souvenir for the butler and the housekeeper would be appropriate.”
She waited for Laura to catch her out, to call her a liar. It wouldn’t take much deduction to realize her sudden interest in browsing the markets came straight after the discussion about Kit Hardacre’s portrait. Laura’s look lingered, but she said nothing as they kept their pace along Corsa Vittorio Emanuele, a bustling thoroughfare where the modern neoclassical buildings lived in perfect harmony with the city’s ancient past.
The via Ballaro markets were crowded, so Sophia steered Laura around the edges, surreptitiously looking for number seven – the address on the card Kit had given her.
“I can’t see much to interest us in here,” said Laura. And, indeed, her cousin had been right. Crowded shelves filled with tools and dry goods, tea kettles and pots in tin and iron, some looking very much like English ones from home – it looked more like an ironmonger’s store. Behind the counter were small barrels with numbers and fractions daubed in paint. A larger barrel on which she had rested her hand was a jumble of tools – hammers, rasps, trowels.
“Here.” said Laura with much amusement. She had put a trowel in Sophia’s hand. “Perhaps you can make a gift of this to Uncle Jonas, I can’t think of anyone else who would delight in a place like this.”
A man appeared from the back room and Laura leaned in. “I’ll meet you at the stall outside. I’ve seen a most divine lace shawl in the most delicate shade of pink.”
The tinkle of the bell barely masked the sound of her laughter as the door closed behind her.
“Si, senorita?” said the man from the back room. Aged, perhaps in his sixties, slightly overweight, his hair white as ash, he wore an open and inquiring expression as he waited expectantly.
“Uh… Captain Hardacre?”
The man shook his head.
“No, mi dispiace, non è qui.”
Sophia had taken a few steps back, and the man started to frown before she realized she still had the trowel in her hand. She dropped a handful of coins on the counter and beat a hasty retreat.
Now, looking out across the dig site, she was pleased her accidental gift had been so well received.
Her smile dimmed. She had no idea what Hardacre meant went he slipped her the card. Maybe he had given her the wrong one, although she had no idea why the man would be carrying the calling cards of more than one person. Most likely, it had been some kind of joke – along with his pretense at friendship.
What a depressing thought.
Sophia swallowed lukewarm water from the flask beside her, removed her glasses and picked up another dirt-encrusted pot. She used a broad, dry paintbrush to sweep away some of the dust. Before her eyes, a garland of grapes appeared, followed by an arm and a head. After sweeping the rim, she dabbed a sponge in water. The terracotta immediately darkened and the incised decoration of dancers holding grape vines aloft became more pronounced. She set the jar on a plinth, opened a new page of her sketchbook and set to work.
The thought Hardacre would act so cruelly upset her more than she would admit. Sophia knew Laura would eventually work out what was amiss but, fortunately, she wasn’t here. She had accepted an invitation to spend time with the English couple they had met at the hotel.
As for Uncle Jonas, he had trouble seeing further th
an the end of his nose sometimes. A confirmed bachelor and a dedicated scholar, he had little knowledge or interest in the delicacy of feminine feelings. Sophia sighed and put down her pen.
A kiss. It was only a kiss from a man she did not love. So why did it bother her so much?
She closed her eyes and could see Kit smiling at her, a very particular kind of smile, conspiratorial, as though he was making her privy to a joke only the two of them shared. He was insufferable, arrogant… no, not quite… he was self-confident. No, he was vain.
Sophia shook her head. She had seen her share of fops during the season – men who spent more time in front of a mirror than a woman; whose lily white hands wouldn’t deign to pick up anything more rough than a horse’s reins. Captain Kit Hardacre may be more good looking than any man had a right to be, but he wasn’t effete, nor did she ever see him order a member of his crew to do something she had not witnessed him do himself.
She opened her eyes and shook her head. Foolish, foolish girl. This was the type of mooning she had witnessed Laura partake in during the dozen or so times over the past two seasons when she declared she was truly in love – with the handsome footman, with the member of Parliament, with the dissolute viscount, with a notorious rakehell gambler.
Was love so fickle? Surely not. She had loved Samuel for years – adored him, in fact, and her constancy had not changed in all this time. So why now?
Could it have something to do with that kiss? Perhaps, she should ask Samuel to kiss her. That would sort matters once and for all. Sophia brightened immediately at the thought. Yes, that is it exactly! Once Samuel kissed her, the odd feelings she was beginning to harbor for Hardacre would dissolve like a summer mist. Sam would be in Sicily soon. All she had to do was work out a way to make him kiss her.
Chapter Fourteen
The cuts and bruises they sported were all minor and Kit was proud to say Sharrouf and his friends were suffering equally, if not more. It had been worth the charade for the wealth of information the Arab was able to give him.
They had taken their fight downhill, away from the tavern and continued their conversation free from prying eyes, seated cross-legged in the mouth of a cave above a secluded cove.
Sharrouf went into great detail about the heroics that caused him to lose his limb. It had been a mighty sea battle and victory was theirs but, alas, a stray cannonball had taken his arm. He had been pensioned off and had bought a small vineyard on the island.
Kit had nodded along politely, knowing the truth was probably more mundane. The man was a mercenary, not a farmer at heart. Harvesting information woke the avarice in him.
“I hope what you bring me will make it worth my while, sadiqi. Kaddouri has got quite a bounty on your pretty head,” he said.
Kit nodded to Jonathan who opened up a satchel he carried. He pulled out a small, cloth bag and tossed it across.
Sharrouf caught it neatly with his one hand and prized the drawstring apart with his fingers.
“Allah has been smiling on you.”
Kit heard Elias snort derisively but ignored him.
Sharrouf continued. “I was told Kaddouri ranted for a month after the loss of his ship and cargo. You might be interested to know – he found the crew you set adrift on that miserable, leaky dhow. He had them all executed for their incompetence.”
“Where is the sand viper’s nest?” asked Kit.
“Ah, who can know the mind of a snake?” The man shrugged. “He slithers wherever he wills.”
Kit struck quickly and snatched back the purse. Sharrouf’s two friends growled. Elias and Jonathan were swift to their feet and pulled out two matching flintlock pistols but Kit remained seated.
“You wouldn’t cheat me, would you, friend?” Kit asked mildly. Sharrouf spoke rapidly in Arabic. The two men resumed their seats but continued to glower at Kit. Behind him, Kit could hear Elias and Jonathan lower themselves to the ground. Kit lobbed the bag back at Sharrouf.
“Do you really wish to hasten your advance to paradise?” Sharrouf asked. When he received no reply, he let out a long breath.
“Kaddouri’s palace is heavily guarded and fortified. I, myself, have been there and know the inside of it well,” he tapped the side of his head, “but my memory is not what it used to be.”
“Try.”
“I will, I will! You can trust I am a man of my word.”
“Where?” Kit reached behind him. Elias placed a rolled map in his hands. Kit unfurled it. Red ink marks denoted plundered villages within striking distance of Tunisia. Two blue parallel lines marked either side of the Tunisian coastline.
“Alas my friend, I don’t read maps, how can I possibly know such a thing?”
Another jingle of coins caused the man’s head to rise.
“I might be able to make an educated guess.”
“Make it a good one.”
Sharrouf studied the map and pointed. “This fortified town, the casbah, that is where he runs his Empire. It is just forty miles to Tunis and to Souk El Berka where the slave markets are.”
“I know where the slave markets are.” Kit ground out the words. When he looked up, Sharrouf regarded him thoughtfully.
“I see,” the man said. “I had no idea you had been an abeed like your friend here.” He nodded over at Jonathan. Kit swallowed the insult and trusted in his friend’s self-control.
“Where is Kaddouri now?”
Sharrouf threw his hands into the air.
“Now, you ask too much of me! Am I his brother? Am I his white eunuch who runs his business affairs?” Apparently, the question was rhetorical because he continued. “No. No, I am not. I am just a humble grower of grapes. I mind my own business for the good of my health, if you know what I mean.
“Occasionally, he and his men will come over here and, occasionally, I bump into them and they talk to me. And I, occasionally, listen to them. I had heard whispers that Kaddouri has a new patron who helped him to build Al-Min. A wealthy man. A man of great influence.”
“Who?”
“Alas, I do not know.”
Kit stared at Sharrouf for a long moment, but the man’s expression did not falter. There was every possibility it was a truthful answer. He rolled up the map and handed it to Elias who handed him another purse of coins.
Sharrouf’s eyes lit up covetously. He rose to his feet and the two men behind him did likewise.
“What would happen, I wonder, if my brothers killed you and your friends now, then took all your coin and your lovely pistols?”
“Then you will find your own place in Sheol.”
Kit stood, with Jonathan and Elias at his shoulder. He emitted a piercing whistle and man after man emerged all around them – half a dozen of the Calliope’s crew with swords and pistols drawn.
Kit tossed the second purse at Sharrouf’s feet.
“You keep listening and you keep letting them talk. I want to know who Kaddouri’s patron is.” He flicked a calling card which landed on top of the coin. “Send word here. But betray me and I will kill you, understand?”
“You can be sure of it, effendi,” said Sharrouf.
Kit walked away, well aware the man’s answer was no answer at all.
*
Kit winced as he hauled the ship’s wheel over fifteen degrees. He wanted a hot bath and a good night’s sleep.
It had been three weeks since the Calliope had left Pantelleria. They had gone about their business as a merchant vessel, visiting various islands to deliver and pick up cargo. They had sailed south until they reached the coastline of Tunisia. The Calliope now flew under a Tunisian flag and they followed its length until they found the fort Sharrouf called Al-Min.
On this occasion, the one-armed mercenary had not been lying. Just off the port, he could see the walls of a citadel. The ramparts were tall and thick, a darker shade of yellow than the sand that surrounded it.
“What can you make of it, Elias?”
Elias brought down the telescope from his eye. “
I’d feel a whole lot better if we knew what was inside the walls of the medina.”
“Same as any medina, I guess – narrow, winding streets, blind alleys. Getting in isn’t the problem – getting out is.”
“So we need to lure Kaddouri out.”
“Agreed – and also mine the harbor so he can’t send his fleet after us.”
“That’s one hell of an operation you’re planning.”
“To avoid hell, we need a lot of planning,” said Kit.
He watched his friend consider the logistics. “It will have to be when he leaves for his next raid.”
Kit released a breath. If Elias truly expressed serious reservations about an incursion, he would have ended the matter there. He knew Kit held the welfare of the Calliope and her crew first and foremost. In that case, he would abandon the idea of a raid and simply deal with Kaddouri on his own. A suicide mission to be sure, but if he could bring an end to the terror, it would be an easy choice.
“Then back to Palermo,” said Kit. “We have a lot of work to do before the end of summer.”
A day later, just as the sun was setting, the shoreline of Palermo came into view. He was off duty, so he lingered at the rail. Over the Porta Felice, he could just make out the Hotel de France lit by the lingering rays of the late sun. Had Professor Fenton received permission to rummage around the ruins of Syracuse? There was Taormina. That was a good place for the fellow to practice his… what was it called? Archaeology? If he was willing to walk into one of the tumbledown ruins he would see the most detailed frescoes he had ever seen in his life – fresh as though they had been painted only in the past year.
They would be for the professor’s eyes alone, of course. Decadent images of men and women in all manner of sexual congress were most certainly not for the delicate sensibilities of Miss Bluestocking. He imagined her eyes widening in shock; then they would widen with arousal, and he would…
Stop it!
He was doing that more and more – whenever he allowed his mind to wander, it would always come back to Sophia. He liked her. She had no idea what a beauty she was with her honey-colored skin and black hair. As far as he was concerned, she outshone her cousin. He imagined her in finery and, in his most depraved moments, imagined her out of it.
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection Page 148
