Page 2 of Silver Angel

Allah preserve them, it had better be over soon. Jamil was not a man to suffer restraints gracefully. The constant vigil, the frustration of not knowing who his enemy was, were already telling on him. If he were older, perhaps he would have more patience. But the Dey was only twenty-nine. He had ruled Barikah only these past seven years, having come to the throne on the death of his older half brother, who had been disrespectfully known as “the tyrant.”

But Jamil’s rule had been good for Barikah. His outstanding political wisdom, his spirit of honor and justice, his concern for the welfare of his people, had endeared him to every Barikahian and brought prosperity to the city. Omar would do everything in his power to see Jamil’s life protected, even if it meant the sacrifice of hundreds of loyal men, or the sacrifice of this naive young man sitting before him. Why had he hesitated at all?

Omar Hassan tossed a purse onto the table and allowed a slight smile to curve his lips when the heavy sound of it caused Ali’s eyes to grow wide. “That is for your expenses,” he explained. “There is enough there to buy a ship and crew outright, but you shouldn’t have to go to that extreme. A small xebec for speed, rented for your exclusive use, should do you well.” Another purse, just as heavy, landed next to the first. “This is for your service. There will be another one like it if you succeed.” Omar’s smile widened for a moment as Ali’s eyes rounded even more, but then his expression turned serious again. “Just remember, if you do succeed, you are not to return to Barikah for at least six months.”

This was the only thing Ali didn’t understand about his mission, but he was loath to question the Grand Vizier for the reason. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. And don’t worry about your woman in your absence. I will personally see that she isn’t sold to another and that she is well taken care of. If you don’t return, I will continue to see to her welfare.”

“Thank you, my lord!”

There was nothing else to say. Omar Hassan handed over the letter.

Chapter Two

My dearest Ellen,

I don’t mean to complain, but you haven’t answered my last letter. Is something wrong? Are you ill? You know how I worry when I don’t hear from you. And now that your niece’s mourning period is over, I know you must be entertaining. I was expecting a very newsy letter telling me all about it.

Chantelleisstill with you, isn’t she? Of course she must be, since she’s not withthem. I suppose you’re too busy getting her ready for the season to write. That I can understand. She’s such a lovely girl. She must have every eligible blood in the area trotting after her.Arethere any eligibles there? No matter, dear. There are certainly enough here in London for her to choose from when she comes. And I amsolooking forward to seeing you again, and dear Chantelle, too.

You know my daughter’s husband—

Ellen Burke lowered the letter to her lap and rubbed her eyes. It was so tedious, reading one of Marge Creagh’s letters. Ellen didn’t know how the woman managed to write ten to twelve pages of pure nonsense, but she did it every time. And to think that one year of school, shared twenty-five years ago, could account for one of these gossipy letters every few months. But she had to read them. You never knew when Marge might impart some useful bit of information.

She skimmed through several pages until the underlinedtheycaught her eye. Ellen supposed she should never have said her American cousins were upstarts, at least not to Marge Creagh. Now Marge felt perfectly free to ridicule the American Burkes at every opportunity. Not that Ellen didn’t agree with every word, but it was not for Marge Creagh to say them.

I wasn’t surprised whentheycame to town early. Your cousin Charles has made quite a nuisance of himself at the clubs, so I’ve heard, and so has his son, Aaron. It was bad enough when they brought the older girl out last season, when they all should have been in mourning as you and Chantelle were, but this year they’ve managed to buy her a sponsor to Almack’s. And I wonder whose money paid for that, since it’s well known Charles inherited only the baronetcy from your brother, not his wealth. Does Chantelle know how they’re squandering her money? How could your brother have made such a perfidious man her guardian?

Ellen crumpled the letter in a rare burst of anger and threw it in the wastebasket beside her chair. So it was true, what she had long suspected. Charles Burke was not only a neglectful guardian, he was also a thief. No wonder he hadn’t answered her letters. He didn’t dare.

Good Lord, what were they to do? What could they do? Until Chantelle married or reached her majority, cousin Charles had control of her inheritance, and control of her. And since she wouldn’t be twenty-one for another two years, nor could she marry without Charles’ permission, there was every likelihood that there would be little or nothing left of the modest fortune that Chantelle’s father had left her. Even her home had been taken over. Instead of residing in Sackville and the small estate of the baronetcy there, Charles had moved his large family into the more impressive Burke mansion in Dover, which was unentailed and so belonged to Chantelle now.

Fortunately, Chantelle had not yet suggested that she go home, for Ellen had to wonder if she would find a welcome in Dover now. She had come to stay with Ellen when her father died, before his only living male relative had descended on England with his American family. They had come to visit once, when Chantelle was still too overcome with grief to take much notice of them, but they had not suggested she return home either.

Apparently Charles thought the present arrangement ideal. And of course he would, since he was not supplying any money toward Chantelle’s support, any ofher ownmoney. He had obviously thought Ellen was well enough situated to support them both, or he simply didn’t care. She had had to disabuse him of that notion finally. Pride was pride, but it didn’t put food on the table. Her own inheritance from her father had long ago been reduced to a very modest income, adequate only for one. But several months had passed and Charles still had not answered her letters. And now he was in London again, squandering Chantelle’s money on his own family while Ellen pinched pennies and sold heirlooms to keep Chantelle from discovering the truth about the appalling predicament her father had bequeathed her.

No, to be fair, Ellen thought, it wasn’t her brother’s fault. When his heir, their older cousin, had died, Oliver had made every effort to discover the whereabouts of the younger cousin, who was by default his new heir to the baronetcy. That Oliver had died, too, before Charles was found could not have been foreseen. Nor could Oliver have known what a wastrel Charles was, or he would have made suitable arrangements for Chantelle instead of leaving no stipulation at all—which left Charles, as her only male relative, her lawful guardian.

At least Chantelle had Ellen. With the twenty years’ difference in their age, Chantelle was more like a daughter, though Ellen had not helped to raise her. She had always been traveling during Chantelle’s younger years, and when she did finally settle down, it was not to come home to live with her brother and his family. She was too independent for that. She had bought this cottage in Norfolk, where she had lived these past ten years, alone. It was how she liked it, though she hadn’t minded at all Chantelle’s coming to stay with her when Oliver died. She loved the girl dearly.

Ellen had no children of her own, which was perhaps why she felt so close to her brother’s only child. By her own choice, she had never married. She was a plain-looking woman of thirty-nine, with light brown hair and blue eyes that were her best feature. She had been asked to marry. She had even had several love affairs that she remembered fondly, so it wasn’t that she didn’t like men. She just didn’t want to live with one. She liked her independence too much.

Perhaps it hadn’t been wise to keep Chantelle with her for the past year and a half. Chantelle had learned to be independent as well. That was fine for a woman who didn’t plan to marry, but Chantelle would marry.

Unlike Ellen, who had the unremarkable Burke looks, Chantelle was the lone flower in the weed patch who took after her mother’s French side of the family. Oliver had always claimed she was the image of her maternal grandmother, who was reputed to have been the mistress of kings, a rare beauty in the French court. Chantelle was even named after her. And it was true she looked nothing like a Burke with her platinum-blond hair and striking eyes the color of spring violets. She might not be small and delicate, but she wasn’t too tall at five and a half feet either. She was too lovely by half, actually, certainly too lovely for men to ignore. She would be able to have her pick of beaux. She would be able to marry well—if she ever got the chance with Charles Burke as her guardian.

Ellen sighed. If that man didn’t answer her letter soon, she would have to think seriously about taking Chantelle to London herself. She deserved to have her season, to be brought out in a style befitting her means and station. If Charles tried to deny her that, as it seemed he was doing with his lack of communication, he would have a fight on his hands. Ellen still had enough friends and influence in London to make things very unpleasant for her American cousin if he didn’t own up to his responsibilities.

“Aunt Ellen, I’m back!” Chantelle called suddenly from the kitchen, and a moment later stepped into the parlor. “I found a nice chunk of beef for dinner and some kidneys for breakfast. Oh, and Mrs. Smith told me to tell youagain”—she rolled her eyes—“that if you keep sending me to market, she’ll soon be ruined.”

“Is that why you’re smiling?”

Chantelle grinned cheekily. “Last week I was giving her headaches. This week I’m ruining her. I wonder what I’ll be responsible for next week.”

“Insomnia? She’s used that one on me before.”

Chantelle laughed. “She’s wonderful. I’ve never met anyone who gets so much pleasure out of haggling.”