Page 6 of Silver Angel

The Earl of Mulbury dismounted, handing the reins of his prize Thoroughbred over to the head groom. Black brows came together above emerald eyes as he glanced up the narrow path toward the house. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and his friends were all known to Harry, so for the moment his interest was piqued.

“Are you sure it’s me he wants to speak with, not the Marquis?”

“Asked for you by name, he did. Didn’t mention your grandfather. Didn’t say nothing else, actually. In fact, I’d say he doesn’t speak English. Had that look about him, if you know what I mean.”

The Earl nodded, tamping down the urge to grin. Harry didn’t trust foreigners, ever since his daughter had run off with a Frenchman many years ago. Anyone with the slightest accent was suspect as far as Harry was concerned. His friend Marshall Fielding had always complained about Harry, because the groom often gave his couriers a bad time when they delivered dispatches here. But the chap awaiting him couldn’t be one of Marshall’s agents, since at the Marquis’s request the Earl was no longer involved with British intelligence, though he had never been seriously involved to begin with.

There was no point wondering about it when the fellow awaited him. The Earl headed up the stable path, coming out on the right side of the Palladian-style mansion, residence of the Marquis of Huntstable, his grandfather. The Earl had his own estate in York, but aside from a short yearly visit there to be sure the old manor house was still standing and the tenants were happy with his steward, he lived here in Kent with his grandfather. It was by mutual choice. Notwithstanding the fact that he was the Marquis’s only heir, and so the old gentleman was frantic to keep him close and protected, they were also extremely fond of each other.

“Your lordship, there is—”

“Yes, I know, Mr. Walmsley,” the Earl cut the butler short as he handed over his hat, gloves, and riding quirt. “Where have you put him?”

“I would have kept him here in the hall, milord, but the way he kept staring at the maids made them nervous, so I moved him to the little parlor.”

“Rude, was he?”

“You would think he had never seen a woman before,” was Mr. Walmsley’s opinion.

Mobile lips turned up slightly at one comer. “Did he offer a card?”

“He didn’t even give his name, milord,” the butler replied with marked distaste. “If you ask me—”

“Never mind. I’ll see him now. And send in my usual tray, Mr. Walmsley, with enough for two.”

The little parlor was located to the right of the mammoth hall, down a short corridor there, and at the back of the house. It caught the morning sun, making it a cheerful room, at least at this time of year. The sun was sadly lacking this morning, however, but the rain had held off until after the Earl had enjoyed his morning ride. The room was still light enough with two ceiling-high windows so that lamps were not necessary, and the single occupant was quite visible, standing feeing the left wall, clearly fascinated with a shelf of antique clocks.

The little fellow didn’t hear him enter, which was fortunate, for the Earl didn’t like being taken by surprise, but he certainly was. Even from this side view, he recognized his visitor’s nationality, and a dozen questions popped into his mind, along with dread, for he could think of only one reason for an Arab’s presence here, and it wasn’t good.

With difficulty, the Earl brought his features into a bland mask, and in precise Arabic, he asked, “You requested an interview?”

Ali ben-Khalil jerked around abruptly at the sound of a familiar tongue in this foreign land. It was unexpected, unhoped for, but then Ali was beginning to think Allah had personally seen him through this whole journey, so what was one more blessing? Hadn’t he made it safely out of Barikah? Hadn’t the weather cooperated and rushed the little three-masted xebec across the seas in less than a month? Even the crew had been blessed in finding an unexpected captive on shore who would add to their profit from this voyage. Then there had been the sailor who spoke English and helped to teach Ali the words he needed to know to reach this place quickly. And there had been the clothes he had easily found hanging in a backyard and stolen, so that he wouldn’t look so conspicuous when he had to approach strangers to ask directions. Everything had gone so well, too well, in fact, that he had begun to fear something had to go wrong just to balance the scales. But no, he was here. The tall man who spoke his tongue was obviously the one he sought. He had succeeded, to the very end. Pride and elation swelled in equal proportions within his chest.

“Derek Sinclair?”

At the nod, Ali quickly handed the letter forward, then stood back and waited, for what he had no idea. Perhaps there would be questions. Perhaps the Englishman could recommend where Ali could stay for the next six months. He still didn’t understand why he should be banned from Barikah for such a time, but he couldn’t complain. He was a rich man now. Besides his own purse, there was still a large balance left from the money he had used to hire the corsair.

He watched the Englishman move to a small desk in a corner and pick up a letter opener before sitting down. The letter itself took only a few seconds to read, it was so brief, and then he looked up to stare at Ali. It was those penetrating green eyes that finally broke through Ali’s euphoria to send a cold chill down his back. The eyes, the height, the aquiline features. There was no beard, but…

Ali groaned, then immediately prostrated himself on the floor. “Don’t kill me, gracious lord! Please, you must lock me away. I am willing, I swear!”

“Why?”

The question was so bland, Ali dared to raise his head slightly. “I—I have seen you.”

“So you have. Very well, how long shall I detain you?”

“Six months,” Ali replied instantly, finally understanding. “I was told not to return for six months.”

The Earl swore softly. Six months? He was supposed to be married next month. Caroline wasn’t going to like such a long delay. His grandfather wasn’t going to like it either. But if the courier was to be detained for six months, then Derek could expect to be gone just as long.

“Get up off the floor and tell me what you can about this letter.”

“I didn’t read it,” Ali protested as he slowly rose, warily watching his host.

“It wouldn’t matter if you had. What else do you know about it?”

Ali briefly told him about the many couriers who had been sent out with the same letter, only to die by assassins. How he had volunteered and succeeded. Then he was asked about the Dey.