Night of a Thousand Stars (11 page)

“Letting me! I like that. I’m a grown woman,” I reminded her. “I came on my own, with no one’s permission. Let me, indeed. What a thing to say. Now, you start to work on finding out what you can about where Mrs. Starke has gone since she’s been found. If we can locate her, perhaps we’ll find Sebastian.”

I could tell from the stiff way she carried her head she was not happy, but I ignored it. “Where shall we meet next?”

She motioned for me to take out the Baedeker, and flipped quickly to a map where she drew a small
X
with a pencil. “That is a Turkish
hammam
, baths for women only. It won’t be suspicious if you go in there without the driver or Mr. Talbot. Every tourist lady likes to take the baths there, and we can speak alone.”

We set a date for our next rendezvous, and I put the Baedeker away as I rose. “Excellent work, Masterman. You may have a real talent for subterfuge,” I told her.

“Thank you, miss,” she said. But her voice was grim, and after I walked away, I turned back to find her still sitting on the bench, lost in thought.

As I emerged from the mosque, I saw Faruq standing next to the motorcar, chatting to someone. The
comte
turned as I reached them, a smile spreading slowly over his face.

“Miss March. I am enchanted.”

“Hello,
Comte
.”

“Armand,” he said with a faint air of admonition. He was dressed in European clothes, the best Savile Row could supply, tailored to within an inch of indecency, and I wasn’t surprised that heads turned as people walked past.

“Armand,” I said slowly.

He extended his arm. “I am delighted that I have run you to ground. That’s one of your English hunting metaphors, is it not?”

“It is,” I said, taking his arm. “It’s what the dogs do right before they tear the fox apart.”

He gave me a look of mock horror. “What a terrible thing to suggest! No, Miss March, I can think of far better things to do with you if I had in mind to punish you. For example, you must lunch with me.”

“I would hardly call that a punishment.”

He smiled broadly, revealing beautiful even white teeth. “Only a few days in the East and already you have learned the art of the compliment.”

“Surely the easterner doesn’t have a monopoly on that,” I argued. “The Frenchman must at least be his rival in the art of flattery.”

“And I am both,” he said, giving me a long look from under his thick lashes. “So you are doubly in danger.”

He laughed then and waved me into the motorcar. Danger indeed.

* * *

We lunched at one of the fashionable, expensive hotels that had been built by French hoteliers since the war had dropped the city into their manicured hands. Like my own hotel, this one had once been a private residence.

“It used to be a palace,” Armand told me, waving his arm in a gesture that sketched the whole of the beautiful dining room and beyond. “You can still see traces of the pasha’s excesses.”

“Pasha? So it was a Turk’s palace?” I asked.

“The Turk held sway here for a long time,” he replied. “But his day is done. It is time for the native Syrian to rule his own country.”

“You support King Feisal, then?”

He did not answer as waiters scurried around, bringing glasses and plates full of tasty, costly morsels of beautifully crafted French food. There was nothing of the Levant here, no heaps of couscous and stewed meats studded with pomegranate and dripping with sauces. Instead we had cuisine straight from Paris, lobsters dressed in frills and drawn butter, and aspics with vegetables quivering inside like tiny museum specimens. It wasn’t the sort of food I enjoyed, but the
comte
applied himself to it with enthusiasm. He ate beautifully, with delicacy and refinement, just as he did everything else. I looked at the elegant hands holding the heavy silver knife and fork and I wondered what else those hands did well.

As if he guessed my thoughts, Armand put down his cutlery and gave me an assessing look. “I owe you an apology. I thought you were just asking to be polite, but I believe there is more to you than I first anticipated. So I will pay you the compliment of a complete reply. I do not support Feisal. A king of Syria ought to be Syrian. Feisal is a Howeitat Bedouin.”

“And the Howeitat are not Syrian?”

“No,” he said, his face flushing a little with emotion. The colour crept slowly up his skin, touching first the smoothly shaven cheeks, rising up the sharp cheekbones until it crested them and passed onto the plain of his wide, unlined brow. “The Howeitat are Arabian. His father is the Sharif of Mecca, a very important position in the Islamic world, but not one calculated to find loyalty here. The Bedouin are not a single group, Miss March. They are like the Indians in America, tribes fractured by rivalries and warfare and blood feuds. They do not wish to be united, and even if they did, how is the Bedouin to understand his city-dwelling brother? It is like asking a fish to understand a cow. They are different species, and their language, their customs, their very values are not the same.”

I mused over this while he returned to his aspic, spearing a bit of asparagus through the quivering jelly.

“And you don’t think Feisal can unite them, not even for the chance at having their own country for the first time?”

He gave me a thin smile and patted his lips with his napkin. “My dear Miss March, he hasn’t the slightest chance of success. The French will sweep him away like...” He paused then flicked a crumb from the table with his forefinger and thumb. “Like that.”

“If you believe that, why are you here?” It was a bold question, but it did not displease him. Instead, he gave me a smile, perhaps the first authentic smile he had given me yet.

“Because there are fortunes to be made upon the backs of desperate men,” he said simply.

He waved the waiter over to bring more champagne and I returned to my lobster.

While I ate, he talked on, telling me of his plans for building a villa outside the city. By the time they brought plates of mint sherbet, I found myself distracted, toying with my spoon.

Instantly, his mood shifted. He pushed away his plate and levelled a look at me that seemed calculated to provoke a reaction.

“Forgive me, Miss March. I have droned on about my plans, and you are bored.”

“No, not at all,” I said, almost sounding convincing.

He clucked his tongue. “I don’t like liars,” he said, drawing out the last word like a caress. “Remember, we did discuss my penchant for punishment.”

I summoned a thin smile. “Really, I am sorry. I was just wool-gathering.”

“It is I who should apologise. I have gone on and on about myself, but you must understand, it is only because I dare not say the things I would wish to say, the things I would say, if only—”

He broke off, his face twisted with emotion. I watched as he mastered himself with what seemed an heroic effort. “As I said, I apologise. I have already said too much. Your employer is a friend of my mother’s and you are a guest in our country. I would not violate the laws of courtesy for anything, no matter how great the temptation,” he assured me, his voice lingering again on the last word.

I blinked at him. As far as seductions went, it was masterfully done. He hadn’t promised anything, hadn’t revealed anything. In fact, he had made a point to tell me he
couldn’t
promise anything. But the suggestion was there all the same. It was in his voice, the hands that rested, palms upon the table, supplicating. And it was in the eyes that rested warmly on my face. The eyes that never left mine as he waited for a response.

It was an almost perfect performance. If he could have mastered his mouth, I would have believed it. But the little half-smile still tugged at his lips, and I knew this was nothing more than a gambit in a game.

Well, if seduction really was on his mind, he’d be vastly disappointed if I capitulated now, I reasoned.

I gave him a wide smile. “Think nothing of it,
comte
,” I said brightly. “I promise you, I won’t.”

With another little prick to his
amour-propre
, he conceded the field. He gave me a gracious nod and summoned the waiter to bring the bill.

Nine

That evening after dinner, I pleaded a headache and excused myself early. Dinner had been served on trays in the colonel’s room, and the atmosphere had been stuffy. The truth was, the colonel and the
comtesse
seemed entirely happy to be left alone, and I wondered if a budding love affair was in the offing. It seemed only tactful to leave them to it, and so I excused myself and went to my room. But it was no night to be alone. I opened the shutters. It was a glorious night, the sort made for lovers and thieves, and I stood at the window for a long time, smelling the heady scent of the jasmine that bloomed under my window.

The scent clung to my skin and I walked out onto the balcony that joined my room with the others, restless in the soft night. I heard the
muezzin
’s call to prayer and somewhere a Christian church’s bells chimed the hour. It was very late, and a cloud crossed the moon, throwing the balcony into heavy shadow. The songbirds in the courtyard below had tucked their heads under their wings and gone to sleep, but I heard a soft sound that might have been a dove coo. A frisson of awareness shivered my skin. For just a moment I fancied I was not alone. I opened my mouth to call a name, but stopped. I was letting the moon and the heady fragrance play havoc with my common sense, I told myself firmly. There was no one in the shadows. I went to my bed then, leaving the shutters open to the jasmine-scented night, but I did not sleep. Not for a very long time.

The next morning, the colonel dictated a chapter of his memoirs, reciting endless details about the First Boer War until I wanted to scream with boredom. I considered faking a faint, but just as I put the back of my hand to my brow, a better notion occurred to me.

“Colonel,” I said quickly. “I do hate to interrupt you—really, it’s all been
most
interesting, but I must get on with the typing soon and I’ve just remembered the typewriter needs a fresh ribbon. Do you suppose there’s a stationer’s shop or something where I could find one?”

The story was the rankest lie. I had changed the ribbon only the week before. But it was as good an excuse as any, and he nodded.

“Yes, yes, of course” he said, waving a hand. “Bound to be one. You must ask Talbot to go with you,” he added slyly, and I wondered, not for the first time, if he were deliberately playing the matchmaker.

I gave him a prim smile and tamped the pages of notes and tucked them away. In spite of the colonel’s attempt to throw us together, I was rather glad of a little time to myself and slipped out of the hotel alone. Damascus was teeming with life, perhaps more so than any city I had ever seen. A quick chat with the hotel porter had provided the address of the stationer’s shop, and I made my way there on foot, taking in the sights and smells as I walked. A vendor in the street sold kebabs, the meat juicy and succulent and wafting the most extraordinarily delicious aromas, while others hawked cooling sherbets or roasted nuts. A pack of small boys chased a stray dog past a woman who sat on the kerb, crafting paper roses with nimble fingers. I stopped for a moment to watch. Her hands were gnarled but somehow supple, moving swiftly to transform a square of rough paper into something beautiful if fleeting. She scented each with a mist of rosewater, just to heighten the illusion. Behind her, the doors of a local coffee house had been thrown open, and the noise of friendly arguments—in French and Arabic and Turkish—spilled out into the street. I stood a moment longer before I felt a light touch on my shoulder.

I turned to find Armand looking down at me with rueful amusement. “Miss March, what a delightful surprise to find you out and about in my city.”

I lifted a brow. “Is it a surprise?”

To his credit, he laughed. “Not at all. Faruq delivered me to your hotel just as you left. I saw you ask the porter for directions. It took only a very small coin to ask him where he sent you.”

“And now you have found me.”

“That I have.” He indicated the direction of the shop. “Will you permit me to escort you to the shop?”

I felt a flutter of irritation. I was vastly enjoying my time alone, but I couldn’t very well insult a connection of the colonel’s. “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to disarrange your day on my behalf,” I said.

“But it is the greatest pleasure,” he assured me.

He took my elbow and we began to walk. “Tell me, Miss March, what do you think of my city?”

“I like it,” I told him truthfully. “Very much.”

“Is it so? But it is very different to London,” he said.

I darted a look at him, wondering for one mad instant if he knew my real identity, but his face betrayed nothing. He had not mentioned New York, I reminded myself, and if he’d known the name Penelope Hammond, he would have.

He was waiting for a response, and I smiled. “Very different, and that’s what I like. London is very polite and beautiful, of course, but Damascus is full of life and so colourful.”

“You are very kind,” he murmured. “Ah, here is the shop.”

He gestured for me to go inside, but did not follow. “I will await you here, unless you would care for some assistance in making your purchase?”

“No, thank you,” I replied. I pushed my way into the shop, pleased to find it was a wonderful mixture of old and new. There were beautiful marbled papers, so thick and lovely it would have been a crime to write upon them. Wide shelves held finely-tooled leather blotters of every description with portfolios and cases. Another set of shelves held bottles of ink, shimmering like dark jewels in the dim, cool light of the shop. I paused to admire them and the proprietor approached.

“
Assalam aleikum, mademoiselle.
Good day to you,” he said.

He was an elderly gentleman, bald as an egg but with a luxuriant beard and eyebrows even more lavish than the colonel’s.

“Aleikum assalam,”
I returned.

He broke into a wide smile. “Your accent is very good, but you are not a speaker of Arabic, I think.”

“You’ve just heard the only two words I know,” I confessed. “I’m very glad you speak English.”

“But of course,
mademoiselle
,” he said gravely. “It is a courtesy to my customers. Will you permit me to show you my shop?”

He took me on a tour then, pointing out the beautiful pens from France, the exquisite workmanship of the blotters—“Crafted here in Damascus by the finest leather workers,
mademoiselle!
”—and opened bottles of scented ink to waft under my nose. “Can you smell the rose in this one? And here, you must try this. It smells of violets, a favourite scent of Napoleon, you know,” he advised as he held out a bottle of ink the colour of crushed blackberries.

“They’re divine,” I told him. “But I really only need a typewriter ribbon.”

He spread his hands. “Yes, this I have, but first you must be cared for. Tea,
mademoiselle
,” he pronounced. He made a quick click of his tongue and a boy scurried out of the back room bearing a tray with a pot and two glasses. The proprietor gestured towards the corner of the shop, where he had arranged a small seating area. “Here we will drink tea together,” he told me as he plumped up a cushion for my comfort. The seating area was cosy and it afforded an excellent view of the street. I glanced out to see Armand standing, smoking a thin black cigarette. He looked as if he were brooding, and I turned to the proprietor with an apologetic shrug.

“It’s so kind of you, but I’m not sure I ought to. You see, I have a friend waiting,” I told him with a nod towards Armand.

The proprietor smiled. “Is he a Damascene?”

“Yes.”

“Then he understands the proper way that things must be done,” he informed me. He poured out the tea—mint and heavily sweetened. “You see,
mademoiselle
, it is very important that all things are civilised. You come to my business to purchase a typewriter ribbon. This is a small thing. I could give you the ribbon and take your money and it would be the matter of mere minutes. But I do not like this way. It is impersonal. Now you have seen my shop. You have been made comfortable and been given tea and a place to sit to refresh yourself. The boy will bring your ribbon when we have finished and I will send a bill later. This is civilised,” he finished firmly.

“Very much so,” I told him. “And if you’re sure the gentleman won’t mind—”

The elderly man’s eyes twinkled. “It does not hurt a man to wait on a pretty girl.”

He refreshed my tea then and we sat and talked for some time. He told me about his wife of forty years and his four sons—“Three of them are handsome and stupid. One is clever and has the face of a dog.” He asked many questions about England in turn, and was particularly interested in Queen Mary. “I think she is a fine figure of a woman. She looks very like my wife,” he told me, his eyes bright with amusement.

“Then you are a lucky man,” I said in a slightly strangled voice. I had never heard anyone call Queen Mary a fine figure of a woman, but the old fellow was very kind and when we had finished our tea, he summoned the boy again and in a very few minutes the ribbon appeared, neatly wrapped in a paper parcel and tied with wax string.

“As you requested,
mademoiselle
,” the proprietor told me, presenting it with as much ceremony as if it were a jewel.

“Thank you—” I hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

He put his hand to his heart in a courtly gesture. “I am Mohammed,
mademoiselle
. And you are Mademoiselle March at the Hotel Palmyra,” he recited. “You see, I remember. I am an old man, but I do not forget.”

“And I won’t forget you,
monsieur
. Thank you for a lovely introduction to your shop.”

“You must come again,” he said, bowing once more. He glanced out the window to where Armand had been standing. “And I was right. It has made your gentleman friend no trouble to wait. He has met an acquaintance,” he pointed out.

I looked past him to see Armand in conversation with Hugh. The conversation did not appear entirely friendly. Armand was listening with a raised brow, his lips thin with irritation. But whatever Hugh said, it must have struck home, for Armand finally lifted his hand in annoyance and made a gesture as if to swat away a fly.

By the time I said goodbye to Mohammed and made my way onto the street, they had smoothed things over. Hugh was looking a trifle flushed, but smiled when he saw me, and Armand was wearing his usual unruffled expression.

“My dear Miss March, I hope you found all that you required?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting for so long,” I began, but he brushed away my excuses.

“This is the gateway to the East, Miss March,” he said lightly. “All transactions take time. It would be uncivilised to do otherwise.”

“So I’ve been told. Hullo,” I said formally.

Hugh inclined his head. “The colonel sent me to find you. He seemed to think he’d instructed you to take me along on your errand today and seemed a trifle put out to find you’d left without me.”

“Did he?” I asked, opening my eyes very wide. “How curious. I must have misunderstood.” That excuse seldom worked with Mother, but Hugh seemed pacified.

“Yes, well, now that I’ve found you, I’ve just been explaining to the
comte
that I was planning on taking you to lunch.”

He gave the
comte
a defiant look as if daring him to object, and Armand gracefully ceded the field. He bowed slightly to me. “A charming notion. I can think of no finer luncheon companion than Miss March, as I have reason to know,” he added with a touch of malice.

He lifted his hat and walked away without waiting for a response.

“I do not like that fellow,” Hugh said, his hands tightening into fists.

I tucked my hand into his elbow. “Never mind. I suspect you’re just feeling irksome because you’re hungry. I know I’m famished, and if you really mean to take me to lunch, the proprietor of the stationery shop suggested the most wonderful restaurant just around the corner. Come on!”

* * *

It was scarcely two minutes’ walk to the restaurant, and I was a little surprised to find that we were standing in front of a shabby wooden door where a legless beggar held out a bowl.

Hugh gave me a doubtful look. “Are you quite certain about this?”

“Quite,” I said firmly. “Mohammed’s cousin owns it. It is a traditional restaurant, and he says it serves the most authentic luncheon in the city.” I lowered my voice. “He also said to pay no mind to Selim, the beggar. Apparently, he is here every day. Mohammed said we’re just to step over his stump.” Hugh did exactly that, ignoring the fellow completely, but I managed to drop a few coppers into his bowl on the way in.

Hugh pushed open the wooden doors and I caught my breath. Beyond was a courtyard, very like the
comtesse
’s but even more magnificent, and past that was the restaurant, part of an extensive palace, but now serving patrons the most delicious food in Damascus, at least the owner insisted so. Mohammed had apparently sent word ahead that we were coming and the owner gave us a perfect table under the centre of a high golden dome. There were no proper chairs, but silken cushions scattered around, and I smiled as Hugh folded his tall body into something more compact.

He was graceful as an athlete, and too polite to notice my own struggles with a slim skirt. But I managed, and by the time I had arranged myself, he had already given in to the owner’s insistence on bringing us his own choices.

What followed was one of the most memorable meals of my life. There was stewed meat of four different varieties, each heavily spiced, and couscous bejewelled with pomegranate seeds and heaped onto a platter. There were bowls of softly cooked vegetables and tiny savoury pastries, hot with spice and crisp. A succession of sweets followed, each more decadent than the last, ending with a bowl of rosewater sherbet with a pistachio sauce and biscuits made with anise served alongside strong coffee scented with cardamom.

“That was magnificent,” Hugh said, patting his stomach with a sigh.

“I won’t ever forget it,” I agreed.

He touched my hand briefly. “I hope you won’t forget anything about this trip,” he said softly.