Diane Whiteside - Devil - 6 by The Devil She Knows

Author:The Devil She Knows [Knows, The Devil She]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-10-20T00:34:25.984000+00:00

Chapter Twenty-one

Early morning fog retreated like a cowardly foe across the Bosporus until the great harbor sparkled like

a victory parade. The world’s greatest nations’ ships lay at anchor under clear blue skies, while tiny

rowboats flitted through every available gap. A salt breeze stirred the air, touched by a promise of fresh

fish from the local market.

Asia’s hills rose in the east, shrouded in shadows against the dawn. A few lights glittered along the

waterline, emblematic of the wealthy who slept there in seaside mansions.

For now. Florence Nightingale’s hospital had marked those shores thirty years ago. Those lavish little

mansions would make excellent officers’ clubs for the British Empire’s finest.

St. Arles made a mental note to add them to his inventory of property to berequested from Turkey’s

next sultan and allowed himself another swallow of tea.

“More tea, my lord?” the captain’s steward asked, his white uniform crisp as the white canvas awning

stretched overhead to shield the warship’s teak deck from the sun. White paint gleamed beside brilliantly

polished brass, and ropes were coiled like sleeping dragons on the pristine deck. Two boilers rumbled

deep within, a reminder of how fast the warship could leap into action.

St. Arles held out his mug without a word, unsurprised the stolid Welshman read him so well. After all,

he’d chosen tea over wine at every opportunity since he’d come onboard. What the devil else would

they expect of a former British naval lieutenant?

Nobody made tea like the British Navy. It had been far too long since he’d last savored its milk-laced

beauty.

“Very fine harbor, St. Arles,” Southers remarked and closed his spyglass with a snap. “No wonder

Jason and the Argonauts established camp here.” Two years younger than his guest, his blond hair

gleamed with youthful enthusiasm against his tanned cheeks. “She’ll make a very tidy eastern outpost

indeed for our fleet, almost equal to Dover, I do believe.”

St. Arles gritted his teeth against another surge of frustrated rage and silently cursed his indolent older

brother Philip yet again.

Dammit, he should have been the one comparing this anchorage to the British Navy’s fortified home port

in the English Channel.

Ten years ago, he’d thought himself the luckiest man in Britain. He’d dodged his father’s boring,

barracks-bound Army into a glittering naval career, full of good mates and constant travel. No need there

to worry about awkward questions from discarded females, who might be a bit worse for weather, not

when tomorrow always provided a new port or a new ship. He’d been so bloody happy until Philip had

ruined everything once again.

The fat, drunken ass fell asleep in a brothel, while smoking a filthy cigarette—not even a manly cigar! He

thereby transformed himself into a torch and the entire establishment into his funeral pyre.

Even the Navy’s worst ship offered fewer rats than St. Arles House ten years ago. Water only ran down

the bulkheads during a gale, rather than seeping out of the walls in moldy patches.

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“Beautiful harbor indeed,” St. Arles agreed. “An excellent jumping off point against the Russians.”

A pack of young officers prowled across the foredeck, ostensibly checking the great guns’ brass work.

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