She said calmly, “Those Frankish names are impossible to pronounce. It is the man in the great house—not the house of the English consul but the other one. I beg you to permit me to enter. My message is most important. By tomorrow it will be too late, and others will suffer the consequences.”
I surely will. I’ll be dead, or wishing I were.
The gate opened, only a very little: barely enough for her to squeeze through. It shut quickly behind her, catching the hem of her cloak. She pulled, and the cloth ripped.
Her heart beat so hard she could scarcely breathe. She was afraid that all the care she’d taken would be for nothing. She’d be caught once again, and this time the punishment would be drowning, strangulation, poisoning, or beheading.
Yet hope beat within her, too. It had sustained her for all these years and it had propelled her thus far.
She held out the rubies to the gatekeeper. He lifted his lamp and peered into her veiled face. Since the veil covered all but her eyes, he must see the desperation in them. She could only hope he interpreted it as an underling’s fear of failing a master. Those doing the bidding of their masters—and a woman always had masters—had reason to be afraid.
The lowliest harem slave quickly became adept at reading facial expressions; survival depended on the skill. But his told her nothing. Still, it was a wonder she could see straight, so wrought up she was. She had no idea whether he hesitated out of pity or suspicion. Perhaps it was simply a case of his greed warring with his fear of getting into trouble with his masters.
“Take them,” she said. “Only show me the way.”
He shrugged and took them. He pointed.
She hurried away in the direction he indicated. The house was not hard to find. She pounded on the door.
This time, not an Egyptian porter’s but an English servant’s face appeared at the small grate.
“Please,” she said. Her English was stiff from lack of use. She’d struggled not to forget, but the language was dim in her mind, like the memories of family and home. Now the pounding weight in her chest seemed to press upon her brain as well, and the words, the precious words, eluded her.
“Please. I…am…Zoe. Zoe…Lez. Ahm. Zoe Lex…ham. Lexham. Please help me.”
Her strength failed her then, as did the courage she’d mustered—not simply to flee the great palace across the Nile but to endure life in that prison for twelve years while she tried to preserve the spirit of the girl she’d been. She had wanted all her courage to survive and to make her way here.
Now it gave out, and she slumped to the ground.
Lord Adderwood swallowed hard and furtively dashed a tear from his eye before he looked up from the newspaper.
Marchmont, who’d heard the account of Zoe’s escape firsthand, had his feelings well under command.
Adderwood cleared his throat. “Do you know, I always thought Beardsley a hack of the lowest order,” he said. “Miss Lexham, it appears, inspired him to something like competence.”
Marchmont noted with satisfaction the use of the termMiss Lexhamrather thanHarem Girland the respectful tone employed. “She’s the sort of girl who inspires a fellow,” he said.
“It is she, then.”
“Beyond a doubt. You’ll recognize her the instant you see her.”
“Not at all sure of that,” Adderwood said. “You knew her a good deal better. To me she was always a blur disappearing into the distance.”
“She’s not at all blurry at present,” said Marchmont. “You’ll have your thousand pounds before the end of the day.”
In fact, the money would have been delivered to Adderwood’s house already. Yesterday, before going upstairs to dress for the evening, Marchmont had notified his secretary. Osgood would have written the bank draft first thing this morning. He knew, as did everyone else, that whatever else the Duke of Marchmont chose to neglect or forget, he never broke his word, and he never overlooked debts of honor.
Everyone knew he’d lost all respect for Brummell when the man had sneaked away in the dead of night, leaving his friends responsible for thousands of pounds in loans and annuities.
Adderwood scanned the remaining columns of newsprint. Half the paper had been given over to Zoe Lexham. The story of her captivity and escape would appear in pamphlet form within hours, no doubt. With illustrations.
“I can hardly take it in,” Adderwood said. “Is this all true? You were present when Beardsley spoke to her.”
“He took it from her almost verbatim,” said Marchmont. “He’s even managed to capture her—er—distinctive manner of expressing herself.”
While listening to the lilting voice, with its shadows and soft edges, the Duke of Marchmont had been more deeply moved than he would ever admit.
He hadn’t, until then, heard the true story of her disappearance. Only then had he learned that she hadn’t run away from the servants in charge of her.
