If she lived that long.
Which she wouldn’t if she tried to kill her husband. But she couldn’t be planning that, Varian tried to persuade himself. His suspicion, surely, was nothing more than feverish fancy, sparked by jealous delirium.
She is not right in the head.
She was not in her right mind.
If Percival and Petro had diagnosed accurately, the only sensible thing to do was get clear of her, as far away as possible, as fast as possible. Percival could well do without a homicidal lunatic for a cousin. England could well do without her as a subject. Let Albania deal with her.
The room was silent, waiting. Ali’s expression was inscrutable. Percival’s countenance was pale, his green eyes wide and anxious. The golden prince watched Esme. Varian wondered what he saw there, but refused to look at her.
He closed the cover of the jewel box. “A most generous reparation,” he said calmly. “I shall be honored to convey your request to her uncle.”
Ismal’s guileless expression never faltered. He was good at this, very good, Varian thought, or else very much in earnest. He ruthlessly crushed the doubt. He was in no state to consider consequences, not those, not now.
“I beg your pardon,” Ismal said. “My English has failed me. I do not comprehend.”
“I shall be happy to communicate your proposal to the head of Esme’s English family,” Varian clarified, “when I take her to him.”
Silence.
Ali looked to Esme, but no translation was forthcoming.
He directed a question at Ismal, who feigned incomprehension.
It was left to Varian to translate in his wretched schoolboy Greek and explain he’d no right to dispose of a female to whom he was unrelated. If he did so without Sir Gerald’s written consent, Varian claimed, he might be charged with abduction and slave trading, both grave offenses under English law.
“But she is not English.” Ismal’s voice was angelically patient. “She is Albanian, his highness’ subject.”
“She most certainly is not!” Percival burst out.
All eyes turned to him. He reddened. “I do beg your pardon. I don’t mean to be impolite, but unless I’ve misunderstood dreadfully, it can’t possibly be so.”
“Percival, if you don’t mind—”
“But, sir—”
“DSgjoni!” Ali ordered. “DSgjoni djali. “
“We are to listen to the boy,” Ismal said, smiling faintly. “It is my royal cousin’s whim.”
Ali patted the boy on the shoulder. “You. Speak.”
Percival eyed him nervously. “Thank you, sir.” His frightened glance darted to Ismal, then Esme, and settled at last on Varian, who gave a curt nod.
Percival drew a steadying breath. “The mother’s side doesn’t count,” he said. “Mustafa explained it to me. It’s as though her bloodline doesn’t exist. Therefore, Cousin Esme is British, not Albanian. There can’t be any doubt about that, in any case. When Uncle Jason got married, he went to all the trouble of going to Italy and finding an Anglican clergyman and getting it done properly. I know, because he kept all his private papers with his banker in Venice. He had copies made for Mama to send to England, and I saw them all: the marriage lines, and papers for Esme’s birth in 1800, and Uncle Jason’s will. He said he didn’t want any legal problems for Esme. He said—”
“It is nonsense!” Esme cried. “The child makes it all up. My parents were wed in Janina, not Italy.”
“They had an Albanian ceremony in Janina,” Percival said, “but they were married again with English rites in Italy.”
“No!”
Varian looked at her. “So you know a bit about English law, do you?”
“Aye, and I am a bastard by that law,” she spat out. “Percival tells this falsehood to persuade everyone I am not. But I am not British. I’m no subject of your lunatic king!”
“It makes no matter, my heart,” Ismal said soothingly. “Your father was disowned by his family, and he became an Albanian. You are Albanian.” He turned to Varian, whose jaw ached with the effort to maintain his mask of composure.
“You know her kin do not want her,” Ismal went on, his silky voice reproachful now. “Why do you wish to take her to an uncle who will only discard her, as he discarded his own brother? Why make her suffer such shame, when she will only be returned to me in the end? You know it is so, my lord. All Albania knows it is so.”
“If you knew it,” Varian returned coolly, “why did you bother to seek my permission?”
“Out of respect,” Esme snapped. “Out of courtesy, which you do not comprehend. You do not understand the honor he does you, and how he humbles himself. Five hundred pounds and a stallion for your trouble he offers, when the law decrees much less. In answer, you insult him. You are a mannerless barbarian!”
“Nay, my little one,” Ismal chided gently. “My feelings are of no account. Do not distress yourself on my behalf.”
Damn them both, Varian thought. You’d think they’d rehearsed the whole scene. Did they expect him to believe this star-crossed lovers gibberish? What sort of lackwit did they take him for? Or was it for someone else’s benefit?
Varian look at Percival, who appeared near tears. A few more minutes of this and the boy, too, would be pleading on behalf of Romeo and Juliet here.
Varian rose. “Come, Percival. I see no reason to linger for more of this farce. I had thought my opinion and assistance were solicited. I was mistaken.”
Ali barked something to Ismal, who answered reluctantly.
Varian began walking toward the doorway. “Come, Percival,” he ordered, still without raising his voice.
The boy bit his lip but rose obediently and hurried to his side. “I do hope this is not a mistake,” he muttered.
Varian hoped so, too. Behind him, the two Albanian men were still talking. Would they let him stalk out? If they did, he couldn’t turn back, he knew. He knew as well that Ali had taken his measure and had surely assessed him accurately. The Vizier was near eighty. He’d never have lived so long if he couldn’t recognize a blackguard when he met one.
“Varian Shenjt Gjergj. “ Ali’s voice. “Lorrrd Ee-dee-mund.”
Varian paused, his face a mask of boredom, his heart hammering with dread.
“Please to remain,” his highness continued in Greek. “The others will return to their own chambers. They grow tiresome, these children.” He waved his hand at Ismal. “You, fetch my secretary. I want an interpreter in his right mind.”
Chapter Sixteen
One of the guards who had escorted Esme and Percival to Varian’s apartment lingered yet, just inside the door. Esme sat on the sofa, scowling at her cousin. Percival—his rock-filled leather pouch hugged to his chest—was pacing the room. They had awaited Lord Edenmont’s return nearly two hours, arguing most of the time and getting nowhere. Each had proved to be fully as obstinate as the other. Esme’s sole satisfaction was that the endless debate frustrated the hateful guard, who understood not a syllable of English.
“I do wish you’d not vexed Lord Edenmont,” Percival reproached. “If he’s angry enough to leave you here, I can’t think what I’ll tell Grandmama. She’ll speak to the Prime Minister, I know she will—or to the Regent himself, even though she hates him—and the next thing you know, we’ll be at war with Albania.”
“That is nonsense. Governments scarcely admit that women exist. They certainly don’t go to war over them.”
“They most certainly do. What about Helen of Troy?”
“Y’Allah, my face would not launch so much as a fishing boat, let alone a thousand ships. I think you have read too many fairy tales. You are always inventing troubles and catastrophes. You invent conversations that never occurred except in your own head. You hear my father speak of a small disturbance—in a place where there is always disturbance—and you imagine plots of revolution.”
“I did not. It was just as I told you.”
“You saw my suitor with your own eyes, hea
rd him with your own ears. He is even more spoiled and lazy than the arrogant lord who brought you here,” she said scornfully. “Ismal nearly wept when his request was answered so insolently. You think this tender-hearted creature would—”
“Whited sepulchres,” Percival said.
“What?”
“I shall find the passage for you in the family Bible when we get home. If we get home. Oh, I do wish you’d been a boy,” he added crossly. “You are ever so unreasonable. No wonder you make his lordship lose his temper. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. He’s always so amiable and remarkably understanding. He hasn’t even scolded me for taking him here and getting myself abducted.”
“He may beat you if he finds out how you lied and tricked him.”
Percival stopped short and stared at her, his eyes wide with shock. “You wouldn’t carry tales. You promised.”
Esme leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “Ismal offered five hundred pounds and a stallion, but that was not enough. Perhaps a chess piece worth a thousand pounds will prove a more satisfactory bribe.”