“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, M’ LORD.”
Jago stood warily before the Earl of Farndon in the library, his expression blank.
“I did. We’re due to have a little talk together, I believe …”
“If’n it pleases you, m’ lord.”
In the past Renzi had been deeply involved with the Duc d’Auvergne and his secret network of spies, and himself had gone out on clandestine exploits; he’d immediately recognised in Jago a touch of the night.
“… about your future here with me.”
There was no response, the dark eyes watchful.
“I know that my father was not as … how shall I put it? Not altogether open in his affairs. In fact there would be many who would say there were secrets he would rather he kept to himself, confidences that, if revealed, would prove … embarrassing.”
He played with his pen, letting the words hang.
“It is without doubt that he would need a well-trusted … assistant in this, one who would be certain to be discreet, effective and reliable. Mr Jago, I believe you must have served him satisfactorily to have stayed in your post for so long, don’t you feel?”
“M’ lord.” He was going to give nothing away.
“And I like that. You’ve been loyal and discreet-I’ve heard sordid tales of servants blackmailing their masters in a like position.”
There was no change in the man’s features, so Renzi went on, “I think we understand each other, Jago. Should your loyalty continue with me, then I see your future will be bright at Eskdale Hall.”
“Thank you, m’ lord.”
There was a slight flicker of expression but otherwise no display of emotion. It showed control and Renzi knew he had not misjudged the man.
“Now, I would have you know that I’m not always to reside at Eskdale. There will be times I desire to go abroad. Are you of a mind to accompany me? There is no requirement on you, but if you should go, it will be in the capacity of charge d’affaires, as it were, to take control of my entourage and answerable only to me. Naturally your recompense will be proportionate. How do you say?”
“I’ll go, if your lordship needs me. I’ve accompanied the last earl on more’n a few of his own trips.”
“Splendid! Well, as it happens, I’ve a journey to the Levant in mind for very soon. As head of staff, you will have your ideas on who should be with us. Would you give it some thought and let me know?”
The tea things were spread in a pleasing display of delicate porcelain in the orangery, Cecilia pouring daintily for Renzi and the dowager.
“Nicholas, your wife tells me you are to desert her for foreign parts. Can this be true?”
“Mama, it distresses me to say so but it seems I have little alternative.”
“Oh. I’m interested in what it is that takes a man from a loving wife so soon after their wedding.”
“It will be only for a short while. I’ve just received urgent word that a tumulus reputed to be that of King Midas himself has been found in Gordion, which is in Asia Minor. A princely find for scholarship but all for nothing if we cannot establish an interest before the French.”
“And it has to be you, Nicholas?” she said sorrowfully, laying her hand on his.
“That I am familiar with the region and am no stranger to travel is known at the Royal Society, who have pressed me most ardently.”
“Well, you will be careful, won’t you, dear? You have responsibilities now, remember.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Cecilia leaned across and kissed him lightly. “You will take care, darling-for us both?”
CHAPTER 7
THE LARGE, SQUARE, UNSPRUNG COACH lurched and rattled as it approached the Ottoman capital. It was a hired carriage of the best that could be mustered for an English lord but was sadly lacking the refinements to be expected at Eskdale and smelt dank, of old leather and ancient grime.
Behind, a covered wagon followed with the impedimenta of the expedition, then the bulk of the entourage clutching the side of a large cart of exotic appearance, and a few on horseback. In front trotted their hired escort, a troop of Turkish cavalry. It had been pressed on them by the Pasha of Murath, horrified that an English noble crossing his territory was in danger of being robbed with consequences to himself if the Porte got to hear of it.
Renzi rode in stately isolation but for Ackworth, his secretary. He had chosen the man himself: a petty, shrewish and self-important individual, he would be oblivious to the implications of what was going on around him and have no curiosity about it either. Ideal for what he was about to do.
Jago had understood what was wanted in the other staff. It was the minimum required: the quiet Golding was his valet, assisted by Miller, a strong young man acting as general servant and footman; his cook was Henri, a second-generation Lincolnshire man with absurd claims to French ancestry.
As was the custom, local hirelings were taken on for domestics; Lord Farndon, of course, was not to be troubled in this matter. Jago, with his talent for communication and the smoothing of cultural difficulties, ably took charge.
It had worked well and a camaraderie of Englishmen together in foreign parts had grown.
Renzi had his support retinue. The rest was up to him.
At Bayrampasa, the city walls came into view. The fabulous and mythical Constantinople lay ahead. They stopped at a last han, a roadside hostelry.
It was time to set the mission in motion. To achieve a foothold in the city, Renzi knew he had to make a presence in the shortest possible time. A galloper from the Turkish troop was sent bearing a courteous note to inform Arbuthnot, the ambassador, that Constantinople was about to host an English earl.
Renzi settled down to await events, changing from his plain but serviceable travelling clothes to the rich coat and breeches expected of a noble visitor.
When the messenger returned he was accompanied by a dignified Turk, with a lined face and neatly trimmed black beard. His jewelled turban proclaimed him someone of consequence.
Miller held his horse while he dismounted. After a low bow in the European fashion, the man stood before Renzi.
“My name is Doruk Zorlu, lord,” he said, in good English. “And I am first secretary to his excellency.”
“Lord Farndon of Eskdale Hall. I’m here to-”
“Fahn’ton Pasha. I have to tell you that his excellency cannot entertain you. He is … is no longer in Constantinople.”
“Rest assured, I am in no hurry, Mr Zorlu.”
The man took a step closer and said, in a troubled voice, “Pasha, it is not safe for you here. I must ask you to go back. There is feeling against the English, a rising up of the people against them.”
“I will take that risk. Thank you for telling me.”
“No! You must not stay!”
Renzi felt a prick of unease. “Pray why not?”
“Pasha, the ambassador and all the English have this day left Constantinople in a ship. They fear that they’ll be taken hostage by the sultan for security against an attack by the British.”
“What? This is madness! We are allies, friends of the sultan.”
“It is a rumour only, but the people are listening to anything. You must go.”
Renzi froze. This meant that in the war of influence the French had all but succeeded. With a clear field and the sultan’s ear it would be only a matter of time and they would complete Bonaparte’s plan.
Was there anything he could do to stop it happening? Was it too late?
His duty, however, was plain. In view of the colossal stakes, his safety was of secondary importance; he had to make the attempt.
“Oh dear. This is dreadful news,” he said sorrowfully. “Dreadful. And I was so looking forward to my travels in Asia Minor. There is a service I’d greatly appreciate, Mr Zorlu. I’m so very fatigued after my journey and must rest. Have you knowledge of an inn of repute where I might stay in safety?”
Zorlu looked at him steadily. “You plan to remain in Constantinople then, Fahn’ton Pasha.”
“For a short while. Until this little unpleasantness is over.”
“Very well. Then there is a suggestion I have that I’m sure would be what the ambassador would wish. Pasha, there is a guest suite within the embassy in Pera. You and your retinue shall be accommodated there.”