He appreciated the contrast from the hot sunlight and olive trees of the Mediterranean coast, and even the vineyards of his small estate in France.
“I hope you find London agreeable,” his traveling companion, the Marchioness of Fulton, said. She stood beside him on the deck, her face pointed toward the city. “The English can be rather stultifying, not to put too fine a point upon it.”
Tarek glanced at her. “I’m sure my visit will go well. And any new place is interesting.”
“At first.” Lady Fulton let out a low sigh and adjusted her maroon hat, which matched her travelling outfit. “At least it’s summer. I hope England does not wear upon you overmuch, and that you’re granted a prompt audience with the queen.”
“I don’t see why not. I come from Ahmad Bey himself, after all.”
“Unofficially,” she reminded him.
“Well. Yes. But surely I’ll be able to see the queen.”
His task was to meet with Queen Victoria and quietly discuss the possibility of English assistance in dealing with the French, who were angling for political control of Tunisia. They had already overtaken neighboring Algeria. It was a difficult situation, since the Bey did not want to offend the French or precipitate any hostilities. However, the ruler needed the backing of another European country should matters grow strained.
Although Tarek’s father had been a French comte and he’d inherited a title and estate in Burgundy, his mother was cousin to the Bey of Tunisia himself. Tarek had been raised in both countries, but did not consider his loyalties divided when it came to Tunisia. Independence was the best, and only, course, and they must hold fast to it.
He hoped Queen Victoria would be amenable to sending a diplomatic party back to Tunis with him, if only to give the French pause.
“However long it takes for you to meet with the queen, I trust that my daughter can come up with various entertainments while you wait,” Lady Fulton said.
Tarek was not so sure. The marchioness’s daughter sounded like a prim and boring young woman from what he’d been able to gather.
“I’m certain you’d be more enjoyable company,” he said.
Although he hadn’t spent much time with the marchioness, aside from their journey together from Tunis, she was a lively and well-spoken woman. At dinner, the topics of conversation were far-ranging, and he liked hearing of her various travels and adventures.
“My company is far too interesting for your purposes. Syrine is the perfect choice.” The wind pushed her brightly patterned scarf in front of her face. She tucked it away and frowned. “Although she insists on going by Lady Sara.”
“How very English of her. Why did you name her Syrine?”
He turned to lean his back against the railing and the wind ruffled his hair, disheveling it even more than usual. The dark curls he’d inherited from his mother were unruly even when cut short, but he’d done his best to make himself into a proper gentleman. Appearances were important when dealing with foreign royalty.
Lady Fulton looked over the water, her face sad for a moment. “I’ve always had a fondness for the exotic, and I’d hoped to have a daughter who shared that sentiment.”
“Syrine is a lovely name.”
“So is Sara.” She cleared her throat. “And Lady Sara has never once overstepped the bounds of propriety. She and her aunt will do an excellent job of steering you through the shoals of Society’s expectations.”
A prick of unease went through Tarek. “You’re not abandoning me to them?”
“No.” She gave him a reassuring glance. “I’ll attend a few events with you—a ball, and perhaps the opera. But it’s best if I’m not seen overmuch in your company.”
He nodded, just as the ship’s whistle blew. They were coming into port, and he turned around again to watch the pewter water reach toward the shore.
“Don’t lose your heart to some English girl,” his mother had said as she bade him farewell. “Are you not staying beneath the same roof as Lady Fulton’s daughter?”
He’d laughed at her. “I’ve never even mislaid my heart, let alone lost it. Don’t fret, omi. I’ll be back from England safe and sound before you know it.”
“I hope so. The last thing we need is more foreigners marrying into the Bey’s family.”
“You’re the one who wed a Frenchman!” He’d shaken his head.
“Yes, and it is difficult, trying to find a balance between two worlds.” She’d given him a pensive look. “You manage it well, but you should marry a local girl. Fatima is very sweet.”
“I’m not marrying Fatima—or anyone. We can discuss this after I return.”
Not that he wanted to do so. He couldn’t envision finding someone he would want as his companion for life. And even if he did, she would certainly not be some starched and staid English lady. He was quite certain Lady Sara Ashton posed no danger to his emotions whatsoever.
***
Sitting in her favorite wingback chair in the front parlor, Sara pretended to read the latest Lady’s Gazette. Every clatter of carriage wheels over the brick streets of Mayfair made her glance up. Mama was arriving today, with her Tunisian paramour.
Nervous anticipation fluttered in Sara’s stomach. Much as she tried to deny it, she missed her mother. Aunt Eugenie was never able to fill the void left in Sara’s heart each time Mama went away.
But it was foolish to still feel like a little girl, watching out the window as her mother set off once more—especially as Mama was arriving, not leaving.
In fact, there was the carriage now, the Fulton coat of arms emblazoned across the doors. Sara tossed the Gazette on the side table and jumped up from her chair. Going to the window, she flicked the lace inner curtain aside so that she could watch Mama and the mysterious Comte du Lac disembark.
The footman handed Lady Fulton down, and Sara could not help thinking that Mama hadn’t aged a bit. Her auburn curls still gleamed in the fitful sunlight, and her smile was charming as ever.
Then a man exited the carriage, and Sara leaned forward, trying to get a better view. Goodness, he was young! She tried not to be shocked at Mama, but really, the Comte du Lac looked to be only a few years older than herself.
He was well turned out in a brown coat and top hat, with a blue silk tie about his neck. A tousle of thick, dark curls that would make any woman envious framed his face, and his eyes were a startling shade of amber in a very sun-bronzed face.
His figure was trim and tall, his gesture when he held his arm out to Lady Fulton assured. In truth, the Comte du Lac was the sort of gentleman that would set all the ladies atwitter. Handsome, a touch exotic, and no doubt possessed of a most delicious accent.
Sara clenched her jaw. She’d been prepared for an older gentleman to accompany Mama. This fellow was nothing like she’d envisioned, and certainly spelled trouble for them all.
“Are they here?” Aunt Eugenie hurried into the parlor. “You were supposed to ring for me when the carriage arrived.”
“My apologies.” Somehow, Sara could not stop watching as Mama and the Comte du Lac ascended the stairs to the front door. “I was… distracted.”
“Luckily, Mr. Carlisle alerted me.” Her aunt gave her a disapproving look. “Come now, paste on a smile for your mother.”
The front door opened and Sara heard Mama’s voice, and lower tones that must be the comte.
“Aunt, I should warn you—”
“The Marchioness of Fulton has arrived,” Mr. Carlisle announced, appearing in the hallway outside the parlor door. “And her… guest, the Comte du Lac.”
“See them in,” Aunt Eugenie said. “And let Sally know to bring the tea trolley.”
“Very good, my lady.” The butler bowed, then stood back to admit Lady Fulton.
“Margaret, how good to see you again,” Aunt Eugenie said, moving forward with her hands outstretched.