Page 11 of Silver Angel

Derek rose to greet him, managing to conceal his surprise. That Marshall had arrived today instead of tomorrow meant he couldn’t have received Derek’s summons but was here for his own reasons.

“And what brings you down from London, Marsh?”

Thick brows over light green eyes gave Marshall a perpetually serious countenance that was hardly relieved even when he smiled. “It’s been about a month since I was here last. Thought I’d see how your conscience is holding up.”

Derek burst into laughter. Trust Marshall never to give up, especially when he wanted Derek to do something that in his opinion couldn’t be handled by anyone else. He had probably come here to give their last argument another go-round, but with little hope of changing Derek’s mind. He was in for a surprise.

Marshall was an organizer, not a doer. He and Derek had always made an unlikely pair. With nothing in common save their age and a mutual love of horses, it was surprising that they had become fast friends during school, but they had. It was a matter of opposites: serious, restrained, and conservative on the one hand; bold, adventuresome, and somewhat arrogant on the other. The one pushed while the other held back, perfect complements to each other.

“Sit down, Marshall.” Derek led him to a group of comfortable reading chairs. “You’re just in time for tea.”

Marshall ignored the offer. “I take it your conscience isn’t suffering.”

“Don’t have one.”

“Derek—”

“Oh, relax, Marsh. You know you’d never make it as an ambassador in the East. You have to ease into these things, exchange a few pleasantries first. So how’s the spy business?”

“You know we don’t like that word. Foreign intelligence—”

“A spy’s a spy, no matter what you call him.”

“I concede,” Marshall said good-naturedly. “Now, is that enough pleasantries for you, or shall we discuss the weather, too?”

“The climate is rather mild for—”

“Derek, I swear you could try a saint with little effort! You sit here uttering nonsense while Miss Charity Woods suffers atrocities—”

“Come off it, Marsh,” Derek cut in brusquely. “You don’t know the girl’s suffering anything. I happen to know there are women who sell themselves into slavery to end up as your Miss Woods has probably ended up. Harem women are pampered and showered with luxuries. They are rarely ill-used.”

Marshall leaned his head back and closed his eyes with a sigh. He should have known it would be a waste of time trying to get Derek to change his mind. If Derek didn’t have the legitimate excuses he had used last time for refusing, there was this, the fact that they just couldn’t see eye to eye on the plight of women sold into slavery in the Muslim states. Where had Derek lived that the women were so well treated? It wasn’t that way everywhere. Didn’t he know that?

But it was useless to question Derek Sinclair about his life before he came to England. He never gave details, only opinions, and those were far too Eastern by far.

Derek hadn’t offered any opinions last time; he had just flatly refused to leave England for any reason, though his excuse was reasonable. “I’m getting married in a few months.”

“Don’t remind me. You steal the only girl I can ever love, and you rub it in by inviting me to the wedding,” Marshall had answered with a teasing grin that was, sadly, not teasing at all. “You could postpone the wedding.”

“Can’t do it. And besides, the old man’s asked me to stay close. He’s ailing, you know.”

“Devil he is,” Marshall argued.

“He’s been bedridden the past week.”

“I happen to know he just has a bad cold.”

But Derek went one better. “You know his age, Marsh. He wants to see my children before he kicks off.”

Of course Marshall couldn’t argue against that. The Marquis was nearing seventy, and his health hadn’t been that good in recent years. The thought of children, Caroline and Derek’s children, depressed Marshall enough to let it go. But there had been so much pressure put on him since then to get results that he was forced to ask Derek again. And then, too, his heart was still hoping that this upcoming wedding might be postponed, though what good it would do him…

“You didn’t mention what progress the English consul has made.”

Marshall grunted. “None. And lately, he can’t even get an audience with the Dey. Which reminds me. Miss Woods is no longer theonlyreason we’d like you to visit Barikah, though she’s still the official reason, what with her relative demanding the navy be sent in if he doesn’t get her back soon.”

“Would they send in the navy?”

“Not for something like this, not when Barikah has the only fleet in the world whose size can’t be estimated. We’d have no idea what we were getting into, and believe me, we’re not eager to find out.”