“No!” he said instantly, almost before she had let the last word drop.

“Good!” she continued. “Then let us discuss this without games of words and evasions of what is less than pleasing. Where did you meet Miss Zakhari?”

“What?” He was startled.

“Saville!” she said impatiently. “You are a senior government minister in your middle fifties; she is an Egyptian woman of what… thirty-five? Your worlds do not meet, let alone cross. You are a Member of Parliament for Manchester, a cotton-spinning county. She is from a cotton-growing area of Egypt. Do not pretend to be a fool!”

He sighed and ran his hand through his heavy hair. “Of course she sought me out because of the cotton,” he said wearily. “And of course she tried to persuade me to scale down the industry in Manchester and invest in Egypt’s spinning and weaving its own cotton. What would you expect of an Egyptian patriot?” Now his eyes were clear and challenging, as burningly dark as if he were Egyptian himself.

She smiled. “I have no quarrel with patriots, Saville, or with their arguments to be fair to their own people. Were I in her place I hope I would have the passion and the courage to do the same. But no matter how good the cause, there are acts that may not justifiably be committed in its furtherance.”

“She did not kill Lovat.” He made it a simple statement.

“Do you believe that, or know it?” she asked.

He met her eyes, calm and silver-gray, and his flickered first. “But I do believe it, Vespasia. She swore it to me, and if I doubt her then I doubt everything I love and treasure, and which makes life precious to me.”

She drew in her breath to say something, then realized she had nothing that would help or answer his need. He was an ardent man who had denied his nature for a long time, and now he was deeply in love. The dam gates had burst. “Then who did?” she asked instead. “And why?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted quietly. “But before you suggest it was done to involve me and bring me to disgrace and loss of office, that would hardly benefit the cotton industry in Egypt. Any minister following me would be less likely than I to be of help to them. No single man has the power to change an entire industry, whether he wishes to or not. Ayesha knows that now, even if she imagined in the beginning that she could persuade me to begin such a movement for reform.”

“Then why was she still here in London?” Vespasia had no alternative but to be brutal if she was to serve any purpose at all beyond comfort that would last only as long as she was in the room, if that.

“Because I wished her to be,” he answered. Then he went on tentatively, as if he was half afraid she would doubt him. “And I believe she loves me as much as I do her.”

To her surprise, she did not doubt him, at least not that he spoke the truth of his own feelings. Whatever Ayesha felt she was less certain of, but looking at him where he sat opposite her, there was such intensity in him, such a power of conviction, an unwavering resolve, she would not find it hard to imagine a young woman discovering that barriers of age, culture and even religion might disappear. She also found herself believing that Ryerson would go all the way to trial, even to conviction, rather than betray his mistress. He was a man of absolutes, he had been for as long as she had known him, and time had deepened his character rather than mellowed it. He was wiser, more mature in judgment and temper than in his youth, but in the last analysis his heart would always rule his head. He was the stuff of crusaders, and of martyrs.

What would Pitt find in Alexandria? Probably not a great deal. It was a city where he knew no one, where even the language was strange to him, the beliefs, the long, intertwining connections of who knew whom, of debts and hatreds, relationships and money and faith. Unless either the woman or Lovat himself had been remarkably careless, there would be little to find for a foreign policeman who was not even certain what he was looking for.

Which raised the question in her mind, why had Victor Narraway sent him at all? Was the purpose that Pitt should be in Alexandria? Or that he should not be in London?

She remained with Ryerson another quarter of an hour, but she learned nothing further that was of use. She did not lie by offering him encouragement, she merely asked if there was anything she could send to him to help his discomfort.

“No, thank you,” he said instantly. “I have all I need. But… but I would value it above anything else if you would arrange a few comforts for Ayesha. See at least that she has clean linen… toiletries… I… another woman would have…”

“Of course,” she responded before he could finish. “I doubt they will permit me to see her, but I shall arrange for such things to be delivered. I can imagine what I would wish myself, and see that it is done.”

His face flooded with gratitude. “Thank you…” His voice caught with emotion. “I am profoundly…”

“Please!” she dismissed it. “It is a small thing.” She was already on her feet. “I hear them returning for me.” She met his eyes. She wanted to add something else, but the words died. She smiled, and turned to go.

IT TOOK HER another day and exhaustive enquiry, again a matter of discreetly seeking the return of past favors, a little flattery and a great deal of charm, before she learned where she could find Victor Narraway, and contrive to run into him. It was a reception to which she had been invited, and had declined. It was an awkwardness she loathed to have now to invent an excuse, and beg to accept instead.

Because her acceptance had been most uncomfortable she felt she had the choice either of dressing in excellent but subdued taste, something conservative in a soft color, or of being as bold and outrageous as possible, defying anyone to comment on her change of mind. She might speak with Narraway with less remark or interruption were she to choose the former, but no matter what she wore, she was not an unremarkable figure. She chose the latter, and had her maid take out a gown she had ordered in a moment of extraordinary confidence, a deep indigo silk of so fine a texture it seemed to float. The low neck and the waist were embroidered with silver thread and pearls in a rich, medieval design.

Standing in front of the glass, she was startled by the gown’s drama. She usually chose the aristocracy of understatement, neutral shaded satins and laces, subtle with her silver hair and clear eyes. But this was magnificent, arresting in its simplicity of line, and the somber color was like a whisper of the night itself, elemental and mysterious.

She arrived late at the reception, causing a very considerable stir. It was not her habit to be so obvious. The lateness was her fault rather than her intention. She had left herself little time for the journey, not wanting to be early, and directed her coachman to take a route around the park, which had unfortunately been blocked by a traffic accident-a coach wheel came off, or something of the sort-and they ended arriving late.

She walked into the room alone, and there was a momentary hush. Several people, most of them men, quite openly stared. She had an instant of wondering if she had made a misjudgment, and the gown was wrong after all. She had no jewelry but pearl earrings. Maybe she was too pale, too bleached of her own color for such a depth of tone?

She saw the Prince of Wales, his blue eyes widening with amazement and then appreciation. Beside him a younger man, whom she did not know, cleared his throat, but continued staring at her.

She was greeted by her host, and within five more minutes found herself presented to the Prince. Apparently he had desired to speak to her. They had known each other for years, but it was still a highly formal occasion. One did not presume.