better. The doctor had assured us he was in no danger and would make a full recovery.
Margaret and I made our exit as quickly as possible. Back at the hotel, we had dinner sent to the room, and following long baths, we both pulled on nightgowns, poured glasses of port, and sat on the balcony outside her bedroom, watching the city’s lights below us.
“Thank heavens you were prescient enough to think of having me faint,” Margaret said. “If you hadn’t suggested I be on guard before you left the room, you would have come in to find me rummaging through the drawers of that desk.”
I sipped the tawny liquid, loving the warmth it sent through me. “That would have been a disaster. But I’m worried. He’s on to us.”
“ ‘On to us’? What does that even mean? We don’t know what we’re doing, do we?” She laughed. “For all that it was a debacle, it was awfully fun. You’ve very nearly convinced me to reconsider the benefits of detecting.”
“Tired of the settled life before you’ve even started?”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever will Mr. Michaels say?”
“I’m afraid even to consider it,” she said. “I had such a lovely letter from him today. He’s taken to writing in Latin, which is a great improvement. His words flow much better, and he less frequently relies on academic phrases to persuade me to believe the depth and breadth of his passionate admiration for me.”
“You’re terrible.”
“No, I’m not! I love him more than anything, but the man is an awful writer. It’s tragic, really.”
“Doesn’t seem to be keeping him from getting his heart’s desire,” I said.
“Well, perfection would be boring. And I don’t mind being better at something than he is.”
“So you write good love letters?”
“The best,” she said.
“Show me.”
“Never.” Her grin was two shades from evil and made me laugh. “What about Colin?” she asked. “How are his letters?”
“Every delicious thing,” I said. More laughter; the space around us was warm with it. I wondered how many more nights we would have like this. So much changed after marriage. But, no, it was not marriage that concerned me. It was my old fear, taking me back to that December night so long ago, when my aunt had died.
“You’ve grown dull,” Margaret said. “What is it?”
“Ivy. I’m scared for her.”
“I am, too. We all know well what can happen. But we can’t let it paralyze us.”
“You’re right, of course. I just never thought it would be so hard.” I swirled the port in my glass and pressed my lips together, feeling the early sting of tears. “Everyone else seems to be able to reconcile herself with the risk. I don’t know why I can’t.”
“Does there have to be a reason?”
“I suppose not. But if there were, I might be able to understand and then overcome it.”
“You’re so strong, you’d never have a problem.”
“Maybe.” I smiled. “I would like to give Colin an heir. It would bring him great joy.”
“Of course it would. And you as well.”
“Yes.” My face was growing hot. “It would.”
She took my hand. “Whatever happens, I shall be there with you. You won’t be alone, and you won’t have to pretend to be anything other than terrified.”
“Thank you, Margaret. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
We embraced, finished our port, began to strategize, and by morning had a more than reasonable plan as to how we could learn more about Mr. Sutcliffe.
The sun hit our more than reasonable plan with a harsh and unforgiving light, but we were undaunted. Phase one would be simple enough; it was the second half that could prove tricky. We started by making the rounds in Pera, calling at the home of every British ex-pat we could think of. Thankfully, as the daughter of an earl, my rank enabled us to do this without introductions.
“In fact,” I said, ringing the bell at our fifth house, “my mother would say this is my social obligation. A lady of rank, she always tells me, has a responsibility to call on those around her. To not do so is rude.”
“We can’t have that,” Margaret said.
In the space of a few hours—exhausting hours that left us overfull of tea and biscuits—we learned that Mr. Sutcliffe’s career had taken him to Vienna (his first post, where he served with the gentleman who was now one of the top aides to the consul here in Turkey), Canada, Portugal, and the West Indies. But it wasn’t until we met with a Mrs. Hooper-Ferris that we stumbled upon anything of use.
“Oh, the West Indies were awful!” We’d spent a pleasant half hour with our hostess, the wife of one of the embassy’s top officials. “We were there at the same time as the Sutcliffes—terrible epidemic of typhoid—people were dropping everywhere. It’s when he lost his entire family, but I’m sure you knew that already,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “I’d heard that. Terrible.”
“Terrible tragedy. His wife—Cate—beautiful girl. And so young. They had two children, a boy and a girl. Must have been six and four years old, if I remember. All gone in the space of twenty-four hours.”
“How dreadful,” Margaret said. “The poor man.”
“It marked him forever, beyond the way you’d expect grief to. To make matters worse, he’d balked at the assignment in the first place—had asked to stay... well, I can’t remember where he’d been before. Didn’t want to take his children because he knew all too well the islands were rife with fever. But there’s no arguing these things. You go where you’re told to go.”
“Is it never possible to request a change?” I asked.
“You can, of course, request anything. But it’s unusual for it to come to fruition. I believe he’d lined up a colleague who had agreed to switch with him, but then there was some change in plans. I don’t recall the details.”
“It’s terribly sad,” I said.
“That it is. But of course it did spur all his charity work—good, that. Although I have heard said that he’s more than a little obsessed with it all. Thinks he knows better than anyone what it means to be a decent father.”
“Understandable, I suppose,” Margaret said. “How did you find the West Indies? I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.”
“Hideously hot,” she said. “Unbearable mosquitoes. I’d say do all in your power to keep as far away as possible.”
“How disappointing,” I said. “I’ve always had such a dreamy vision of the islands.”
“Don’t mistake me,” Mrs. Hooper-Ferris said. “From behind a good mosquito net, it’s a lovely, lovely place.”
By four o’clock, I was certain of two things: It would be too soon if I ever saw another biscuit, and the loss of Mr. Sutcliffe’s family was connected to all that was swirling around Sir Richard.
“We need to find out more about his request to get a different assignment,” I said. “But I’m afraid the ambassador won’t be of any help.”
“Do you know anyone else in the diplomatic service we could contact?” Margaret asked.
“No.”
“What about Jeremy?” she asked. Jeremy Sheffield, Duke of Bain-bridge, was my childhood friend who had declared his love for me last winter in Vienna. “He can be useful when he wants to be.”
“More than useful,” I said. “But I hate to trouble him, given the circumstances.”
“I think he’d adore rescuing you while you’re on your honeymoon.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I said. “I wonder if my father could help?”
“It’s worth trying,” Margaret said.
“I can send him a wire, but it would be days before he’d be able to learn anything. He’s not in London.” We were winding back through the streets of Pera, stepping carefully over uneven cobbles.
