Free The Devil She Knows by Diane Whiteside

willing to do business.
    â€œThere’s fighting there! War and rebellion. You could be killed,” Quyen objected and bit her lip, tears swimming into her eyes.
    Gareth gritted his teeth against easy agreement and the need to comfort her—or distract himself. Algeria was unfortunately far too close by ship and train to Paris, where Portia could surely be found primping herself for St. Arles’ hellish appetites.
    He would not, could not dally on that Mediterranean shore, no matter how often rebels stormed across its plains.
    â€œAnd Turkey,” he added. “Constantinople, and maybe some of the smaller ports.” He did his best to look certain. Surely Donovan would agree to opening up a new business route into the Ottoman capital.
    â€œThe Turkish sultan is a bloodthirsty monster, who’ll kill anyone.” Chau caught his arm, surprising him yet again with her mastery of gossip. “He destroys missionaries and his own people, plus honest men who simply carry odd packages. You could die any minute.”
    But he’d be too damn busy looking over his shoulder and dodging government spies to worry about Portia or dream about his lost family.
    â€œThe Sultan attacks only fools who give him the chance,” he demurred. “No, I must obey my master’s bidding and leave this fair”—and wet—“land.”
    He lifted first Chau’s, then Quyen’s hand and kissed their delicate fingers. “While you, dear ladies, will stay here to prosper and be adored.”
    They hesitated for a moment like herons poised over a fishing pond. Then they relaxed and giggled happily at his emphasis on the word prosper. After all, somebody needed to truly enjoy all of their life and his bon voyage gift would ensure they’d have the opportunity to do so. As ever, the money he made from gambling when he wasn’t at work went back to William to be invested.
    He, on the other hand, would have a very difficult job to keep his hands busy and his mind from worrying about Portia.

Chapter Ten
    St. Arles House, London, October 1885
    P ortia stirred the jewelry strewn across her table one last time. Her sitting room’s soft gaslight picked out the exquisite details uncannily well and identified them as extremely high quality, even if most were old-fashioned. She’d picked her American jewels up from the vault that morning: she would not leave her mother’s possessions near any banker who might feel more loyalty to St. Arles than to her.
    It was the last step before leaving this house.
    Nobody had touched her mother’s sapphires and pearls in more than a decade, since all of Juliet Townsend’s jewelry and possessions went to her daughter. Even so, Portia’s fingers lingered longest on the tiny cloisonné watch where the phoenix crouched, ready to spring into flight. She’d hoped so much more would follow when Gareth gave it to her.
    So many memories were bound up on this table, as they were in the servants facing her from across it.
    â€œAre you very sure you won’t do this?” she asked again. “I’d understand perfectly if you agreed to testify.”
    â€œIt would be a lie, your ladyship.” Mrs. Russell, the housekeeper and designated spokeswoman, sniffed ferociously.
    â€œPeople tell untruths frequently, especially for the family they’ve worked for throughout their careers,” Portia pointed out and ran her thumb across the watch’s delicate gold threads. Gareth never seemed more alive than when she held his gift, even though she didn’t know where he was.
    â€œBesides”—Portia hesitated, unwilling to speak more frankly and make the situation worse.
    â€œServants generally provide complete details of lives in the households where they serve.” Years of dictating other people’s behavior rang through the housekeeper’s severe tones. “It is our duty, your ladyship, to answer all