George bent his head, brushing his lips across hers. “Her mother has all those courtesans beat to flinders,” he whispered.

Eloise’s expression grew annoyed. “Now, George,” she said reprovingly. “Don’t you think that I can be lured off to the bedchamber in this harum-scarum manner. Your doxies might have missed their dinner in order to … to frolic with you, but I shall not.” She lowered herself back into her chair, back straight as a marble pillar. “And ring the bell, if you please. Philippe appears to have deserted his post.”

George grinned and circled the table back to his chair. Damme, but he was enjoying this endless fencing match with his marchioness. She was as obstinate as a mule.

“I don’t think we should worry about young Sophie,” he said comfortably, taking an apricot tart from the platter before him. “She’s got her head screwed on right.”

“You’re a fool, George,” Eloise replied. But her eyes were tender.

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Monsieur Foucault turned about and showed his pointed white teeth to Mole. “Remember, my dearest, you speak only Turkish.”

Mole nodded. Given his grasp of the Turkish language, he figured on presenting himself as the silent type.

Monsieur Foucault disembarked from the carriage and drifted his way up to the open door of Patrick Foakes’s town house. He was a vision of elegance in his striped waistcoat. His hair was cut à la Titus, and a lace handkerchief drooped from his fingers. Unfortunately, Mole did not achieve a matching elegance, although he too wore a striped waistcoat, courtesy of the long-suffering François.

“We are,” Monsieur Foucault explained to Patrick some minutes later, “representatives of the court of the great sultan, Selim III.”

Patrick bowed with grave courtesy. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance,” he murmured. He was well versed in the tedium of international courtesies and steeled himself for a long half-hour.

“I regret to say that my dearest companion, Bayrak Mustafa, has not yet mastered the English language,” Foucault remarked. “He is a devoted acquaintance of Selim’s. I wonder if you speak Turkish, my dear sir?”

“Unfortunately, I have not the pleasure,” Patrick responded. He bowed toward Mole, then turned back to Foucault. “May I offer you and Mr. Mustafa some refreshments?”

Foucault turned to Bayrak Mustafa; Turkish flooded from his lips. Patrick watched with interest. For a moment, he had thought that Foucault might be an impostor, but he clearly spoke fluent Turkish. Patrick could tell that Foucault’s manner was not that with which one addresses an equal. Bayrak Mustafa must be some sort of lowly satellite to the so-elegant Foucault.

Mustafa grinned and bobbed his head toward Patrick, replying in Turkish.

“My companion and I,” Foucault said in his languid manner, “would be charmed to further your acquaintance.”

Patrick rang the bell. “I must compliment you on your grasp of the Turkish language,” he said, turning to Foucault again.