“Guilt?” He hadn’t meant to sound so mocking, but saw from Avery’s startled glance and quick, angry flush that he had come near the truth.

“In a way. You mock me, but I loved her. It was not her fault that I had to divorce her. And yes, we were married in the eyes of the law of Islam.”

There was an innate dignity to him that halted Steve’s terse reminder that he was not married to her now, and Avery must have sensed it, because his tone altered slightly, became impassive.

“It was necessary for me to force Ginny to leave me, but I did not want to part from her. I was caught in an untenable situation. You are aware, I am certain, of the political implications. Sultan Abdul Aziz was deposed in May, after Ginny was safely away. He killed himself by slitting his wrists with a pair of scissors, it is said. His successor, Murad, has been declared insane by his brother, Abdul Hamid, who seeks to take the throne. Since the massacre of the Bulgarians by Turkish troops, Russia will no doubt soon declare war on Turkey. I barely escaped with my own life, even though my mother is Persian and distantly connected to the sultan. That alone can be a death sentence when there is a struggle for power.”

In the soft hush that fell as he paused, Steve regarded the man who was his mother’s half brother; his uncle, though younger by a few years. There was a definite familial resemblance between them, evident by the dark blue of their eyes and lean build, but Richard Avery was as alien to him as an English aristocrat.

“And so,” Avery continued softly, his tone reflective, “after I sent Ginny to safety with Colonel Shevchenko, I did what had to be done to survive.” His eyes flicked up, caught Steve’s gaze and held it. “You, I understand, are an adventurer. A man who takes risks. I am not. I prefer books to danger, the exploration of civilized cities to the threat of the wilderness. But I’m not unappreciative of its beauty. Nor am I immune to the beauty of a woman.”

Steve set down his glass, his tone hard. “If you wanted me here to tell me about your relationship with Ginny, she’s already told me.”

“I am fully aware of that. Do not mistake me—I found her very beautiful, very vulnerable, but I knew it was not me she wept for at night, nor dreamed of, nor wanted with her. It was always you, Esteban. May I call you that? I have heard Don Francisco mention you so many times, it is how I think of you.”

“Have you? Until recently, I had never heard of you. I find it intriguing that you were aware of me all this time, yet I had no idea of your existence.”