Chapter One

The last person Marigold expected to see in Istanbul was her uncle’s butler. 

Yet there he stood on the mosaic tiled floor of the crowded police station—like a statue come to life.

His first name was Charles, but she’d only ever known him by his surname—Bentley. He was a tall, heavy-set man with a craggy face and uncommonly bushy eyebrows.

This wasn’t the first time he’d bailed her out of trouble but travelling to Istanbul seemed above and beyond the call of duty. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. Since childhood, he’d always been in her corner.

She stood beside him at the front desk, breathing in the peppery, minty freshness of his pine aftershave. Unbidden, a lump rose in her throat. She dug her dirty, broken fingernails into her palms, determined to master the long-forgotten emotion spreading through her chest. She hadn’t cried since she was eight years old—she wasn’t about to start now. 

Another plausible reason for his presence in the Turkish city niggled at the edges of her mind, but she forced the thought away. 

Once the guard had unlocked her handcuffs and departed, she massaged her wrists and gave Bentley a wry smile. ‘I’m not sure how you found me, but I’m very glad you did.’

 ‘It’s good to see you too, my lady.’ His stentorian voice cut across the low hum of conversation in the cavernous entrance hall. ‘Although I imagined our reunion in more pleasant surroundings.’

For the first time since her untimely arrest, laughter bubbled on her lips. ‘You could teach the guards here a thing or two about hospitality, but otherwise, I have no complaints.’

He tapped his highly polished shoe on the smooth, well-worn floor. ‘Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but from your appearance, it appears I found you not a moment too soon. Someone appears to have attacked your hair with scissors.’

Her lips twitched as she patted her unkempt, dark brown bob. ‘It’s modern, Bentley. All the ladies are wearing this style now.’

He peered down his bulbous nose at her stained and torn knickerbockers. ‘Are they also wearing trousers?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Bentley, it’s 1922. Trousers aren’t scandalous for a woman these days.’

He opened his mouth but paused as they were joined by a police officer with dark hair slicked behind his prominent ears. He cowered as he squinted up at Bentley—like a student fearing the wrath of a headmaster.

‘Excuse me, sir, but before we can release the young lady and return her possessions, you are required to complete some paperwork,’ he stuttered in halting English.

Bentley gave him a perfunctory nod and turned to Marigold. ‘I’ll endeavour to complete the forms as soon as possible, my lady.’ He turned and followed the young police officer over to an untidy desk on the other side of the room.

Left alone, Marigold peered up at the domed ceiling. A pair of sparrows were flittering through the rays of mid-afternoon sunlight. The hum of conversation ebbed and flowed as some prisoners were reunited with friends and relatives, while others said tearful farewells.

A disturbance near the entrance drew her attention to a dishevelled man in his fifties. He stumbled through the front doors, his arms flapping like propellers. After a failed attempt to regain his balance, he fell forward and skidded along the floor on his well-padded belly. Lying on the cold, hard tiles, he resembled a crumpled brown paper bag in his wrinkled overcoat and threadbare trousers.

Close on his heels was a tall man in his early thirties wearing a perfectly pressed grey pinstripe suit. He had thick, wavy brown hair, steely eyes, and a rugged jawline. He would have been handsome except for the deep scowl on his face.

The clunk of his hard-soled leather shoes echoed around the room as he strode across the hall and hauled the older man to his feet. There was a military precision to the way he moved and scoped out the room while effortlessly restraining his prisoner. His eyes briefly met hers and the corners of her lips twitched as she tucked a stray dark curl behind her left ear.

In a last-ditch effort to escape, the older man sank his teeth into his captor’s hand. Marigold had been abroad long enough to recognise a foreigner. Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard the taller man curse in English.

 A pair of uniformed police officers hurried to restrain the assailant, who renewed his shouts of innocence and protests at his treatment.

The Englishman examined his injured hand impassively, then addressed the police officer at the front desk in a mix of upper-class English and beginner-level Turkish.

The desk clerk peered at him with a puzzled expression and shook his head. After a few more failed attempts at communication, Marigold cleared her throat and craned her neck to meet the Englishman’s enquiring gaze. ‘Perhaps I can translate?’

He gave her a close-lipped smile. ‘What makes you think I need a translator?’

She inclined her head slowly towards the bewildered police officer behind the desk and raised her eyebrows.

A muscle in the Englishman’s left cheek twitched, and he clenched his jaw. ‘Thank you, but I can manage.’

He addressed the blank-faced police officer again, speaking slowly and clearly in English, albeit with a hint of a Turkish accent.

Marigold bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing at his stubbornness. The Englishman’s scowl deepened.

She turned to the police officer and spoke in fluent Turkish. ‘This man is from Scotland Yard. His name is Inspector Gideon Loxley. He believes the man he brought in is someone you have been searching for. A man named Kazim.’

The police officer’s expression instantly changed from confusion to elation, and he called across the room to his colleagues, who were still struggling to restrain the man named Kazim. A chorus of excited chatter broke out between the three of them, drowning out the complaints of the detainee.

  ‘It seems they have been seeking this gentleman for a long time,’ she mused.

‘Trust me. He’s no gentleman,’ Loxley grunted as the officers led Kazim away.

Bentley returned carrying her possessions. He placed them on the reception desk while shooting suspicious glances at Loxley. ‘Is everything alright, my lady?’

She smiled at his concerned expression. ‘This is Inspector Loxley from Scotland Yard. He asked me to help him hand that fellow over to the police.’

Loxley muttered something under his breath and pulled a black leather notebook and a fountain pen from the inside pocket of his coat. ‘I didn’t ask, and there was no need for you to involve yourself, Miss…?’ His dark eyes met hers, unblinking and interrogating.

She fought the urge to laugh. ‘Grey,’ she said at the same time Bentley intoned, ‘Lady Marigold Grey.’ His voice was full of pride but had a hint of indignation. She appreciated his protectiveness, but it seemed a little unreasonable. How was the Inspector to know who she was? 

Truth to be told, she would have preferred he didn’t. 

In the years since she’d left England, she’d learned life was much simpler, and a lot more enjoyable, when she was Miss Marigold Grey.

Loxley turned his attention to Bentley. He took a step towards the butler and lifted his chin. ‘And you are?’

Bentley held his ground and gave his name. Loxley wrote something in his notebook and asked, ‘What brings you to Istanbul?’

‘I’m here to be of service to Lady Marigold,’ Bentley declared.

Loxley made another note and returned his attention to her. ‘May I ask what you’re doing in an Istanbul police station?’ 

Marigold poured herself a cup of water from the brass jug on the front desk. She sipped it to buy some time, weighing up how much of her current situation she should reveal or conceal. 

He tucked his notepad and pen into his breast pocket and drummed his fingertips on the reception desk while she finished her drink.

‘I believe you’re being hailed.’ she said, pointing over his shoulder. The young police officer was waving his hand, trying to get Loxley’s attention.

Bentley cleared his throat. ‘We should be on our way, my lady.’

‘Yes, we really should. It was nice to meet you, Inspector.’

He glanced at the Turkish policeman and then back to her, his scowl intensifying.

Laughter bubbled in her throat as she rummaged through her belongings. She picked up a Turkish dictionary and handed it to him. ‘This may come in useful.’

He turned the tatty book over in his hands and scowled as he read the title on the front cover.

Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked towards the front doors where Bentley was waiting.

She gave him a sheepish smile. ‘I suppose I have some explaining to do.’

To her alarm, his face sagged. ‘As do I, my lady.’