“A rather wild agenda, isn’t it?” Sir Richard asked. “You might find you’d prefer Rome for ruins. It’s far safer.”

“I was not aware of problems at Ephesus,” Colin said, pointedly not looking at me as I raised an eyebrow.

“My son, Benjamin, is an archaeologist and spent some months with the team excavating there a year or so ago,” Sir Richard said. “There’s no longer the trouble they had there in the past, but I can’t say it’s a place I’d bring a new bride.”

This line of thought did not surprise me in the least. It was precisely what I expected from an ordinary Englishman and precisely the sort of reaction I had grown accustomed to dismissing without reply. “What has induced you to visit the Ottomans, Sir Richard?” I asked.

“Constantinople is my home. I work at the embassy.”

“Then you must tell us all the inside secrets of the city,” Colin said. “The places we shouldn’t miss.”

“You might consider hiring a guide to keep track of you unless you plan on staying in the Westernized parts of the city.”

“I’d much prefer an adventurous approach,” I said. “I want to have no doubt in my mind that I’m far from England.”

“You remind me of my wife. Not that she ever went to England—that she preferred adventure. An explorer like no other, my Assia.”

“Will she be dining with us tonight?” I asked.

“I’m afraid I lost her many years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, a shard of grief piercing my stomach, bringing with it memories of Philip, whom I’d come to love only after he was gone. I owed my happiness with Colin in no small part to him. We would never have come to know each other were it not first for their friendship and second for Philip’s murder. And this was a realization that carried with it a large dose of complicated and bittersweet emotion.

“It’s a terrible thing to lose someone you love,” Colin said.

“Quite,” Sir Richard said, looking down and tapping a finger against the tines of his fork as an awkward silence enveloped us. I had thought of and rejected no fewer than fourteen ways to change the direction of the conversation before our dinner companion surprised me by continuing. “My son goes sour whenever the subject of his mother comes up—we lost her and his sister the same day. He was only eight years old and in ways has never fully recovered. Neither of us has, I suppose.”

“Condolences are not enough,” Colin said.

“But they are appreciated nonetheless,” Sir Richard said, the words heavy with the sound of forced strength. “Assia was an Algerian Berber, and a more beautiful woman has never walked the earth. She had been educated in Paris—I imagine you, Lady Emily, would approve of the value placed on cultured women in Kabilya, the region in which she grew up. She loved adventure, and we traveled constantly. I took her to India and Egypt. After our children were born, we brought them with us.”

“What a marvelous childhood,” I said.

“I thought it would be.” He squared his jaw. “Until bandits attacked our camp near the dig at Ephesus. This was twenty-odd years ago, soon after John Turtle Wood started excavating. He was plagued with problems—warned us not to come—but I would have none of it. I was a young fool.”

“Redundant,” Colin said, drawing a hard laugh from our visitor.

“Quite. We were in two tents. Ceyden, my daughter, had been sick, so Assia was sleeping next to her. I didn’t know what was happening until I heard my wife screaming as they cut her throat. She’d struggled too much.”

“I’m so sorry.” I could not help reaching out to take his hand, but he pulled it from the table.

“I had to protect Benjamin. Helped him hide before I grabbed my rifle and went on the offensive, but at the first gunshot, the cowards started to retreat. They took Ceyden with them. She was a beauty, even at three years old. That striking red gold hair, blue eyes. Looked like her mother.”

“You must have been frantic,” I said. I considered the poor girl, terrified, torn from her family, and my heart ached at the thought of her carrying so much pain and such horrific images.

“I spent years and a fortune searching for her, but never uncovered a trace. All my efforts were futile. I’ve always assumed that she must have been sold into slavery. So you see, adventurous travel isn’t all romance. You’d be better off, Hargreaves, keeping your wife safely in sight.” He drained his wine, slammed the glass down with a thump, and laid his hands flat on the table.

“I of course appreciate the advice and shall heed it,” Colin said. I resisted the urge to kick him under the table, restraining myself only out of respect for the tragedies suffered by Sir Richard.

“I’m afraid I’ve—I’ve quite ruined the mood of the evening. Apologies.” His words sounded almost slurred as he reached for the half-empty bottle of wine in front of him, filled his glass, and took a long drink, sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m sure that between Topkapı Palace and... ah... yes, the Blue Mosque and the Grand Bazaar, you’ll find yourselves quite well diverted. I’ll see what I can do about arranging invitations to any parties in the diplomatic community as well as—”

His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped over in his chair, still only for an instant before his body convulsed, sending him crashing to the floor.

The speed with which the ensuing chaos was calmed is a testament to the efficiency of the staff of La Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits. Within a quarter of an hour, Colin and I were crowded into the corridor outside the sleeping compartment, where a doctor, who had been traveling in the next car, was examining Sir Richard. The physician ducked out and took a short step towards Colin.

“May I talk to you privately?” He shot a glance at me. “I don’t think it’s appropriate—”

“You may speak freely in front of my wife,” Colin said, his dark eyes serious.

The doctor clenched his jaw and scrunched his eyebrows together. “Sir Richard took an extremely high dose of chloral hydrate. A not uncommon occurrence among those dependent on the medication—it’s given as a sleeping aid. I believe he’d mixed it in with his wine at dinner. He’s lucky to be alive.”

“Will he be all right?” I asked.

“There’s not much to do but wait, and I’ll sit with him as long as necessary. You need not stay.”

Colin scribbled the number of our compartment on a piece of paper and handed it to the doctor. “Please alert us if the situation changes.”

“Of course.” He went back to Sir Richard, leaving us alone.

“I don’t feel hungry anymore,” I said as Colin and I started down the corridor.

“I’ve not the slightest interest in the dining car.” He stopped walking and pressed me against the wall, kissing me.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re a beast to kiss me at a time like this,” I said, twining my fingers through his. “Perhaps we should be doing more for him.”

“A man who can’t properly dose his own medicine has no right to interrupt our honeymoon.”

“Could we contact his son?” I asked. “I don’t feel right leaving him so alone.”

“When we get to Constantinople. We’re on a train, Emily.”

“I had noticed that,” I said.

“Perceptive girl.” He kissed my forehead. “I do adore your compassion for Sir Richard. But right now, forgive me, I think you should direct it to me, your husband, who by unfortunate coincidence of seating arrangements has been forced to deal with doctors and train stewards all evening instead of being left to his violently elegant and relentlessly charming wife.”

“Sounds delicious,” I said. “I should have married you ages ago.”

The two remaining days of our trip passed without further incident. We saw Sir Richard the following evening in the dining car. He was in fine health, full of apologies, and all easy charm for the rest of the trip—no more criticism of our itinerary or of my yearning for adventure. More important, no more signs that he was using too heavy a hand when dosing his medicine.

“Perhaps he’s a changed man after his near brush with death,” Colin said, gathering the few remaining books strewn about our compartment as the train pulled into the station at Constantinople.

“I don’t believe in sudden transformations,” I said.

“That’s because you’re so very cynical. It’s one of your best qualities. You know...” He looked around. “I’m almost sorry to leave the train. It’s effortless to lock this door and shut out the world. No house full of servants bothering us.”

“Just overzealous stewards.”

“Who were quick to learn that we wanted our privacy.” He ran a hand through the thick, dark waves of his hair. “I think that’s everything. Ready to have the Ottoman Empire at your feet?”

Excitement surged through me as we stepped onto the platform, and I looked around, eager to take in a culture so very foreign to me. Despite the fact that my guidebook told me it had been designed by a Prussian architect, the Müir Ahmet Paa Station, with its elaborately decorated façade, looked satisfyingly Oriental to me. Bright reddish pink bricks were arranged in rectangular patterns between wide stone borders along the lower portion of the building, the rest of the walls painted pink. Stained glass curved over the doors and long windows, above which there were more, these large and round, fashioned from leaded glass. The center of the structure was low, its sides anchored by taller sections, one with a flat roof edged with stone decoration, the other domed.

“Where shall we go first?” Colin asked.

“Meg is perfectly capable of seeing to it that our trunks get to the house. My plan is to get a spectacular view of the city, unless you’ve a mad desire to go to our quarters first.” Meg, my maid, was traveling with us, despite my husband’s protests that he’d prefer we be alone. I, too, liked very much the idea of privacy, but a lady must deal with hard realities, and there was simply no way my hair could be made presentable on a daily basis without skilled assistance. Furthermore, I’d spent a not inconsiderable effort to show her the merits of places beyond England. Her provincial attitude had begun to thaw in Paris more than a year ago, and I had every intention of continuing her enlightenment.