Cairo, Egypt—1814
The Englishman heard the wail of the muezzin and the cries of the street pedlars hawking their wares up and down the narrow alleyways. Neither the grilling heat, which beat down on his head with relentless force, nor the persistent flies had the effect of delaying him. Beggars tugged at his clothes, whining for alms, but he paid them no attention as he carried on his way. Tall, with broad, muscular shoulders, deep chest and narrow waist, his handsome features, bronzed by the Egyptian sun, were ruggedly hewn. He was Lord Blakely of Park House, situated in Sussex, England.
There was an urgency about him. If he delayed any longer the ship would leave without him. All passengers were bidden to be aboard by five o’clock. Two hours.
Hailing an empty hantoor, drawn by a skinny horse, he gave the driver an address and told him to hurry.
The man nodded vigorously. ‘I take you there.’
The Englishman didn’t ask how much it would cost him, he simply climbed aboard. The conveyance made good speed, the horse clopping briskly through the narrow streets with their pungent smells of spices mingled with open drains. Obstacles got in their way—bullock carts and laden donkeys, crowds of men and women with baskets on their heads and hips, myriad children, their dark eyes ringed with kohl, who ran beside the cart holding out their hands for the Englishman’s coin.
At last the cart halted in front of a house set back from the road behind high iron railings. Asking the man to wait and telling him that he would pay him handsomely if he took him to his ship, the man climbed down and rang a bell attached to a tall gate. A stout middle-aged Egyptian waddled down the path and opened the gate.
‘I have business with the lady, Mrs Marsden,’ he said. ‘My name is Christian Blakely. My ship sails shortly and I am pressed for time.’
The Egyptian smiled. ‘Mrs Marsden is expecting you,’ he said in excellent English.
Christian followed him up the steps of the veranda and through a bead curtain.
An elderly Englishwoman dressed entirely in black appeared holding the hand of a young girl.
‘Mrs Marsden?’ Christian said, not having met her before.
‘Yes—I am Mrs Marsden and this is Alice.’
Christian’s manner was brusque. Seeming reluctant to look at the child with a shock of black curling hair, not unlike his own, and large brown eyes regarding him with an inquisitive melancholy stare, he felt his face harden into an expressionless mask. He had not set eyes on the child before either. He remembered the day five years ago when he had learned of her birth. He knew he would never again feel the anger, resentment and wretchedness that had seized him then.
The child’s mother was Selina.
Selina, the ambitious daughter of a military man, had been his father’s mistress, a woman whose sole interest in life was money and position. His father had both, but since he already had a wife the position as Lady Blakely was denied her. She was much younger than his father and he had been completely dazzled by her—there was something about her that would convince a man he would find warmth in her arms. She had wheedled money out of him at an alarming rate—especially when the child came along. Selina made her daughter a bargaining tool that she used to the full. It was unfortunate for her that his father had died, but, not one to rest on her laurels, Selina had soon found another lover to fund her needs.
Christian had encountered her on several occasions and had summed her up immediately. Selina was beautiful, but there was a coarseness about her that his father seemed oblivious to. Aware of Christian’s disapproval—he made no attempt to conceal it—she would fix him with a bold and penetrating stare, leaving him in no doubt that she would happily and brazenly exchange the father for the son if he showed willing.
At the beginning of his father’s affair with Selina, Christian had tried to reason with him. He had begged his father to leave her and return to his mother, but to no avail. A furious row had ensued with his father, a powerful and controlling man, telling Christian that he forgot himself, that his private life was not his concern and neither was his mistress. A keen Egyptologist, his father had left for Cairo shortly after this bitter confrontation. Selina, already carrying his child, had accompanied him.
Such a course was unbelievably cruel to his mother. Christian had watched her endure the pain of marriage to a man who had nothing but contempt for her. Why a woman whose nature was tender and loving continued to harbour any affection for him, since his father was a blackguard whose treatment of her was deplorable, was one of life’s inexplicable mysteries. She had died shortly after his father had left for Egypt for the last time. Christian was certain the cause of her demise was a broken heart.
His father’s actions destroyed what feelings Christian had left for him. Frequent absences from his life as a boy and later as a youth had prevented a closeness from developing between father and son. On the occasions when Christian had been at home, his father’s controlling attitude and insistence that Christian learn everything there was to learn about running the estate so that he could pursue his own pleasures had instilled a deep resentment within him. As a result of his father’s behaviour, Christian had no appetite for marriage, which to him didn’t seem a source of happiness. When he married he would not be doing so expecting to be made happy by it. He would prefer not to marry at all, but if he was to secure an heir he could not postpone the inevitable indefinitely.
‘We are ready to leave,’ Mrs Marsden said.
‘Where is she—Selina? She hasn’t come back?’
Mrs Marsden shook her head. ‘No. She isn’t coming back.’
Christian picked up the baggage waiting by the door and carried it out to the hantoor. Mrs Marsden followed him, asking him to help Alice. This he did, placing her on the seat. He looked at the child and quickly looked away, trying to defend himself against the rising and violent tide of anger directed against this small being, whose entry into the world had destroyed so much that had been precious to him.
Angry, relentlessly so and unable to understand why he should feel like this for an innocent child who had not asked to be born, his face resolute and without expression, Christian ordered the driver to head for the ship which was to carry them to England.
London—1814
Lord Blakely, the Earl of Ridgemont, idly looked into the hall below. He was the stuff ladies’ dreams were made of, fatally handsome and with the devil’s own charm. Here was manner, bearing and elegance that could not be bought or cut into shape by a tailor. He was one of those enviable individuals whose breeding would show through even if he were dressed in rags. Christian was a fiercely private man, guarded and solitary, accountable to no one. To those who knew him he was clever, with an almost mystical ability to see what motivated others. To his business partners it was a gift beyond value, because it provided insight into the guarded ambitions of his adversaries.
The Christian Blakely who had recently returned from Egypt was very different from the one who had left