Deanna Raybourn - City of Jasmine

Set against the lush, exotic European colonial outposts of the 1920s, New York Times bestselling author Deanna Raybourn delivers the captivating tale of one woman who embarks upon a journey to see the world—and ends up finding intrigue, danger and a love beyond all reason.

Famed aviatrix Evangeline Starke never expected to see her husband, adventurer Gabriel Starke, ever again. They had been a golden couple, enjoying a whirlwind courtship amid the backdrop of a glittering social set in prewar London until his sudden death with the sinking of the Lusitania. Five years later, beginning to embrace life again, Evie embarks upon a flight around the world, collecting fame and admirers along the way. In the midst of her triumphant tour, she is shocked to receive a mysterious—and recent—photograph of Gabriel, which brings her ambitious stunt to a screeching halt.

With her eccentric aunt Dove in tow, Evie tracks the source of the photo to the ancient City of Jasmine, Damascus. There she discovers that nothing is as it seems. Danger lurks at every turn, and at stake is a priceless relic, an artifact once lost to time and so valuable that criminals will stop at nothing to acquire it—even murder. Leaving the jewelled city behind, Evie sets off across the punishing sands of the desert to unearth the truth of Gabriel’s disappearance and retrieve a relic straight from the pages of history.

Along the way, Evie must come to terms with the deception that parted her from Gabriel and the passion that will change her destiny forever.…

Praise for Deanna Raybourn

“With a strong and unique voice, Deanna Raybourn creates unforgettable characters in a richly detailed world. This is storytelling at its most compelling.”

—Nora Roberts, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“[A] perfectly executed debut... Deft historical detailing [and] sparkling first-person narration.”

—Publishers Weekly, on Silent in the Grave, starred review

“A sassy heroine and a masterful, secretive hero. Fans of romantic mystery could ask no more—except the promised sequel.”

—Kirkus Reviews on Silent in the Grave

“A great choice for mystery, historical fiction and/or romance readers.”

—Library Journal on Silent on the Moor

“Raybourn...delightfully evokes the language, tension and sweeping grandeur of 19th-century gothic novels.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Dead Travel Fast

“Raybourn expertly evokes late-nineteenth-century colonial India in this rollicking good read, distinguished by its delightful lady detective and her colorful family.”

—Booklist on Dark Road to Darjeeling

“Beyond the development of Julia’s detailed world, her boisterous family and dashing husband, this book provides a clever mystery and unique perspective on the Victorian era through the eyes of an unconventional lady.”

—Library Journal on The Dark Enquiry

City of Jasmine

Deanna Raybourn

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Tara Parsons on this first grand adventure.

Two small figures were beating against the rock; the girl had fainted and lay on the boy’s arm. With a last effort Peter pulled her up the rock and then lay down beside her. Even as he also fainted he saw that the water was rising. He knew that they would soon be drowned, but he could do no more…

“We are on the rock, Wendy,” he said, “but it is growing smaller. Soon the water will be over it.”

She did not understand even now.

“We must go,” she said, almost brightly.

“Yes,” he answered faintly.

“Shall we swim or fly, Peter?”

—Peter and Wendy, J.M. Barrie

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Acknowledgments

Reader’s Guide

Questions for Discussion

One

The desert is a lonely place to begin with. And there’s nothing lonelier than being with someone you loved who stopped loving you first. It ended in the desert, the fabled rocky reaches of the Badiyat ash-Sham, with a man I had already buried once. But it began in Rome, as all adventures should, and it started with a scolding.

“Aunt Dove, dearest, I know you do like to make an entrance, but driving the ambassador’s car through his wife’s rose garden was a bit much, don’t you think?”

Aunt Dove grabbed the parcel of letters and cuttings forwarded by the British ambassador’s office and began to riffle through them. “Oh, look at the piece the New York newspaper published on our stop in Bulgaria. Wasn’t Tsar Boris a lamb to let us land there?”

She bent over my shoulder, causing her turban to slip a little. She poked it back into place with a stiff finger as she handed me the cutting. “Although I must say, I didn’t like the way that tsar was leering at you,” she said, peering at the photograph. “But I suppose he could have been worse. He has rather a nice moustache, and personally, I would rather take my chances as a Bulgarian tsaritsa than spend another night with those villains in London.”

“Aunt, the Ritz is not run by villains.”

“They made a terrible to-do about Arthur,” she said with a brisk nod to the little green parrot drinking from her teacup. “He didn’t mean to make such a mess, but he was startled by an omnibus.” She clucked at him and he put out his little brush of a tongue to drink his tea.

Aunt Dove crumbled a tea biscuit for him while I fixed her with a severe look. “And don’t change the subject. The ambassador’s wife is particularly put out about her roses. She says they’re utterly destroyed and the cost to replace them will be seventy pounds.”

“Don’t fuss, darling. I’ve already spoken to the ambassador. He’s willing to overlook the little matter of the roses if I have dinner with his friend, some American tycoon with money to burn. Apparently the fellow is thinking of sponsoring us. He has a company, something to do with powder—washing powder? Face powder? I forget. In any event, a little charm and a flash of bare ankle ought to do the trick.”

I pursed my lips. “Cynicism is an unattractive quality in a woman, Aunt Dove.”

“So is starvation,” she reminded me mildly.

I sighed and reached for the pile of letters and cuttings. My plan to fly my pretty little Sopwith biplane over seven seas was keeping the wolf from the door, but barely. Reporters adored the story since the headlines practically wrote themselves—Society Aviatrix to Pilot Across the Seven Seas—but newspaper stories didn’t pay the bills. Our tiny collection of sponsors had to be constantly reassured—a job I left most often to Aunt Dove. I could smile and simper with the best of them when I had to, but it always left a sour taste in my mouth to do it.

At that moment the door opened and Wally, my mechanic and dearest friend, entered—all five foot eleven inches of perfectly formed English gentleman. He flopped into the nearest chair with a sigh and Aunt Dove poured him a cup of tea.

“I deserve stronger,” he told her with a fond smile.

“Wally, how is my baby?” My beloved plane had suffered a few nasty injuries during our landing in Rome, but if anyone could sort her out, it was Wally. He was officially known to London society as the Honourable Vyvyan Walters, eldest son and heir to the Viscount Walters, but he was never happier than when he’d shed his Savile Row suits for a pair of coveralls and a set of spanners.