He was fussed over by a possessive Jago, who took it upon himself to keep the heathen Turkish servants at bay. In the warm light of the oil-lamps Zorlu sat decorously opposite—they would talk together only after they were left alone. Renzi was under no delusions: Selim was using him. The shrewd sultan wanted to hear from all sources, not just the French, before he made up his mind, and an English lord’s presence was a very convenient situation. Renzi allowed himself a touch of optimism. If he could exploit this further, perhaps by— But something was happening. Out beyond the palace walls, shouts and disorder. Zorlu’s eyes caught his in alarm. More noises—Zorlu excused himself. He was back quickly, his face lined. “They’re shouting something about Nelson’s fleet returning to take its vengeance—I couldn’t make out more.” They must mean the frigate that had taken off the ambassador just before he’d arrived. But why would it come back, knowing it would inflame the population?
