The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  The earl could be dealt with—Talbot was a coward at heart. Markham, however, was a political strategist who had gotten the maharaja’s ear and been the right arm of the British Crown in Joor for years. Rhystan frowned. What was he doing here?

  “Show him in,” he said to Morton. “But make him cool his heels for a bit.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  Briefly, Rhystan’s thoughts strayed to Sarani, who, his coachman had informed him, had been returned safely to Huntley House last night. He’d been prevented from chasing her by his sister, who demanded to know what he’d done to upset her, and then the duchess, who had had the gall to stare at him as if he’d done something unforgivable. By the time he’d arrived outside, his coach had just been returning, and instead of going back inside, he’d elected to go home.

  His instructions followed to the letter, a quarter of an hour went by before the vice admiral was shown into the study. Rhystan collected his thoughts, trying to figure out the man’s angle. He had to have one. They were not allies. In fact, Rhystan considered the man an enemy. But the timing of both Talbot’s and Markham’s arrivals in London stank of conspiracy.

  “Markham,” he said, not looking up from the papers on his desk. “Feel free to sit.”

  “Your Grace,” the vice admiral said, settling himself into a chair opposite. “Your father’s death was a loss to England.”

  “Thank you.” Rhystan looked up, hiding his shock at the man’s dissipated appearance. The years had not been kind. And fortune, too, he supposed. Not that he gave a whit. Markham could rot for all he cared. “What do you want?” he asked brusquely, dispensing with any pretense of pleasantries.

  Markham’s eyes narrowed. Despite his circumstances, shrewd intelligence glinted in that hawk-eyed gaze. “Money.”

  “I’m not a charity, Markham.”

  “This is not a charitable contribution,” he said. “Consider it an…investment. Say in a future partner on the seas.”

  Brows high, Rhystan sat back in his seat and pretended ignorance. “You’re in shipping?”

  “A man has to eat.”

  Rhystan recognized that the words were those of a bitter man…a man who’d had his pride stripped and everything he valued taken away from him. Rhystan felt regret that it hadn’t been him to be the one to punish the vile man. He would have relished seeing the pompous prick on his knees. Then again, wasn’t he on his knees now? Begging for coin?

  “I do not require partners for my fleet, and if I did, you would be the last man I would consider.”

  “Still holding grudges, eh?” His eyes panned to the mantel where an array of decanters and bottles stood. He licked his lips. “Won’t you offer me a drink, Duke?”

  “No.” Rhystan clenched his jaw. “I do not consider it a grudge when I was stripped of all dignity, beaten to within an inch of my life, trussed, and tossed on a cart. The answer to your proposal is no. Now, get out.”

  “I took it upon myself to do you a favor,” Markham spat out. “You needed to be taught a lesson. Fawning like a green lad over a gutter-blooded chit.”

  The slur to Sarani made his blood boil, but Rhystan stilled. “You took it upon yourself?”

  Markham froze like a rabbit catching sight of a fox. “I wrote your father because I had to make an example of you. For the other men. And her, too; she had to know her place.”

  Rhystan’s eyes narrowed, a thought striking him. “Did you mail my letters to the duke?”

  The man had the decency to flush, though his eyes glittered with hateful defiance. “The ones complaining about the treatment of the locals and the unfairness of the treaties?” He guffawed before sneering. “No. I put those in the fire where they belonged.”

  Rhystan blinked. He could not control the flood of rage that saturated his veins, nor his sudden desire to pummel this man into the ground. “Did Embry tell you to discharge me or did you do that on your own?”

  “The duke would have wanted the same even if he did not say so in his summons. I know your father, and he would not have stood for you sullying his good name with a native.”

  “Careful, Markham,” he warned.

  “Why?” the viscount asked. “Because she’s your toffer now?”

  Rhystan half rose out of his chair, his entire body bracing with fury at the audacity of the man. “Get the fuck out.”

  “Such foul temper, Your Grace.” Markham grinned. “I see I’ve touched a nerve. In any case, Princess Sarani is the subject of our negotiation. You settle a healthy sum upon me, and in return, I’ll take Talbot away and prevent him from pursuing her—and you—for breach of promise.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Rhystan asked in a silky voice.

  Markham shook his head. “Only if you consider it that way. Think of it as incentive. I’m a businessman now, Your Grace.”

  An underhanded businessman if he was resorting to extortion, not that that was any change from what he’d been charged with or his unscrupulous dealings in the opium trade. Rhystan’s eyes narrowed on the former vice admiral’s stained coat and the pallor of his skin. He refused to be intimated by anyone, and yet he could not put his family or Sarani into such a position.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then the Times and the ton will have a lovely new scandal to froth over.” Markham rose but dug into his pocket for a crumpled slip of paper. “That number will be sufficient for now. I’ll give you a day or two to secure the funds, but make no mistake, Duke, a scandal will ensue if you don’t comply.”

  Rhystan didn’t deign to look at the paper lying between them on the desk. “What makes you think I won’t have you thrown on a convoy bound for the Americas the minute you walk out of here?”

  Markham tutted, his face smug. “Because I have taken measures to ensure my safety. A message with strict instructions to be delivered to the Times if I am not heard from within short order. Good day, Your Grace. I look forward to a lucrative business relationship.”

  After the piece of filth left, Rhystan clenched his fists, resisting the ferocious urge to flip the desk over. Calm, he needed to be calm. And he needed to think. There was no way he was going to pay a fortune—he glanced at the obscene number written on the paper. Blackmailers like Markham did not go away.

  “Morton,” he called out and wrote out two quick notes on pieces of parchment.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” the butler asked.

  “See that these get to Mr. Longacre and Gideon Ridley down at the Green Stag on the north bank of the Thames at once.” He paused, eyes narrowing on his butler. Servants were excellent sources of information. “I need to know everything there is to know on that man who was just here, Markham. Any and every detail about his dismissal. Pay who you have to.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “And call for my carriage,” he added. A little reconnaissance at his club wouldn’t hurt.

  * * *

  “How on earth anyone can imagine that using this racquet to hit a shuttlecock over a patch of lawn while sweating one’s thighs off underneath all these layers is entertaining is utterly beyond me.” Ravenna collapsed on the bench beside Sarani, her face flushed with exertion. She gulped down a glass of cool lemonade.

  “Battledore and shuttlecock is wonderful exercise,” Sarani said, lifting a brow after Ravenna’s rather indelicate burp. It was a good thing that Asha was their chaperone, though they did not really need one in the privacy of their gardens. She had heard much worse from her own mistress, especially when she and Tej used to have contests to see who could belch the longest.

  “Saying that word is unseemly, Ravenna,” Clara, Ravenna’s bosom friend, chided, walking over with her own racquet in hand after retrieving the feathered cork that had been trapped in a bush.

  “Cock?” Ravenna asked. “Sara said it, too.”

  Clara blushed and then cla
pped a hand to her mouth. “No, the women’s body part, and Lady Sara said shuttlecock, which is entirely different, as you well know.”

  Ravenna grinned. “Don’t be a prude for Sara’s sake. Besides, how is ‘thighs’ beyond the pale? Sara’s been teaching me much worse words she learned on my brother’s ship. She’s one of us, truly.”

  Clara looked uncertain, and Sarani almost laughed. With friends like Penelope, no wonder the girl wasn’t sure whether she would be summarily shunned for not exercising proper decorum.

  “The East India Company officers in India used to call the game poona.”

  Clara plopped down beside them in a flurry of muslin skirts, eyes widening with interest. “What was it like? Living there?”

  “Hot,” Sarani said with a laugh, fanning herself. “But a different kind of heat than here. There were the same rules for the nobility in court of course—dresses, petticoats, and the like.” She speared a glance at Ravenna, who was listening intently. Sarani was grateful that the girl had been true to her word and not mentioned her other royal half. “But in the villages, it was so vibrant. The women wore draped garments of woven silk and cotton in so many colors.” She lowered her voice. “Some of them did not wear undergarments beneath the wrap. At least until English concepts of modesty demanded that they wear a blouse called a choli.”

  Ravenna’s and Clara’s eyes went wide, and then they both collapsed into giggles. “God, what I wouldn’t give not to wear a corset!” Ravenna said. “Sounds divine!”

  Ravenna glanced at Asha, who was sitting quietly nearby. “Do you have any of these types of wraps?”

  The maid froze, eyes darting to her mistress, but Sarani grinned. “I might have saved one or two. Shall we dress you in one, then?”

  Both girls squealed with delight. “Oh, yes, please!”

  “Just don’t let the duchess know or she will likely say that I’m corrupting you with my heathen ways.”

  They laughed again, and then Clara’s eyes goggled as her laughter turned into awkward spluttering, her face going nearly puce while she fought for breath. The reason for her choking was quickly apparent as the duke strode down the garden path toward them.

  As always, Sarani’s chest squeezed at the sight of him. She had no idea how a man became more handsome with every passing day, but he did. Today he wore a navy coat that hugged his broad shoulders, a silver-stitched waistcoat, and gray striped trousers. His hair was windblown and his cheeks flushed as though he’d just been out on a bracing ride. He looked downright edible. Sarani flushed at her unruly thoughts and ducked her head.

  Too late—Ravenna was already staring at her and grinning. “You’re besotted with my brother, admit it!”

  “I am not.”

  “You are, too. You went all calf-eyed the minute you saw him.”

  Sarani blushed. “You are being silly.”

  “Silly but right.”

  But the duke was already upon them before she could form a reply. Sarani’s breath caught, her senses running amok as he came to a stop, bowing to them, those forceful eyes falling upon her like a tangible caress. “Ladies. No, no, please don’t get up.”

  “Your Grace,” Clara squeaked, while Sarani murmured the same.

  “Brother, dearest, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Ravenna squinted up at her brother. “Do hurry up. You’re interrupting a rather fabulous conversation about fashion. Sara’s going to let us try on some of her clothing from India.”

  The duke’s gaze fastened to her, and Sarani fought to keep from squirming. The last time he’d seen her wear anything like a sari had been at the river, and that garment had been partially transparent even over a chemise. She seemed to recall him clutching his coat to his lap as if he’d die without it, and at the time, she’d been confused. Now that they’d been intimate, she knew exactly what it signified.

  Her face warmed. “It’s all in good fun, Your Grace, I assure you.”

  Rhystan opened his mouth and shut it as if he, too, was reliving the same memory. Sarani closed her eyes to avoid looking at his groin. Because that would be unseemly.

  “I need to speak with you,” he said. “Alone.”

  Grinning widely, Ravenna bit her lip as though she had something to say, but at the sharp look on her brother’s face, she curbed her tongue and grabbed Clara’s hand. “Don’t mind us, we’ll be just over here, hitting feathered bits of cork and sweating like piglets.”

  Sarani bit back a laugh before standing to join Rhystan a few steps away. “What do you wish to speak to me about?”

  “Markham has demanded money.”

  She faltered. She hadn’t expected that. “How much?”

  “An exorbitant amount,” he said, raking a large hand through his hair in a frustrated motion that would account for how messy it’d looked earlier. “I’ve just come from my club. Markham was stripped of his property by Lord Canning himself and discharged with disgrace. He was accused of conduct unbecoming an officer under court-martial and found guilty by the viceroy for levying his own taxes on the locals and running a smuggling ring.”

  “Good heavens,” Sarani whispered.

  “He has a mountain of debt, which means he’s desperate—at least enough to threaten a peer with extortion.”

  “Will you pay him?”

  “No,” Rhystan said, causing her heart to tumble to her feet. “Scum like him can’t be stopped. He’ll just keep coming back for more.” He paused, seeing the distressed expression on her face. “Do you trust me, Sarani?”

  They were the same words he’d said to her a lifetime ago in Joor.

  Sarani stared at him, seeing nothing but sincerity in those steel-blue eyes. She sucked in a breath, searching them. He held her fate in his palm.

  “I do.”

  Twenty-Two

  The first part of his plan required a bit of stalling on Rhystan’s part. He accomplished that by having Longacre deliver an official letter from the bank to Markham’s rented apartments, stating that the requested funds would take some time to gather. A week was the best he could stretch it to without making the man suspicious, but he was leaning on the fact that the disgraced vice admiral needed the money.

  The second part required more finesse. Finesse because Rhystan wanted nothing more than to beat the man to a bloody pulp for daring to blackmail him. But he needed something on Markham—something that would make the bastard sweat. In the meantime, he’d directed Longacre to pay off Markham’s creditors and consolidate his debt.

  From what Gideon had dug up, the man had a reputation for being a swindler, and he had a number of enemies. Someone would want his pound of flesh, and Rhystan was prepared to supply it. Unless, of course, Markham agreed to stand down. The duke would deal with Talbot summarily, too, but that was for later.

  An eye for a fucking eye.

  He stared at Sarani, who had insisted on joining him at the Green Stag where he was meeting Gideon for an update on Markham’s enemies. She caught his look across the wooden table and sent him a jaunty grin over her mug of ale.

  Once more, she was dressed as a young man, in a pair of trousers, a tweed coat, a plain waistcoat, and a cap. All her glorious dark hair was tucked neatly away. She’d taken a kohl pencil to her upper lip to sketch in a thin mustache. It would fail any close inspection but passed muster at first glance, though the black shading did call attention to her indecently full lips. They were currently moist and glazed from the last sip of her ale. Which made him want to lick it off her.

  Not the time and place, clearly.

  Rhystan studied the woman in front of him. God, he wished they were back on the Belonging. He wanted to see the hint of those freckles across her nose pop in the sun, see that jet-black hair loosened and wild, watch her be unencumbered and happy and not have to answer to anyone but herself.

  The rarest ruby among prosaic diamonds.

 
; Everything about her sang to him. Her beauty, her wit, her sense of justice as well as mischief. As evident from the current sparkle in her eye, it was obvious that she loved the subterfuge. Or perhaps it was the feeling that being back near the docks brought. He had to admit, he felt the same, as though a garrote around his neck had been loosened.

  “Where did you get the togs?” he asked.

  “Borrowed them from Tej,” she replied with a wink. “We’re the same size, now that he’s filled out a bit.” She paused, observing him. “He told me that you were sending him to school.”

  “He deserves an education.”

  She stared into her mug. “Even for a humble houseboy?”

  He gave a shrug. “Tej is smart. I’d rather not let a perfectly good mind go to waste. And besides, when he does take up a trade and becomes the best at what he does, I can hire him. So it’s all in my own best interest.”

  The way she was looking at him was worth everything. She stared at him as though he’d gifted her the stars and the moon, her green-gold eyes limpid with gratitude and affection.

  “It’s a small thing,” he said.

  She shook her head. “It’s no small thing! You’ve changed his life. You’ve given him an opportunity to make something of himself.” She drew in a soft breath. “It means so much. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I did it for you.”

  Her eyes glittered. “Rhystan.”

  Sod it. He stood, nearly knocking over the chair in his haste. He wanted to yank her into his arms and throw her over his shoulder, but instead he gave a rough jerk of his head for her to follow him. Biting her lip in a way that made him harder than he already was, she nodded. He practically limped down the corridor leading to a backstreet.

  Rhystan waited just inside the door, near what looked like a storeroom, his heart pounding a staccato in his chest until she walked by, the scent of her like a red rag to a turkey-cock. He hauled her to him and pressed her into the nook, filling his palms with her luscious bottom. He kicked the wooden slat shut behind them.