The Betrayal of the Blood Lily
Page 5
“That,” Alex said pointedly, jerking his head towards the room they had just vacated, “is a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Just so long as you don’t allow it to happen to you,” returned his father equably. Beneath their wrinkled lids, his faded blue eyes were surprisingly shrewd. Self-indulgent he might be, but no one had ever called him stupid. “I’m within an ace of wrangling that district commissionership for you. So don’t go fouling it up out of some high-minded notion.”
At the moment, Alex was feeling more bloody-minded than high-minded. It was all very well for his father to counsel prudence, but as far as Alex could see, he was damned either way.
“Fine,” said Alex. “Let’s say I hold my tongue and cart Lord and Lady Freddy meekly off to Hyderabad a week Tuesday. What happens when that idiot sparks off a civil war? I doubt I’ll receive commendations when Mir Alam’s lads kick us out of Hyderabad, lock, stock, and barrel. With matters the way they stand, Wellesley’s new pet could undo in a moment what Kirkpatrick took six years to accomplish.”
His father regarded him patiently. “It’s not all on your shoulders, Alex.”
“Then whose?” Alex demanded, frustration ringing through his voice. “Wellesley doesn’t trust Kirkpatrick to piss without someone writing a secret report on it; Russell isn’t a bad sort, but he’s untried—”
“—and a bit too much in love with himself,” the Colonel humored him by adding.
Alex glowered at his father. Just because he had said it before didn’t make it any less true or any less problematic. “Precisely. The new Nizam is a tin-pot Nero who gets his amusement using silk handkerchiefs to throttle his concubines. He’ll go wherever Mir Alam tells him to, just so long as Alam doesn’t cut off his supply of expensive hankies and cheap women. And Mir Alam is half rotted with leprosy and demented with the desire to be revenged upon the British, because he blames us for his bloody exile four years ago.”
“It is unfortunate, that,” admitted his father.
“ ‘ Unfortunate’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s a bloody fiasco. And do you know what makes it even worse?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me, lad,” said his father, patting him fondly on the shoulder.
Alex ought to have resented the pat, but he was too busy with his main rant to waste time on peripheral grievances. “It was Wellesley that bloody saddled us with Mir Alam! He met him years ago in Mysore and decided he was a good chap. But, no, he couldn’t be bothered to look into what might have happened in the interim! He’s too busy poking into Kirkpatrick’s bedchamber, like a bloody peeping Tom!”
“Whoa, there.” The Colonel’s hand tightened on his arm. “Keep your voice down. You don’t want to be losing your post for a moment’s ill-humor.”
“It’s more than a moment,” said Alex tiredly, feeling the rage wash out of him, leaving him feeling like a fish washed up on the beach. “It’s been months, ever since Wellesley pushed Mir Alam’s appointment as First Minister. And what’s the point of hanging on to my post if there’s nothing I can do with it? Except play lackey to a walking disaster,” he added bitterly. “It’s like being asked to play host to one’s own executioner.”
“Patience,” advised the Colonel.
“For what?” demanded Alex. “More of the same?”
Looking to the left and right, the Colonel tapped a finger against the side of his nose. “Word to the wise, my boy,” he said sotto voce. “It isn’t generally known yet, but the word is that Wellesley is on his way out. Apparently the folks back home on the Board of Control are none too happy with the Governor General’s expenditures.”
Alex looked at his father closely. “How ‘none too happy’?”
His father regarded him shrewdly. “Between the cost of the war with the Mahrattas and that grand Government House the Governor General has been building, they’re feeling the pinch in their purses, lad. You can guess how unhappy that makes them.”
Alex absorbed the information. “Is there any word on whom they might send to replace him?”
The Colonel shook his head. “It’s all just rumor, as yet. But if you get yourself disciplined before Wellesley goes, it won’t matter who the new man is.”
He would have to be right, wouldn’t he? Feeling like a small boy caught out in some petty carelessness, Alex inclined his head in the briefest of acknowledgments. “Point taken.”
His father clapped him on the shoulder, the reward after the scolding. “It will be all right, my boy, just you wait and see.”
“When do you sail?” Alex asked, deeming it wise to change the subject while he was still ahead.
Having served for four decades in the Madras Native Cavalry, his father had finally deemed it time to retire from active service. After a childhood in Charleston, a lifetime soldiering in India, and amours of various extractions, the Laughing Colonel, scourge of Madras, was retiring to Bath to be closer to his daughters. Alex’s Jacobite grandparents must be turning in their graves.
“That depends in part on you.” The Colonel paused to allow the impact of his words to sink in. Alex folded his arms across his chest, signaling to his father that he knew exactly what he was up to. Feigning obliviousness, the Colonel carried on innocently, “I shouldn’t like to go until I see you settled. Although it will be that glad I am to see Kat and Lizzy again.”
“Give them my love when you see them,” said Alex. It seemed a more manly way of saying good-bye than I’ll miss you.
As much as he hated to admit it, he would miss the old reprobate. His father might have had eccentric notions of family life, but they had been affectionate ones, for all that. The Colonel had never repudiated any of his offspring, no matter how irregular the circumstances. Of five living siblings, only Alex and his sister Kat were technically legitimate, but the Colonel had always treated all of his children with exactly the same rambunctious affection, no matter which side of the blanket they had tumbled out of. He had seen to their schooling and found placement for Alex in his own cavalry unit. For George, who was barred from the East India Company’s army by virtue of being the offspring of an Indian woman, he had wrangled a command in the service of a native ruler, the Begum Sumroo.
As a young man eager to make his own mark on the world, Alex had often found his father’s constant oversight irksome. He had left the cavalry for the political service, left Madras for Hyderabad, done everything he could to make his own way in his own way, gritting his teeth at the invariable “Oh, Reid’s boy, are you? Splendid chap!” that greased his way even as it did damage to his molars. But over the years, he and his father had come to a comfortable sort of understanding.
There was a curious emptiness that came with the thought that henceforth the old rascal would be a full five months away. He would miss him.
“You’ll keep an eye on George for me, won’t you?” said the Colonel.
Alex raised both eyebrows. “You’ve asked George the same about me, haven’t you?”
The Colonel stretched his arms comfortably in front him. “I like to see you all looking out for one another,” he said placidly. “It’s what a family is for.”
“Except Jack,” said Alex.
His father didn’t like to talk about Jack.
The Colonel’s bland smile didn’t wobble, but there was nothing he could do to hide the slight trembling of his hands. “That Lord Frederick Staines is a piece of work and no mistaking,” he said, changing the subject as though that was what they had been talking about all along, “but his wife seems to have a head on her shoulders.”
“I hadn’t realized it was her head that interested you,” said Alex, letting the subject of Jack drop. It wasn’t particularly pleasant for any of them.
“Now, now. I appreciate a witty woman as well as the next man. She seems like a feisty lass, with no nonsense about her,” announced the Colonel. “I like her.”
This did not exactly come as a surprise. “Have you ever met a woman you haven’t liked?”
“She didn’t like you,” corrected Alex. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Poor girl,” said the Colonel generously. “She had that unfortunate problem with spots. It would be enough to sour anybody. But your Lady Frederick is a different matter.”
“I should say she is,” said Alex. She was an irritant. A very attractive irritant, but an irritant nonetheless. A very attractive, very married irritant. “She’s Lord Frederick’s matter. And even if she weren’t,” he added, before the gleam in his father’s eye could translate into advice of which the resident religious authorities—of any denomination—would not approve, “I don’t have time to dabble in dalliance.”
The Colonel laughed that rolling laugh that had earned him the sobriquet the “Laughing Colonel.” “Nonsense!” he declared. “All it will take is the right woman to make you change your mind.”
“Or women?” Alex shot back. It was a cheap blow and he knew it.
Alex would have taken it back if he could, but it had already hit its mark. His father’s face seemed to sag around the edges.
“We can never undo what we’ve done,” said the Colonel, with none of his usual bluster. He looked his full age and more. “But I never meant ill by any of you. You know that.”
“I know,” said Alex roughly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Until it does,” said the Colonel, looking at Alex far too acutely for Alex’s comfort. Alex hated when his father looked at him like that. If his father wanted to be philosophical in his old age, well and good, just so long as his father didn’t philosophize about him. “Don’t shut yourself off from all the pleasant things in life, lad.”
“Trust me,” said Alex dryly, “I enjoy a good day’s hunting as much as the next man.”
The Colonel looked at him closely, realized he wasn’t going to get anywhere, and gave up, with a philosophical shrug of his shoulders. “Humor an old man’s fancy and write me a letter to let me know how you get on once you get that lot to Hyderabad.”
There was a glint in the old rogue’s eyes that made Alex feel decidedly twitchy. “With any luck, there won’t be anything to tell.”
His father grinned at him, displaying a full set of yellowing teeth. “That depends on your definition of luck.”
Chapter Three
On the bank, a crocodile yawned in the heat, its jaws stretching open until Penelope thought its head must surely snap in two. The air was thick with moisture and mosquitoes as the pilot’s schooner plowed slowly down the Hooghly River. They had left the boats and villages nearer Calcutta behind them. They had left behind the women carrying their washing down to the banks, the houses and temples visible through the trees. Instead, the jungle grew close by the banks of the river, like something out of a lyric poet’s tortured dreams, and crocodiles waddled to the edge of the waters to yawn their contempt to potential trespassers.
Penelope bared her teeth right back, even if the dental display wasn’t quite as impressive. It wouldn’t do to let an amphibian stare her down. Although it did rather help that she was on a boat and the crocodile wasn’t.
The water churned muddy and dark behind them, thick with silt, but Penelope could already see the breakers ahead of them that signaled the mouth of the Hooghly and the place where they were to change to a proper sailing ship to bring them all the way down the coast.
She yawned again, this time in earnest. In London, she had grown accustomed to sleeping well past noon. The schedule of the London Season was a nocturnal one, lighting the night with the artificial glow of candles and drawing the drapes against the intrusive light of day. Her father’s mother, who preferred the saddle to the ballroom, had always been frankly contemptuous of the whole process, wondering loudly why anyone would be fool enough to waste the day God gave them (this usually said with a pointed look at her daughter-in-law). Her grandmother, Penelope thought, leaning her arms on the rail, would have enjoyed India.
Breakers lay to one side, but on the other squatted a dense mass of thickly matted vegetation. Penelope thought she could see a tiger through the trees, its striped pelt a vivid amber against the hanging fronds of the trees.
“What is that?” she asked Captain Reid as he passed behind her.
“The island of Sangor,” he said briefly. After a moment, he added, “The island is sacred to Kali. Sangor has long been used as a ritual center for human sacrifice.”
Penelope could feel the Captain’s eyes on her, gauging the impact of his comment. He no doubt expected her to be spooked, to express womanly alarm, to demand his protection against the big, bad beasties who ate pretty little Englishwomen—or, even better, to demand that he turn around and take her back to the metropolitan protection of Calcutta posthaste, tide or no.
There was only one thing to be done.
“What kind of human sacrifices?” Penelope demanded, twisting around to look up at him.
It was marvelous watching Captain Reid’s discomfiture.
Blinking rapidly, he managed to effect a quick recovery. “In human sacrifices one generally sacrifices humans. I understand that that is the usual practice.”
Penelope rolled her eyes. “Yes, but how do they go about it? Do they burn them? Cut them up into little bits? Flay them alive?”
Captain Reid backed up a step. “I believe they generally fling them into the river.”
Penelope made a moue of disappointment. “That is fairly tame, I must say. If one is to have a blood sacrifice, I would hope there would at least be a bit more drama about it. Otherwise, it strikes me as a waste of a perfectly good human.”
A tiny glint of humor showed in Captain Reid’s steely eyes, clearly much against his own inclination. “If it makes you feel better, they do have a fair amount of ceremonial around the event. The devotees are robed in scarlet and draped in flowers. There are hymns and all that sort of thing.”
“Rather like Evensong,” commented Penelope, with an arch glance at Captain Reid.
“Only rather more fatal.” He had given up the battle against his better self; the glint expanded into a bona fide grin. It was a quirky sort of grin, pulling up one side of his mouth more than the other, but it was oddly engaging for all that.
He was really rather attractive when he wasn’t scowling at her.
“Why do they do it?” she asked.
“Why? For the same reason one petitions any deity; for riches, for health, for advancement. It is,” he added wryly, “rather amazing what a man will do for the hope of advancement.”
There was a self-mockery in his tone that suggested there was more than abstract philosophy at play.
Penelope wondered just what dubious measures Captain Reid might have been driven to in the interests of advancement. Human sacrifice didn’t seem likely to be on the list, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he might have joined with the Resident in selling out British interests for Hyderabadi gold. Or, perhaps, as the Resident was rumored to have done, even converted to Islam for the purposes of currying local favor. That would explain why Reid was so dead opposed to Freddy’s fulfilling Wellesley’s commission in Hyderabad, why he was so transparently eager to see them both back to Calcutta, even if he had to make up tall tales about ritual sacrifice to accomplish it.
Oh, he thought he had been so subtle about it at Begum Johnson’s soiree, making those stilted comments about the wonders of the Calcutta Season, the rigors of the road, the unalleviated monotony of life in the provinces, but the pretense had been so laughable that a child of five could have seen through it. Captain Reid obviously didn’t give a damn about balls or routs or the wonders of the Calcutta Season; what he did give a damn about was detaining her and Freddy in Calcutta as long as possible. He appeared to be under the misguided impression that she had any influence at all over her husband, and that if she teased and wheedled, Freddy would dawdle
away the cold months in Calcutta with her, leaving Captain Reid a free hand to do whatever it was he intended to do in Hyderabad unsupervised.
Penelope could have told Captain Reid that there were two fallacies at play in that approach. The first mistake was assuming that she had any interest at all in the social life of Calcutta.
The second was presuming that she had any influence over Freddy.
It would, Penelope thought, be rather a nice shot in the eye to her spouse if she was to uncover what was rotten in the state of Hyderabad before he did. Freddy wouldn’t recognize treason at work unless it happened to get between him and a hand of cards. Add in a spot of hunting, and Wellesley’s suspicions could go hang.
Lord Wellesley had sent Freddy to investigate James Kirkpatrick, but what if he was misinformed? What if the source of the unrest in Hyderabad wasn’t Kirkpatrick at all, but his subordinate, Captain Reid?
“How long have you been in Hyderabad, Captain Reid?” Penelope asked cunningly.
“Long enough to know the route,” he said with polite finality. “We’re almost to Point Palmyras. If you’ll excuse me, I really should see about the baggage before we change ships.”
“I doubt it’s going anywhere on its own,” pointed out Penelope.
Captain Reid inclined his head. “My point precisely, Lady Frederick.”
Penelope watched with narrowed eyes as Captain Reid exchanged a few words with the pilot of the schooner. Tugging at the brim of her hat to deflect the sun, which was full in her eyes, she saw the passage of a pale packet being passed from Captain Reid to the pilot. Letters? Penelope squinted against the sun, but it was no use. Whatever it was had already disappeared from Captain Reid’s hand into the pilot’s pocket. That is, if there had been anything there at all. The glare of the sun seemed to bleach the insides of her eyes, creating inverted shadows that slithered upon the scene like ornamental goldfish in a fountain. Penelope blinked hard, trying to clear her vision, but the spots wouldn’t seem to go away.