Twilight 0f Memory (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Watters

  And the opal to be returned to the Kuraver.

  She too could play that British game of justified appropriation. But with the opal, she'd be returning it to its rightful owners.

  To her surprise, Lord Ravencroft curved his hand around hers, and said, "Hell has no fury like a woman scorned. Have I insulted you, gypsy girl?"

  Eliza removed her hand from beneath his. "You asked me to tell you what I thought of the British, so I did."

  Lord Ravencroft gave her a wry smile. "Between you, me, and the lamppost I think you're right, at least about the British being depraved, but we disguise our depravity beneath a pretense of aristocratic demeanor which we call being civilized."

  Eliza focused on his mouth, intrigued by the way one side tipped upward, yet not quite into a smile. He had an appealing mouth, if a man's mouth could be considered appealing. She'd never thought of a man's mouth that way, nor had she ever kissed a man, but she thought if she ever did, she'd like to kiss a mouth like Lord Ravencroft's.

  "Is something wrong, Miss Shirazi?"

  "Umm… no, my lord." Eliza turned to her side window, but the thought of his lips touching hers lingered, even as she vowed to guard against such foolish notions.

  They overtook a cart drawn by a pair of white bullocks with splayed horns and pulled on ahead. It was then she got her first glimpse of Shanti Bhavan, the manor house looming like a great pink fortress, the scene momentarily sharpening as ghostlike images surfaced then faded, leaving her memory of the place once again blank.

  The coach passed beneath an arched green canopy of bridal creeper and entered a courtyard paved in pinkish-red stones. Verandas running the length of each floor came alive with white-turbaned servants who scurried about in readiness for their master's arrival, and on the wide bank of steps leading to the main entrance to the manor house stood a line-up of women servants in colorful saris.

  Eliza's attention was drawn to the pinkish-red stones wavering with heat, and as she stared, the image of a squat brown pony standing in a courtyard swept clean by rain filled her mind's eye. As she attempted to conjure up details of a scene in a far distant memory, the words, "My pony," escaped her lips.

  Lord Ravencroft eyed her with curiosity. "Is my home familiar to you?"

  Eliza looked at him with a start, then vowed to be more vigilant if further memories surfaced. "No, my lord." She saw the look of awareness in his eyes and knew he wasn't convinced.

  Which he affirmed. "I'll keep that in mind. I'll also alert Mrs. Throckmorton. She's perceptive when it comes to evaluating new staff." He climbed out of the coach and motioned to one of his footmen. "Rana, take Miss Shirazi to Mrs. Throckmorton for instruction." Dismissing himself, he strode across the courtyard towards the stables.

  At once, a sense of foreboding crept over Eliza, but she couldn't decide if it was because disturbing memories were beginning to surface, or if her mission at Shanti Bhavan was destined to fail. All she knew was the next few days would be critical, the upcoming assessment by Mrs. Throckmorton key to whether she'd be allowed to stay and complete her mission or be turned out to face the Kris Romani with her failure and be cast out to a very uncertain future.

  If it wasn't for the promise she'd made to her grandmother on the old woman's deathbed, to do the Kris Romani's bidding and recover the opal, she'd abandon a life she'd come to embrace for its freedom and closeness to nature, but which with the death of her grandmother was becoming increasingly hostile, and attempt to seek work with a British family.

  Returning to her father was not an option. Even if she could forgive him, she had no idea where he lived, only that he'd sold the plantation and left. He could be in India somewhere else, maybe Bombay, or possibly even taken up residency in England, but tracking him down at this point would be an impossibility.

  She sighed heavily, then turned and followed the footman into the house where she'd face the formidable Mrs. Throckmorton.

  .

  CHAPTER 2

  Eliza trailed the footman into a spacious kitchen with a lofty ceiling designed to alleviate the heat, but the heat clung, intensifying the odor of garlic and turmeric and ginger and the cow-dung that heated the huge baked-clay oven. The room bustled with dusky-skinned ayahs clad in saris. One woman ground spices on a stone. Another plucked a chicken over a basket. Others scrubbed floors or scoured copper cooking pots and round-bottomed dekchis.

  The footman turned Eliza over to Mrs. Throckmorton, who was testing the cleanliness of a shelf with the tip of her finger. A tall, angular matron, Mrs. Throckmorton had peppery-gray hair swept back into a tight bun, a pinched nose, and an uncompromising mouth. From a chatelaine about her waist dangled the keys to the larders, linen cupboards, and rooms where servants were not to have free access. The opal would no doubt be locked behind one of those doors. And Mrs. Throckmorton would no doubt sleep with the keys close at hand, if not on her person.

  The woman turned to face Eliza. "So you're to be a cook, I presume."

  Eliza dipped a curtsy. "No ma'am. His Lordship said I am to be a housemaid."

  Mrs. Throckmorton eyed her with skepticism. "I will clear it with his Lordship, and if you're lying to me, girl, you'll be dismissed without references."

  "Yes ma'am."

  Pinning Eliza with a hard-eyed look, Mrs. Throckmorton sucked in a breath, and said while exhaling, "As a housemaid you will rise with the six-o'clock gong, tend your personal needs and go directly to the parlor where you will cover the furniture with dust sheets, beat the curtains, sweep the floor, strew moist tea-leaves on the carpets and sweep them up with the carpet broom, then you will go to the dining and drawing rooms and do the same. The library and master study are locked when not in use, so you will clean those rooms only under my supervision."

  Eliza's mind snapped to attention. The library and master study? Locked when not in use? Why? Because the rooms guarded certain valuables?

  It was some moments before her mind became focused on what Mrs. Throckmorton was saying…

  "…and you shall enter through the servant's entrance, have no male visitors, attend church on Sunday, and if you find yourself in his lordship's presence you will curtsy, lower your eyes, and address him as my lord. Have I made myself clear?"

  "Yes ma'am. I'll strive to conduct myself in the precise manner you have outlined."

  Mrs. Throckmorton's eyes narrowed into scornful slits. "Watch your tongue girl, and don't be talking with high-flown ways, patterning yourself after your betters, or you'll find yourself working in the laundry. Now, come with me to your quarters."

  Eliza followed the offensive woman up two flights of stairs and down a hallway to a stifling, inferno of a room tucked beneath a hot tile roof. The headboards of two narrow beds butted up to one wall, and at the foot of each bed stood a scuffed wooden chest. On the opposite wall, with barely enough room to pass, were two small tables, each bearing a pitcher and a wash basin, and in the corner stood the thunderbox—a stark wooden commode with arms and a lid that closed over an enameled chamber pot. Eliza stepped to the window and peered out. Below stretched the roof over the veranda. If she was quiet, she could crawl out the window at night and sit on the roof and wait for the moon and coolness...

  "Girl! You have not been employed to dawdle the day away."

  "Sorry. I was momentarily distracted."

  When Eliza turned, Mrs. Throckmorton scanned the length of her, lips planted in displeasure. "I was not expecting you so you shall not be uniformed until tomorrow. Until then, there is an apron stacked with the bed linens. Put it on at once and meet me in the sitting room where I shall acquaint you with your duties before his lordship's lady arrives."

  Eliza looked at the woman with a start. "Then there is a Lady Ravencroft?"

  Mrs. Throckmorton's thin nostrils flared. "No, but you shall not discuss his lordship or his lordship's lady. Gossip among the servants will not be tolerated." Turning abruptly, she marched off, the jangle of keys accompanied by her brisk steps echoing down the hallway
.

  Eliza stared after her. So, there was a lady in Lord Ravencroft's life, one who could also be the intended recipient of the opal, and if the gem were to leave the premises on her person that would complicate matters greatly. Perhaps a lovers' spat was in order, one that would send the lady off in a huff for a week or two, enough time to locate the opal and flee with it.

  ***

  Cedric Hadleigh raised the opal he'd taken from Damon's fingers and the gem burst into fiery flashes. "What are you talking about? Napoleon and Josephine? Burning of Troy? I thought the opal was a gypsy talisman."

  Damon eyed the magnificent gemstone. "It was, but before that it belonged to Empress Josephine. It disappeared after her death and that's when it fell into the hands of gypsies."

  Cedric's gaze sharpened with interest. "How much is it worth?"

  "Enough to clear my name, pay my way to England, and restore Westwendham." Damon took the opal from Cedric's hands and slipped it into a velvet pouch, then placed the pouch in a strongbox on his desk. Cedric eyed the strongbox, brows drawn, then looked up when Damon said, "You were asking about a loan?"

  "Yes, the loan. Three-thousand rupees would tide me over until the crop comes in."

  "Three-thousand! Good God. You want a bloody fortune! I'll loan you five-hundred."

  "I've got a staff of forty-four."

  "Then dismiss that Delhian cook of yours!"

  "Get rid of Hasan?" Cedric said, forlorn. "A chap's got to eat."

  "Not like a maharajah! Get yourself a British cook." Damon eyed the man with vexation. The problem with Cedric was he'd never known hunger, never stared at a pastry cook's window while dreaming of eating plum cakes or raspberry tarts. Never stood by an eating house, inhaling the sultry air wafting from the wall gratings while imagining sinking his teeth into an eel pie, or a round of beef, or a pen'orth of pudding dripping in fat and plump raisins.

  "I'll try to make do this time," Cedric said.

  Damon dipped his pen into the inkstand and scrolled a note and handed it to Cedric. "This is it, old chap. You won't get another rupee from me until it's paid in full, with interest."

  Cedric took the note. "Perhaps it will see me through until harvest—"

  "My lord? If I might interrupt." Eliza appeared in the doorway. She wore the plain brown dress she'd arrived in, but now a bibbed white apron stretched across her trim breasts and hugged her small waist.

  Her eyes fastened on Cedric, and her lips parted as if in surprise. Her brow also held a frown as she stared at Cedric. Damon looked from one to the other. "Are the two of you acquainted?" He knew Cedric saw Eliza at the horse fair, but Eliza's reaction to Cedric was curious.

  Eliza blinked nervously. "Umm… no... but… could you direct me to the sitting room?"

  Damon glanced beyond Eliza to find Mara in the doorway. Mara glided past Eliza as if not noticing her and said to him in an excited voice, "I come for black horse."

  Damon looked at her with a start. He'd completely forgotten to send word that she not come. "I didn't get the horse."

  "What you mean not get horse?" Mara plunked her fists against her hips.

  Before Damon could reply, Eliza said, "My lord, if you will direct me to the sitting room. Mrs. Throckmorton is waiting."

  Mara turned abruptly on hearing Eliza's voice and gasped. Her eyes dragging over the full-length of Eliza, she said in an agitated voice, "Who is this... person?"

  Eliza dipped a curtsy. "I'm the new house maid. Lord Ravencroft offered me a job as a cook, but when I told him I couldn't cook he offered me the job as a housemaid which—"

  "Eliza!" Damon cut her off short. "The sitting room is down the hallway to your right."

  Eliza had barely left the room when Mara said to Damon, "She tell you she not able to cook, and you need cook, so why you employ her?"

  Damon inhaled a long breath to clear his mind of flashing green eyes and a pair of moist rosy lips begging to be kissed. "I didn't intend to employ her at all, but when I was ready to make an offer on the horse—"

  "My lord?" Eliza appeared in the doorway again. "I couldn't help overhearing. Let me explain to your lady what happened since it was because of me that you failed to purchase the horse. You see, my lady, there was a misunderstanding about the first horse his lordship purchased from me, which had been, well... altered for the sale, and while Lord Ravencroft was chasing after me and tussling with me in the grass in an effort to right the wrong I'd placed on him, he missed the chance to purchase the horse for you, but he had fully intended to do so. I'm here at his lordship's suggestion, to right a wrong." Turning abruptly, she left.

  Mara's eyes flashed with anger. "So, you not get horse because you tussle with woman." She seized a book and hurled it at Damon, sending it crashing against the wall. "I see how you look at her." She seized another book.

  Damon rushed over and captured Mara's wrist. "Enough! Either return to the bungalow or go back to your maharajah, but don't come here telling me what to do. I'll do whatever I bloody well please. Is that clear?"

  "Very clear. You also find cold bed in bungalow!" Mara made a dramatic sweeping turn and stormed out of the room.

  Damon started after her, set on having the final say, but when he turned out of the doorway he found Eliza standing in the hall. "I didn't mean to stir up a hornet's nest," Eliza said.

  "Didn't you, though?" Damon let out a cynical snort. "No thanks to you I don't entertain high hopes of salvaging the alliance."

  Eliza eyed Mara as she marched off. "I don't know why you'd want to be entangled with such an emotional woman."

  "And I should sack you for your impertinence."

  "With due respect, my lord, I must remind you that I'm merely a simple gypsy girl with a limited knowledge of decorum."

  "That's pure rubbish. You may be gypsy but you're far from simple, and I suspect you have a good knowledge of decorum, though for the life of me I can't figure out how you've come by it."

  "Like I said, I worked as a ladies maid."

  Damon saw her gaze falter. She was lying. She also possessed schooling and refinement beyond that of an ordinary Eurasian. He saw it in the graceful manner in which she moved when she gestured, and in the way she stood straight and held herself erect. Maybe she'd been trained as a courtesan, maybe as a man's mistress, but he knew with certainty that she hadn't spent many years roaming with gypsies. He was curious, though, as to why she'd taken up with them at all, and he intended to root it out of her, eventually. "As for your behavior, if I do salvage my alliance with Begum Mara, I suggest you give careful thought to your conduct when in her presence."

  "Begum Mara?" Eliza's lips twitched with suppressed amusement. "She claims royalty?"

  Damon's jaw tightened. "That's no concern of yours, but you will address her as Begum Mara. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, my lord. I'll strive to speak with respect to your precious—" she stopped short.

  "My precious what?" Damon waited, and when Eliza didn't reply, he said, "Go ahead, I insist. My precious what?"

  "Peagoose." Eliza patted a smile. "Forgive me, my lord, but I find it difficult to consider with respect someone who is—" she stopped short again.

  "Who is what?"

  "I don't believe you want to know."

  "Oh, but I do."

  "Very well. Someone who is nothing more than a commonplace courtesan."

  Damon couldn't argue her point. He'd given a valuable pigeon's blood ruby to a maharaja in return for releasing Mara from the zenana...

  "Well, I'd best find Mrs. Throckmorton. You did say the sitting room was just down the hallway, didn't you?"

  "Yes..." Damon caught the aroma of sandalwood and found the effect unsettling. His eyes rested on a pair of parted lips he intended to sample in the near future. Stepping aside for her to pass, he said, "Keep in mind that my butler takes an accounting of the silverware, daily."

  Green eyes flared. "I'm not a thief. I'm willing to make things right because I've done you an injustice, and I
assure you, I'm here in that capacity only."

  Her words had the distinct ring of a lie, and Damon resolved to watch her closely, although he didn't know why he should keep her on at all. She'd been nothing but trouble from the moment he set eyes on her. But he wasn't ready to let her go. At the horse fair she'd given him a glimpse of what she had to offer and he intended to collect. "If you want to make things right you'll see to ridding my bedchamber of a family of mice who invade my quarters nightly."

  Eliza's eyes widened. "Mice, my lord? But, surely you don't expect me to come into your bedchamber at night... for mice."

  Damon eyed her with amusement. "If you come to my bedchamber at night, gypsy girl, I pray it will not be for mice."

  "And I can assure you I would not come for any other reason."

  "Then I'll expect you to prepare the room before I retire for the night and clean up the mouse remains in the morning after I leave. You do know the procedure for eliminating mice, don't you?"

  "No. I've never been given that duty."

  As Damon peered down at her, he resisted the urge to touch her face. Her skin looked as smooth as porcelain, as unblemished as a child's. He could only imagine how the rest of her would be.

  Redirecting his thoughts to the issue of mice, he said, "You'll find corks in the kitchen. Slice them crosswise and as thin as a rupee, have Cook soak them in hot grease, then place them near the mouse hole, which you'll locate when you clean my bedchamber. The mice will eat the corks and die. In the morning you can dispose of them, clean up the bits of cork, and scrub the floors."

  Batting her eyes, Eliza said, "Tomorrow's Sunday. Surely I'm not expected to work seven days a week."

  "You have not yet worked an hour," Damon pointed out.

  "But Mrs. Throckmorton insists I attend church."