As Anna’s father had often said, the Lord moved in mysterious ways. Who would have guessed that a henna-haired former fille de joie would one day prove a godsend to the vicar’s gently bred daughter?
“Poor little mite.” Ruby’s voice was low as she watched Chelsea, who had confessed all with a single guilty look and run off to wash her face. Anna smiled at Ruby. If her crimson silk dress was a trifle garish, especially when contrasted with the improbable orange of her hair, what did it matter when weighted against the priceless gift of her friendship?
“She minds you better than she minds me.”
“Because I don’t coddle her. You’re too soft, Anna, and not only with Chelsea. With everyone. Like your da before you.” Ruby stopped to fan her moisture-beaded face with a lovely scrimshaw fan, which had been presented to her with a flourish and a fusillade of compliments by one of the sailors some two weeks before. Exactly what Ruby had done to deserve it Anna wasn’t sure, and feared to inquire. Ruby had always liked, and had a way with, men. Further than that Anna refused to allow herself to speculate.
“Gawd, it’s hot!” Ruby leaned against the rail, plying the fan vigorously enough so that Anna, too, felt the breeze. Ruby was right: it was hot, despite the easterly wind that sent the ship scooting through the waves. Moisture dampened her own forehead and beaded on her upper lip. Her long-sleeved black mourning gown clung unpleasantly to her body. But except for Ruby’s fan there was no relief to be had: below deck was even hotter than above. During her years in Ceylon Anna had thought her body had grown accustomed to the relentless heat, but perhaps it would take a while to acclimatize herself again after the chill of England.
“It’ll be better in the summer. The monsoons cool things off.”
“I hope so. A body could melt in this.” Ruby turned, sighing, to stare at the cloudless horizon.
“Cap’n Rob says we should make port before nightfall tomorrow.”
“Cap’n Rob”—a very distinguished gray-haired gentleman—was another of Ruby’s numerous admirers. Whether or not their acquaintance went beyond the bounds of mere flirtation, Anna did not allow herself to consider. But everyone else on board called the autocratic ship’s captain Captain Marshall.
“How wonderful. I can’t wait to get off this ship. It feels as if we’ve been traveling for months.”
“Time would have passed a lot quicker if you’d looked back at some or those brawny gents who’ve been looking at you.”
A sidelong glance accompanied this trenchant observation. Anna sighed. They’d had this discussion at least a dozen times, but Ruby obstinately refused to let it drop.
“I’m a widow, remember?” Anna said. “I’ve been married, had a child. I’m not interested in looking back at men.”
Ruby’s nose twitched disapprovingly. “It’s unnatural, a pretty young thing like you not being interested in men.”
“Paul’s not even been in his grave a year!”
“They say if you fall off a horse, the best thing to do is get right back on.”
“Marriage is not a horse!”
“Who’s talking marriage? I’m talking about letting yourself enjoy life a little. Have a little fun. And men are the best way I know to have fun.”
“You’re shameless, Ruby.” A smile flickered on Anna’s mouth.
Ruby shook her head. “Not shameless. Honest. Come now, confess: you can’t tell me that not one of these gents makes you wonder what it would be like to have him put his arms around you, kiss you.…”
“Ruby!” Despite Anna’s half-scandalized protest, Ruby’s words summoned up an all-too-vivid, unwelcome image that had been plaguing her dreams for weeks: the swooping of the housebreaker’s darkly handsome head, the claiming of her lips with his, his hands on her breast and hips.… With an almost physical effort she shook the pesky memory off. “I’ll say it again: I am not, for the time being at least, one bit interested in men!”
Ruby opened her mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by the reappearance of a small figure walking sedately toward them.
“I washed my face.”
Chelsea was back, her face scrubbed and glowing. Anna, thankful to be saved further discussion of the subject of men, smiled down at her. So did Ruby.
“You certainly did a good job.” Anna ran a finger down her small daughter’s cool cheek. Her hand rested briefly on the silken head. “Your nose is turning pink. You need your hat.”
“Oh, Mama, I forgot!” Chelsea’s obvious distress over so small a transgression made Anna wince inwardly. Although she’d always been a good, obedient child, since Paul’s death she seemed terrified of displeasing her mother in any way. It worried Anna, but she didn’t know quite what to do about it,
“It doesn’t matter, chicken. We’ll simply go along to the cabin and get it.”
“How about if you and me go on up to the quarterdeck and see what Cap’n Rob’s doing?” Ruby intervened, seeing the pain behind Anna’s careful smile. “They’ve got a canopy rigged up there so you won’t need to bother with a hat. Who knows, he might even let you steer the ship. Would you like that?”
“Do you think he really would?” Chelsea’s eyes widened at the distraction. Anna smiled gratefully at Ruby over her daughter’s head.
“There’s only one way to find out.” Ruby, winking at Anna, took Chelsea’s small hand in hers and started off with her along the deck. “Mind you don’t run us aground, now.”
“How could I? There’s no land for ever so far.” Chelsea disappeared with Ruby in the direction of the quarterdeck.
As Captain Marshall had foretold, the India Princess dropped anchor at Colombo, Ceylon’s major trading center, before sunset the next day. Theirs was just one of many ships of varying sizes and descriptions that were disgorging passengers or taking on tea or cinnamon, the island’s two major cash crops. The entire expanse of the rickety wooden pier teemed with activity. Small boys darted everywhere, begging from the new arrivals and stealing what they could not beg. Coolies in their funny hats trotted hither and yon, bearing all manner of burdens on their backs. White-veiled women in their shapeless robes glided amongst the rough-voiced merchants and sailors who sometimes turned to stare, to the loudly expressed annoyance of the ladies’ attending servants. Lower-caste women, their silky black hair unveiled, were the recipients of more than stares. Saffron-robed monks made their stately way through the massive confusion. Despite the setting sun, the heat was palpable. The ritual chanting of the Buddhists floated across the water to the ship along with the spicy smell of the incense that was indigenous to the island. Taking a deep breath of the pungent air, Anna realized for the first time that she was really, truly home.
After eight weeks spent in the close confines of the ship, she was anxious to get ashore. The forty-some-odd other passengers were equally restive, but Captain Marshall was adamant. They would not dock until high tide the next morning. Therefore Anna and her fellow travelers had to spend one last night on the ship, looking longingly across the short expanse of the bay that separated them from the domed mosques and dagobas that dominated Colombo’s skyline.
As she stood at the rail watching night descend over the city, a stabbing memory of the first time she had stood on a ship’s deck overlooking Colombo came back to her. Paul had been with her then. They’d been wed only a couple of months, and his arm had been around her waist as they had stared, both entranced, at the exotic scene spread before them. Anna had been a little scared at the prospect of the strange new life that awaited them, and Paul, though he pretended to courage, had been apprehensive, too. And rightly so, as it turned out. Paul had never left Ceylon; if, on that bright September night so many years ago they had known of the tragedy that awaited them, they would have caught the next ship back to England. But, of course, they hadn’t known.
Regrets served no purpose, Anna reminded herself sharply. Now it was up to her to put the pieces of her life and Chelsea’s back together again.
Her chin raised defiantly, An
na turned her back on the memories and the skyline and went below.
IX
Julian, on the other hand, spent most of the selfsame two months positively awash with regrets. No sooner had he made it safely back to his posh London town house than he’d found himself under arrest. Thinking that he was in the clear once he’d gotten beyond the reach of Graham and his henchmen, he’d taken no particular precautions to insure his safety once he reached town. After all, with the emeralds left behind at Gordon Hall, Graham was sure to be having a high old time of it crowing at Julian’s failure. Without the loss of the emeralds to goad him, he would be loath to take the extreme step of bringing the authorities into what had all the earmarks of blowing up into a sensational family scandal. Or so Julian had thought. Unfortunately, in that, as in so many other things in his life, he’d been wrong.
But hindsight was always keener. He’d had no inkling of danger as he’d walked up his front steps and put his hand on the knob. Then all hell had broken loose behind him.
“That’s ’im!”
“You’re under arrest!”
“Watch out, ’e’s said to be armed!”
“Don’t ye move now, ye miscreant, or we’ll be blowin’ out yer brains!”
Julian had whirled at the first shout. By the last one, he was standing still as a rock, his hands lifting, palms outward, into the air. The quartet of men who had sprung like rabbits from the bushes across the street might be buffoonish, but they were also heavily armed.
“There must be some mistake,” Julian began, heart sinking as he recognized his assailants as Bow Street runners. From the way they were clutching their weapons as they closed on him, it wouldn’t take much more than an unexpected sneeze on his part to start them shooting.
One of the quartet snorted as they came up the steps with more caution than his unthreatening demeanor demanded.
“Aye, guv, o’ course there is. Don’t you be doin’ nothin’ stupid, now. ’Twould be a shame to get your ’andsome ’ead shot off, now wouldn’t it?”
They reached him then, laid hands on him, dragged his arms behind his back. Julian didn’t even try to fight. Clearly it would be futile, and just as futile to run. They had him, good and proper, curse them to hell and back. His confidence in Graham’s reluctance to bring outsiders into their private quarrel had apparently been seriously misplaced.
“May I ask what you’re arresting me for?” Although he was sure he already knew the answer, Julian asked anyway, wincing as they clamped cold shackles tightly around his wrists.
“Search ’im, Mick.” The man who spoke was apparently the leader of the group. Another man, Mick presumably, ran his hands along Julian’s body, while the first man, standing back, answered his question with a sneer. “That’s right, guv, play innocent. They all do, every last one. We’re arrestin’ you for the theft of a certain set of emeralds, rightly the property of one Lord Ridley. I don’t suppose you know nothin’ about them?”
“They’re not stolen,” Julian protested in surprise. The only response was another snort. He frowned as the man searching him straightened with a negative shake of his head.
Good God, what was this? Graham’s hatred and fury must have finally turned his brain if he had called in Bow Street on a trumped-up charge. Julian’s eyes narrowed as he pondered the ramifications. Would Graham really go so far as to accuse him of stealing the emeralds when they were, in fact, once again securely in Graham’s possession?
If so, Graham was more Machiavellian than Julian had dreamed.
Although if Graham had the least inkling that the proof of Julian’s identity, which Julian had spent most of his life seeking, was somehow linked to the emeralds, he would personally smash the stones to dust despite their value to keep them out of his despised half-brother’s hands. Graham would stop at nothing to keep the name, title, and fortune that legitimacy would transfer to Julian. Nothing, Julian reminded himself grimly as he found himself being driven off to Newgate Prison, up to and including murder. His murder.
By the time Anna set eyes on Colombo, Julian had been reduced to a state as nearly inhuman as that of the other denizens of Newgate. The howls that reverberated constantly through the dank cells could as easily have come from his throat as from any of the other poor souls trapped there. He was dressed in rags, so filthy that he stank, and hungry enough to contemplate eating one of the dozens of rats with which the place was infested. If he wasn’t thirsty, it was only because water trickled down the walls at a steady pace. At first he had shuddered to put his tongue to the filthy stone, but by the time a week had passed he felt no reluctance at all. He had made up his mind that whatever it took to survive, he would do.
At first he’d been convinced that Graham had the emeralds safe and had seized on his attempted appropriation of them as the means to remove Julian from his path. But he had been speedily disabused of that notion. Some three days after he had arrived, a guard had appeared at the cell door and called his name. Still an innocent to the ways of Newgate, Julian had eagerly answered the summons. Perhaps they had discovered that it was all a hideous mistake and meant to let him go.…
So much for innocence. He had been escorted to a tiny inner chamber where even the door was made of stone, chained face to the wall, and stripped to the waist by the simple method of having his shirt half ripped from his back.
About the time it dawned on him that they had no intention of letting him go, a voice that sent chills down his spine spoke behind him.
“So, gypsy bastard, you’re finally getting the comeuppance you deserve.”
Graham. Julian identified the speaker even before he slewed his head around and found him with one eye.
“Hello, brother.” Despite his sinking premonition of trouble to come, his voice was mocking. Bravado was the only defense he had left.
“Don’t call me that.”
Graham made an abrupt gesture to someone— Julian assumed it was one of the guards, although they were out of his line of vision. A faint whistling noise warned him of what was to come; he’d heard that noise often enough on the Sweet Anne. The cat. He cringed before the leather bit into his back.
Even as the burning pain shot along his shoulders and sliced his flesh, he refused to cry out. Graham had always hated him; Julian would not give him the satisfaction of despising him, too.
If it killed him, he would not show weakness before the little brother who had set himself up as his mortal enemy.
“I want the emeralds back. Where are they?” There was a gloating edge to Graham’s voice. How he must enjoy having the upper hand in this encounter! The last time they had met, Julian had been twenty-four and Graham twenty. They’d crossed paths in the dead of a winter’s night in one of London’s more notorious gaming halls. Graham had been slumming, looking for excitement with a group of the young lordlings who were his friends, and he’d found it. Julian had been running the hell and had spotted his brother at the table of a dealer who took particular delight in the fleecing of flats. It had given Julian a peculiarly painful pleasure to watch Graham lose on the turn of a single card a sum that would have kept Julian in comfort for a year. It had given him even more pleasure when Graham, in his cups and not liking to lose, had sprung roaring from his chair and flipped the table on its side.
The toughs that kept order on the premises had been on Graham instantly. Julian had let them land a few punishing blows before signaling them to stop.
“Let him go,” he’d ordered quietly.
Graham’s eyes had swung around to him and narrowed in recognition as the men had stepped back. His blunt-featured face, already flushed with drink, had reddened still more.
“I should have guessed I’d run into you at a place like this.” Loathing had mixed with scorn in Graham’s voice.
Julian laughed, although there was no mirth to the sound. “You have it wrong, brother. I should have expected to see you here. Only fools with more money than sense patronize this place.”
“Are
you calling me a fool, gypsy bastard?” Enraged, Graham had swung at him, and Julian had taken great satisfaction from knocking his brother down before ordering his men to throw the fool out.
Now, in Newgate, the tables were turned with a vengeance.
“I’m going to ask you one more time: where are the emeralds?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” Julian said truthfully. The beating that followed was severe. Subsequent beatings were worse. Graham was convinced that Julian had stolen the emeralds and had managed to hide them somewhere before being caught. He wanted the emeralds back almost as much as he wanted Julian dead.
Which was why Julian volunteered nothing during the frequent beatings he endured. His silence had bought him, he guessed, perhaps an extra month of life as Graham tried to torture the whereabouts of the gems from him. Now his time was just about to run out. On the morrow he was to hang.
All because of a deceptively angelic-looking chit who, he’d finally deduced, had quite obviously succeeded in stealing what he had not. How he’d like to get his hands around her slender white neck and squeeze!
She’d put him in quite a predicament. As he’d thought the matter over—and he had precious little else to do but think—it had become clear to him that, if he didn’t have the emeralds, and Graham didn’t, the little hellcat must. He was still teased by the feeling that he had seen her before, and had spent much time running through his mental list of childish pickpockets and thieves who’d been running loose in London’s streets as he, perhaps a decade older, had been striving toward a more legitimate life. But he had come up with nothing and had finally concluded that, if he had known her before, it wasn’t as a pint-sized thief.
Although a thief she certainly was. She’d been wearing his cloak, after all, and the emeralds had been in the pocket. In a way, Julian almost had to admire the clearheadedness that had allowed her to come up with so ingenious a scheme. Only a very clever little puss would realize that, by merely keeping her mouth shut, she could sneak away with a fortune in emeralds while the foiled would-be thief took the blame!
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