by Lynn Kerstan
His thumbs pricking, he looked up to see that Shivaji had returned with a half-filled glass, which Duran accepted with a shaky hand.
“What the blazes is this?” He lifted the glass to the light and examined the black globules swirling in a thick, fir-green liquid. It smelled like a rotting carcass.
“Some things are better left unknown. But if you have the mettle to swallow it, your head will be clear before morning.”
Remembering that he was to pay an early call on Jessica, Duran gulped the vile-tasting brew and sagged against the chair with his head thrown back, trying to keep himself from expelling it again.
Shivaji lowered himself cross-legged to the floor. “Did you conclude your business with the proprietor of the auction house?”
The pretense that any of it mattered was wearying, but Duran recognized an inquisition coming on. “I made his acquaintance, yes, but he was preoccupied with the exhibition. Not that it signified. I’ve a new plan now, much better than the first.”
“Indeed?” It didn’t sound like a question. “If the plan requires your presence in the gentlemen’s club where you spent so many hours, then you must abandon it. In future, no such distractions will be permitted.”
Disappointing, but not unexpected. “If you say so. But all the best contacts are to be found in the clubs. I made the acquaintance of one tonight, a chap named Sir Gerald Talbot who dabbles in the buying and selling of antiquities. He could be useful. But never mind. I quite understand that you don’t like me wandering out of your sight.”
“My concern is for the misuse of time, that is all. You are unfailingly under scrutiny.”
“Ah, yes, the Others. But I’ve concluded you are making them up. A gaggle of Hindus could hardly skulk around London unnoticed, and I’ve been watching out for them.”
“Were you to observe them, they would have failed in their duty.”
“Which would be . . . ?”
“When first you asked if I alone was set to guard you, I replied simply that there were others. Their title is difficult to translate. ‘The ones who serve unto the end’ comes near to the meaning. Their leader is my eldest son.”
Duran felt his mouth drop open. On the ship, whenever Shivaji expressed a wish to practice his English, they had discussed history and philosophy. But those occasions had been rare, and Duran’s attempts to winkle information from his captor were always smoothly deflected. Never once had a personal word passed between them.
“That surprises you?” A smile ghosted over Shivaji’s lips. “I have eight sons. When they come of age, all will take up the profession of their ancestors.”
“Eight little assassins-in-training.” Sometimes, even when sober, Duran felt as if he were slogging through a grotesque dream. “And what exactly must they do to earn the right to wear one of those charming earbobs? If you keep reproducing ambitious sons at such a rate, the streets will be littered with corpses.”
In the silence following that pronouncement, Duran wished he had conducted himself with the humble, disarming manner he kept meaning to adopt.
When the chief assassin spoke again, his voice was unperturbed. “Only the head of the family wears the Iron Dagger, Duran-Sahib. It is a responsibility conferred in trust and accepted with an oath inscribed in blood. My family has served the rulers of Alanabad for seventeen generations, and I am bound in honor to obey the nizam’s commands. When Arjuna takes my place, he will do the same. And like me, he will seek every means to make a killing unnecessary. We take no pleasure in it.”
“Well, that’s comforting, to be sure. I’d hate to think of you gloating when I’m laid out at your feet. When will that be, by the way?”
“When the time allotted you by the nizam has run out. Or before then, if you pursue your own interests instead of the duty laid upon you by the gods.”
“Has there ever lived a man who did not pursue his own interests?” Duran sat forward on his chair, elbows propped on his knees and chin cupped in his hands. “The dance grows tiresome, Shivaji. Shall we, just this once, speak directly to the point? You know the leopard cannot be found. Certainly not by me. So why are you playing along with this charade? Hell, you practically instigated it. The nizam wasn’t buying my story, not for a minute, but you kept working at him until he came around.”
Shivaji’s calm gaze never altered. “I have not the power to—how did you say it?—work him around. I merely suggested that he make use of you. You were lying, yes, but there flowed a truth beneath your words. In this mission, there are blessings to be had. It is even possible that some of those blessings will fall upon you.”
“But I don’t believe in your gods, Shivaji. And I can’t say that I’ve any of my own. None who have ever given me the time of day, at any rate. I am sure that no self-respecting deity would send the likes of me on a quest, even a piddling one like this. Bloody hell, man. We’re talking about a statue of a cat!”
“And what is a banner but a scrap of cloth? Yet men follow it into battle, do they not? A symbol can unite a nation. It inspires courage and endurance. Alanabad is threatened from every side by neighboring princes and foreign merchants. Within its borders, a traitor gathers followers and prepares to strike. My country relies on tradition to lend it strength. Without the Golden Leopard, which has stood guard over its fate for centuries, Alanabad will fall.”
“But you have a perfectly good substitute in hand. Why not take the replica back and pass it off as the real thing? You don’t need the original leopard, and you sure as hell don’t need me.”
“I do not expect you to give credit to my convictions. You are a man without faith. But I do expect you to follow my instructions, however foolish they may appear to you.”
“Fine.” Duran waved a careless hand. “I’ll look for your precious leopard. I won’t find it, you’ll kill me, and that will be that. But while the search is on, I intend to go about it my way.”
“You will take an oath not to attempt an escape?”
Duran rubbed his eyes. Dammit, even a gazetted reprobate sometimes kept a particle or two of honor salted away, if only to prove to himself that he could. His took the form of giving his word only when he meant to keep it, which was why he took care never to give it. Almost never. The last time he’d been talked into an oath was six years ago, and he’d never ceased to regret it.
“Put a gun to my head and I’ll say whatever you like,” he admitted with a grin. “But I’ll be lying.”
“Then I must see to it your efforts fail.” Rising, Shivaji took the empty glass from the table. “Sleep now. In the morning you may explain your new plan.”
“Wake me early,” Duran advised. “I have an appointment with a lady.”
From the entrance to the dressing room, Shivaji cast him a somber look before disappearing inside.
Duran waited until the door had closed before pulling himself upright and tottering over to the bed. He still had to find a place to hide his money. Under the pillow for the night, he decided when no better location presented itself. Tomorrow he would return the folded banknotes to the pair of narrow inner pockets concealed near the flap of his trousers. He had sewn them there himself, using needle, thread, and a patch of fabric filched from his tailor. Although Shivaji skimped on the accommodations, he had agreed that his prisoner required a fashionable wardrobe to move about in Society.
Chuckling, Duran began to unbutton his trousers. Perhaps Jessica could be persuaded to take custody of his funds. And if he had his way about it, she would retrieve them from their provocative hiding places with her own hands.
Except that—
He patted the two spots where his money was stored. Had been stored.
With increasing alarm he stripped off the trousers and checked the pockets again. Empty.
He examined the floor, in case the money had fallen out. His linen drawers, in case the money had slipped inside them.
But the money was gone. All seven hundred pounds of it gone, taken while he was being stripped
down to shirt and trousers by his murderous valet.
And he hadn’t felt a thing. Not a bloody thing.
Chapter 3
The late-summer twilight was deepening to a velvety purple when Jessica arrived at High Tor, the Sothingdon family estate set like a grassy island among the bogs and granite outcroppings of Dartmoor.
Voices and laughter rumbled from the direction of the dining room as she stepped into the entrance hall. “Welcome home, Lady Jessica,” said the butler, taking her small valise. A family retainer since before she was born, he would sooner be hung than betray surprise at her unexpected appearance. “Shall I inform his lordship of your arrival?”
“I suppose that you must, Geeson. But I don’t wish to make a bother of myself while he is entertaining guests. Tell him I am tired from my journey and will speak with him in the morning.”
“Very good, madam. If you will wait in the green saloon, I shall see your bedchamber prepared and your luggage carried upstairs.” He led her to the first floor, pausing outside a set of double doors. “Would you care for a supper tray?”
“A bath would be most welcome, if there are servants free to prepare it. And perhaps a pot of tea and some biscuits.”
Bowing, he opened the doors and stepped aside to let her enter. “Lady Mariah will be pleased to see you.”
Geeson had always enjoyed creating his own little surprises. She had not expected to find her sister in residence and wished she could put off speaking with her until she had recovered from her last encounter with someone she had not expected to see. At about this same time, only twenty-four hours ago.
What a spectacularly trying day it had been.
“Jessica?” Mariah’s embroidery hoop dropped to the floor when she stood, her wide blue eyes magnified by her gold-rimmed spectacles. “Good heavens. Papa failed to tell me that you were to be here as well.”
“That’s because he had no idea I was coming.” Jessica removed her bonnet and tossed it onto a sideboard. “I took a sudden impulse to breathe fresh air. Why have you been left to sit alone in this hideous parlor?”
“Oh, one hideous parlor is much like another. And I am generally alone in my own house, you know. When Papa wrote, asking me to play hostess at his shooting party, I could think of no reason to stay in Dorset. But I should have done, I suppose, because I am perfectly useless here. My sole duty is to wait in the parlor until the gentlemen have drunk their port, at which time I pour coffee and tea for them. Then I make my escape and keep well out of their way until the next evening. Mind you, it is not at all unpleasant with only five guests in residence. But the house will be overflowing before the week is out.”
“Oh dear. The Glorious Twelfth.” Jessica stripped off her gloves and slapped them against her skirts. “Drat. I must be off again as soon as possible.”
“What’s this? What’s this?” The earl bustled into the parlor, his belly preceding the rest of him, his nose flushed with drink. “I’ll hear nothing of the kind. You will not be off, young lady. You’ve only just arrived.”
“And at a lamentably bad time, I’m afraid.” Supposing that she ought to make a gesture of some sort, Jessica dipped into a respectful curtsy. “I cannot imagine how I forgot the first day of grouse season.”
“Too long in the city, that’s why. Most important day of the year. I always said it was a pity you never took to shooting. You’ve got the single-mindedness. You’d have been a fine shot. Demned fine.”
Startled, Jessica could only attribute that compliment—a high one indeed from the hunt-mad Earl of Sothingdon—to an evening of tippling with his cronies. It was always Aubrey he had pressed to join him, acutely disappointed when his only son took no interest in slaughtering rabbits and birds. “As if you would have included a mere female in one of your shooting parties,” she responded with a grin.
“Well, I don’t expect I would have. But I’d have liked to see you at it, and that’s a fact.” To her astonishment, he came directly up to her and clasped her in a stiff embrace. “It’s good to see you, Jessica,” he mumbled into the side of her neck. “Demned if it’s not.”
It was the first time he’d taken her in his arms that she could remember. The sensation was both agreeable and uncomfortable. Not certain what to do, she patted him on his broad back as he continued to hold her, his breath reeking of tobacco and wine.
“Do return to your guests, Father,” she said, carefully withdrawing herself and resisting an urge to put distance between them. “Let’s have a long talk in the morning, shall we?”
“Yes. Yes, indeed.” He cleared his throat, fumbled with the knot on his cravat, and made his way indirectly to the door. One hand propped on the casement, he looked over at Mariah. “Never you mind the coffee and such. Go help your sister get settled, that’s a good girl.”
Jessica watched him leave, still trying to order her thoughts after her father’s decidedly unusual conduct. He generally steered a wide berth from the disobedient daughter, the rebel child who had cut up what little peace was to be found at High Tor.
Mariah appeared at her side, wraith-like in her plain gown of unflattering gray, her brown hair sleeked back and twisted into a tight chignon. Her skin was abnormally pale, even in the golden candlelight, and dark shadows made little quarter moons under her eyes. “Shall we go upstairs now?” she asked, her voice tentative. “Or wait for your maid to unpack your things?”
“By all means, let us go.” Jessica heard the impatience in her tone and was sorry for it, but Mariah’s shy deference never failed to put her out of temper. She led the way to the second floor and down the passageway to the farthest end of the west wing.
When old enough to leave the nursery, she had chosen for herself the most remote room in the house, the one where she had discovered the priest hole. It was connected to a steep, narrow staircase that ran alongside the chimney all the way to the cellars. From there it opened to a tunnel that wound its way to a trapdoor concealed in a copse of oak a quarter mile from the house. She had often used the tunnel to escape the house unseen and explore the wildest places on the moor.
When she arrived at the bedroom door, two footmen were lowering a copper bathtub onto a tarp they had spread over the carpet near the fireplace. Her luggage was stacked in one corner, and a large tray holding a teapot, cups and saucers, and several dishes filled with biscuits, tarts, and small sandwiches lay on the side table.
Geeson bowed when she entered the room. “I have been unable to locate your maid, Lady Jessica.”
He had been waiting to express his disapproval. “That’s because Dorothy is still in London, I would imagine. And yes, I traveled all this way without a silly young girl to lend me a semblance of propriety. She is to accompany my secretary, who will join me within a day or two. Meanwhile I am perfectly capable of fending for myself.”
“Very good, madam.” He eased past her to the door, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You will advise me if you require assistance.”
When he was gone, Jessica turned to her frowning sister. “It’s a game we play. He means no insult.”
Mariah shivered. “He terrifies me. But almost everyone does. I can never think how to explain myself when I do something wrong.”
“But then, you never do anything wrong. You are nearly as proper as Aubrey, who hasn’t set a foot off the thorny path to heaven since first he levered himself upright. How is he, by the way?”
“About to become a father again. Harriet is due sometime in October. Didn’t you know?”
Jessica shrugged. “We do not communicate. I expect four children keep him too busy to write, and I have been preoccupied with my business.”
“Yes.” Mariah went to the sideboard, her back to Jessica as she strained tea into the cups. “I saw the announcement of your reception and exhibit in the Times. It arrives days late, of course, but I always enjoy reading news of you. And this time, an entire quarter page! What was it the headline said? ‘An Exclusive and Unparalleled Collection Pers
onally Selected by Lady Jessica Carville.’ My own sister, singled out in such a way by the newspapers. But what with the delay, I sometimes become confused about dates.” She glanced over at Jessica. “Am I mistaken, or was not your auction on for today?”
Jessica, amazed by such naiveté, decided not to explain about the costly advertisement. “It wouldn’t do for me to hover about Christie’s like a shopkeeper, you know. I never intended being there for the actual sale.”
“But don’t you want to know what happened? I cannot imagine why you chose to leave at such a time.”
“It wasn’t planned,” Jessica said, glad for the chance to speak three honest words. With deliberate nonchalance, she joined Mariah at the tea tray and plucked an almond biscuit from a saucer. “Last night after the exhibition I felt uncommonly energetic. Sleep was out of the question, but I couldn’t bear to do nothing, and there was nothing for me to do. Helena was to attend the auction and supervise the details, so I took it in my head to set out for High Tor and await the outcome here.”
She nibbled at the biscuit, wishing Mariah would look at her. Or say something. But she went on chipping sugar from the block with fierce concentration, and Jessica found herself rushing to fill the silence. “I’d a case of nerves, I suppose. The heat was truly oppressive. But the storm had let up—did I mention the storm?—and if I left right away, I could avoid the morning traffic. Then, once on the road, I could not help but travel straight through. You know how I am.”
“Did something unpleasant happen at the exhibition?” Mariah asked with surprising perception.
The image of Duran swam in and out of her vision. Jessica turned, resting her hips on the sideboard, and watched the servants carry in kettles of hot water. A maid followed, her arms filled with plush towels.
