The Golden Leopard

by Lynn Kerstan

  During her research, Helena learned that an officer named Thomas Bickford, only just promoted from the ranks, had been killed in a skirmish two years before the theft of the leopard. Surmising that the thief had appropriated his identity, she looked for the name, or one similar to it, on the passenger lists of ships sailing from Madras following the theft. The search proved fruitless. If he’d meant to take ship, he must have secured passage under his true name or some other alias.

  So she recorded the names of men who had booked passage and subsequently failed to board ship. There were eleven in all, three scheduled to travel with their families and several others found to have taken later sailings. Eventually the search narrowed to four men whose whereabouts could not be established.

  Those names shot immediately to the top of Shivaji’s must-find list. Helena was attempting to learn if any one of them had dispatched luggage or parcels to the trader before failing to board it, and if so, who had claimed the shipments when they reached England. The line of investigation seemed promising, but there was little chance she’d come up with a lead before Duran’s scheduled execution.

  At least they now had four names to float by the collectors they were to visit, and during the next few days, Duran came to admire the way Jessica slipped them into her inquiries. He had always been impressed with her wit, her temper and pride, her iron will and surprising uncertainty. He was especially partial to the boundless and uninhibited passion with which she flung herself into their lovemaking.

  What he’d not been privileged to see, until now, were the qualities a wiser man would have intuited from the first. The social skill of an earl’s daughter, for example, and her impressive knowledge of art and artifacts. Her talent for steering a conversation the direction she wanted it to go. She knew all the right questions to ask, the ones that flattered the collectors and gave them a chance to show off, and the ones that led, inexorably, to queries about feline-shaped icons from the subcontinent. He began to believe that if the leopard were in the possession of someone on their list, or if any of them had a notion of where it might be, Jessica Carville would find a way to elicit the information.

  One evening, while they were undressing in their room at the posthouse, he had congratulated her on the aplomb with which she’d handled an especially cantankerous collector. Her pleasure at the slight compliment had taken him aback. How hungry she was for approval, how uncertain of her own gifts. Her bitch of a mother had a great deal to answer for.

  It was the third day of their journey, and as she often did, Jessica had snuggled against him for an afternoon nap. He didn’t allow her much sleep at night, nor did she seem to want him to, and she had overcome her resistance to sporting in the carriage. If not for Shivaji’s quelling presence, he could almost forget they weren’t on their wedding trip.

  When the coach turned onto a long drive shaded with tall lime trees, he gently shook her awake. Sleepy-eyed, Jessica straightened her hair and scrubbed her face with a cloth dipped in water from a canteen while he studied the card of information provided by Helena.

  “A widow,” Jessica said as he handed her from the coach. “It surprised me to see her name on the list. I had not thought her interested in antiquities from India, but perhaps her husband was a collector.”

  The answer came over a tea tray. “Oh dear,” said Lady Glinth, raising apologetic blue eyes to her guests. “It’s Italian antiquities I collect, as did Lord Glinth. But of course, his handwriting always was indecipherable. For the most part, he limited his interest to Etruscan artifacts.”

  “Indeed?” Jessica sat forward, her eyes alight. “It happens that I have a client in search of an Etruscan necklace. Have you any you’d be willing to part with?”

  Etruscan jewelry? They had wandered rather far afield, Duran was thinking as Lady Glinth escorted them to a room crowded with display cases.

  “If only I had brought the drawing he sent me,” Jessica said, clearly displeased with herself. “But the pattern was distinctive, and I remember it fairly well.”

  There were six or seven waist-high, glass-topped cases crammed with jewelry, but Jessica found nothing that matched what she was looking for until the widow unlocked a drawer and pulled out a baize-lined box.

  “Ethan kept his favorites in here,” said Mrs. Glinth. “I never could understand why he hid the pieces he most enjoyed looking at. What good are they in a box?”

  “This is very like the drawing,” Jessica exclaimed, untangling a heavy gold circlet studded with lapis lazuli. “But I’m ashamed to say I have failed to do the proper research. Do you know its value? And if my client is still interested, would you be willing to sell it?”

  “Indeed I would. There’s a new roof to be paid for. Besides, collecting was Ethan’s passion, not mine. Shortly before his death, he had an appraisal of his finest things done by Malcolm Fife. Will that help?”

  “He’s exactly the man I’d have consulted,” Jessica said. “I’m sure Lord Philpot would accept his evaluation.”

  “Philpot? You mean the baron, Darius Philpot, from Somersetshire? My Ethan was at Eton with him. More than half a century ago, to be sure. We . . . I . . . have not seen Darius for this last decade or more. What a coincidence, though. Only Monday last I read a notice concerning him in the Times. He’d been called to his Somerset estate on account of Lady Philpot’s illness. The implication was that she hadn’t long to live.”

  “It will work!” Jessica said, jabbing at the map with her pencil. “Lord Philpot’s estate is southwest of Bath, near to Glastonbury.” Another jab. “We are here, just beyond Cambridge.”

  “And heading due north,” Duran pointed out, not pleased where her schemes were about to take him. “Keep in mind, I’m not the one you have to convince.”

  “I needn’t trouble to convince either of you. If Shivaji refuses to alter the route—”

  “Backtrack, you mean. What is it? A hundred miles?”

  “Not so far as that.”

  But it might be even farther, he knew. Since they’d settled again in the coach and she’d pulled out her maps and lists, she had been calculating routes, not distances.

  “We’ll lose time at the outset,” she conceded. “But once I’ve delivered the necklace, we’ll simply reverse the order of the calls on our list. We can do the western locations on our way north and finish up in the southeast. What difference does it make?”

  A great deal. Her revised plan would put him a long way from any useful port just when he needed to be near one. “None,” he managed to say after too long a silence. “But our schedule is overfull as it is, and changing course will eat up time we cannot spare. Besides, what is the urgency about this necklace? Can’t you post it to her, or take it to her later? I don’t mean to sound heartless, but if Lady Philpot is ill, she won’t be wearing it any time soon. And if she dies, she won’t need it at all.”

  The look she turned on him would have reduced paper to cinders. “I shall pretend I did not hear that. And if you refuse to support me in this, I shall simply leave you to continue the leopard hunt while I secure passage on a mail coach.”

  Desperate men say stupid things, he was thinking even as he did so. “Need I remind you that four days ago, you vowed to obey me?”

  “Poppycock. You must be thinking of some other female. I would never promise obedience to a man who takes orders from his valet.”

  He realized, belatedly, that it was time to do some backtracking of his own. “Look, Jessie, it’s obvious this means a great deal to you. If you would explain—”

  “If you would trust me, no explanation would be required.”

  With interest, he watched her blush to the roots of her hair.

  “I admit,” she said in a subdued tone, “that after my mortifying behavior in the church, it is possible that my credibility is somewhat—”

  “Reduced to mincemeat?”

  “Open to question! But as you are determined to be provoking and recalcitrant for no plausible reason . . . Or h
ave you one? In fairness, I ought to ask.”

  Not one he could admit to, although the border separating his promise that Jessica would not help him to escape Shivaji and his wish to inform her of his intention to escape Shivaji was becoming somewhat blurred. Knowing was not helping, precisely. But it was conducive, he supposed, to eliciting help. Damn and blast. This sort of moral tiptoeing was not within his compass. “I’ll not stand in your way,” he said at length. “But you must deal with Shivaji on your own.”

  “Why not?” She took a fresh sheet of paper and began sketching out the proposed change of route. “I am not afraid of him.”

  Half an hour later, munching on a sausage roll at the posthouse where they’d stopped to change horses, he watched Jessica circle the expressionless Shivaji like a whirlpool engorging an island. Now and again she paused to show him something on her map or one of her lists. She’d dropped one, and the breeze had carried it across the courtyard, but she failed to notice. All her attention was on her argument, which beat against Shivaji’s silent resistance like a wave against a rock. In time, of course, she could wear him down, but time was the one thing none of them had.

  Resignation settling like a boulder in his belly, Duran tossed the remains of his pie to a delighted mongrel and sauntered into the fray. “We really can’t do without her, you know,” he told the impassive Shivaji, wrapping his arm around Jessica’s waist to hold her still. “Half the people we mean to visit won’t admit me if I show up alone, and the other half are unlikely to disclose their secrets, if they have any, to me.”

  “Arrangements have been made,” Shivaji said. “Others have been sent ahead to prepare.”

  Jessica looked a question at him, which Duran pretended not to see. “Then call them back,” he said. “Surely you can cope with a simple change of plans?” If he’d not been watching closely, he’d have missed the flash in Shivaji’s eyes, the one that acknowledged the implications behind what he’d said. A network of guards that could not respond quickly and flexibly would be ineffectual if confronted with, say, an escape attempt by Duran.

  Not at all sure why he was cutting his own throat, Duran followed up on his advantage. “We can’t afford to lose our key to the elite society of collectors,” he said. “And short of binding and gagging her, we cannot prevent her from leaving us. If it’s the delay that troubles you, we can travel at night until we’re back on schedule.”

  Shivaji’s response was to put out a hand, and Jessica must have known what he meant because she gave him the map and the new schedule of stops that she proposed. Then she went into the posthouse, and Duran saw her speak to the owner. Arranging alternate transportation, he deduced.

  It was the toss of a coin which of them—Jessica or Shivaji—was more obdurate. He climbed into the carriage, propped his feet on the opposite bench, folded his arms, and awaited developments.

  “I wrote to Helena,” Jessica said brightly as she entered the coach a few minutes later. “She’ll have my letter with our new route by the day after tomorrow. And Shivaji says we will be required to sleep in the carriage tonight. The innkeeper is bringing blankets and pillows, and I smuggled a flask of cognac, but don’t ask me to remove it from where it’s stowed until after dark.”

  “You are singularly pleased with yourself, princess.”

  “Yes.” She leaned back against the squabs. “But sad as well. I had entirely forgot Lord Philpot’s necklace, and we may be too late delivering it because of my neglect. A promise ought to be kept, don’t you think?”

  “To be sure,” he said untruthfully. Some of them, he was thinking. Not all.

  Not, for instance, Shivaji’s oath to the liver-spotted little nizam, the one that inscribed his own death in, what? Sixteen days? Fifteen? He’d lost track. While he had been teasing Jessica, laughing with her, making love with her, the rest of the universe had moved on without him. Now he couldn’t even remember when he was scheduled to die.

  Chapter 21

  “You mustn’t weep, my dear,” Lord Philpot said, patting Jessica’s hand. “She likes the necklace very well, I’m sure.”

  They were standing in the graveyard of St. Mary’s church, where the freshly turned earth over Lady Philpot’s resting place was mantled with a carpet of grass and strewn with flowers. Five days after her funeral, the blossoms still perfumed the air.

  Duran’s silent, reassuring presence was a comfort to Jessica. She had never before dealt with unhappy circumstances except alone, even when surrounded by her family. Their disapproval and her own resentment always kept her isolated. But on this warm summer morning, her husband by her side, she needn’t guard her feelings or pretend she had none.

  She had failed Lady Philpot, who would never see the necklace she had longed for. Lord Philpot’s refusal to hold her accountable only heaped coals of fire upon her head. But Duran understood. He had helped convince Shivaji to bring her here, and he stood by her now, and he’d passed her his handkerchief when she required it.

  After a last moment of respectful silence, the small procession, flanked at a distance by Shivaji and his cohorts, walked slowly from the churchyard and along a walled path that led to Greenbriar, Lord Philpot’s estate. Just as he’d insisted on taking them to visit his wife, he now urged them to take luncheon with him.

  “But of course I mean to keep it,” he said when they were at table, gesturing with his fork at the necklace spread out on the cloth beside his plate. “Whatever the price. I’ve a fancy to bring in an artist to paint it around Clarissa’s neck on the portrait in my study. It will adorn her beauty, and I shall always be reminded how wasteful it is to let a day go by without giving something special—even if only a smile—to those one loves.”

  He gave Jessica a look of affection. “But you, of course, know that very well, newly married to a stalwart young man. Will you accept a bit of advice from a silly old one? Do not settle into habits, my dear, as I did, and take for granted what can vanish between one breath and the next.”

  She glanced at Duran, seated directly across from her, but he was studying the wine swirling around in the glass suspended between his hands. She continued to watch him surreptitiously as Lord Philpot described the visit of his son and daughter and their families, the stately funeral, and how he had arrived home in time to hold Clarissa in his arms while she drew her last breaths.

  For all the solemnity of his monologue, the luncheon was surprisingly pleasant. Lord Philpot sometimes got lost in his own reminiscences, but she was fascinated by the picture he sketched of a long and happy marriage. By the time they moved to the drawing room for coffee, she was entirely at ease with him, so much so that she found herself describing the purpose of her unusual wedding journey.

  “A native idol, you say?” Lord Philpot rubbed his chin. “I’m a shareholder in the Company, as you are aware, but I’ve no interest in Indian art. Not to my taste. All arms and legs, those carvings and statues. And that monstrous Pavilion at Brighton! What happens when an Englishman gets caught up in a passing fancy.”

  “But other than the king,” she said carefully, “do you know of anyone with a passing fancy for Indian artifacts?”

  While Philpot considered the question, he offered Duran a cigar that, to her disgust, was accepted. “Do you mind, my dear?” Philpot asked belatedly. “Clarissa always left the room when I smoked.”

  She shook her head, but when neither man ignited his cigar, she knew her true feelings had been obvious. She must learn how to conceal them.

  “There’s Old Holcombe, of course, up in the Mendips, but I’ve heard nothing of him for several years. He’s the one restored that castle, you know, or worked at it until his money ran out. He had a nephew, his sister’s son, taken in as an infant when both parents went down from typhus. Doted on the boy, never mind the hands. Webbed like a duck’s paddlers.”

  From the corners of her eyes, she saw Duran come to attention.

  Philpot was absorbed in his story. “The story was he had his forefingers cut free
before he went off to school, but it turned into a bloody mess and he wouldn’t let a surgeon have at the others. Later, after being sent down from Oxford, he took up with a bad crowd. Flattered they’d have him, I daresay, but the gaming cost him every penny he had. Then they let him sign vouchers, and soon he was nose-high in River Tick. The Beast is no man to be indebted to, I can tell you that. He holds the mortgage on the family estate in Kent. That drove Holcombe north to the castle keep, and he never comes out of it that I know of. Odd bird. Always was.”

  “I know his reputation,” Jessica said. “What became of the nephew?”

  “Went out to India five or six years ago, which is why I thought to mention him. Swore he’d pay off the mortgages and restore the family fortune, such as it was, or die trying. I heard he wound up in the Company army.”

  “His name wasn’t Bickford, by any chance?” Duran had put down his wineglass and was leaning forward in his chair. “Is Holcombe the family surname, or a title?”

  Philpot’s wide forehead wrinkled as he considered. “Never heard of Bickford. The family name is Holcombe, but the old fellow picked up a baronetcy or something of the sort by selling Egyptian gewgaws at a loss to the Regent back in ‘07. It didn’t stick, though. He’s always been called Old Holcombe. Never married, either. As for the boy, he is meant to inherit the castle, but the estate is probably willed to the legitimate heir, Holcombe’s brother. The Beast will have it in the end, though. He always gets what he sets his sights on.”

  “A most unpleasant gentleman,” Jessica said, looking for a way to bring the subject to more fertile ground. She couldn’t imagine why Duran had developed a sudden fascination with Old Holcombe and his relations. “It happens we are also attempting to trace four men who spent time in India and may have returned to England within the last year. Are you by chance acquainted with Percival Fairleigh? Geoffrey Laxton? Paign Goudhurst, or William Romsey?”