His mobile features fell into lines of profound regret. "A thousand apologies, Lady Sara. I knew that, but forgot. So many things to remember. You will forgive my occasional lapses?"
"I can see that you are going to be a severe trial, Your Highness." Sara hoped her voice sounded normal. Her hand still tingled where they had touched, and she felt abnormally sensitive, like a butterfly newly emerged from its cocoon. The flowers smelled sweeter, the music sounded brighter, the air itself pulsed with promise. "Where is my cousin? I can't believe he was so rag-mannered as to leave you to your own devices."
"On the contrary, his manners are too good. He was waylaid by a tedious fellow who is obsessed with the subject of what prince would be a fit consort for your little Queen Victoria."
Sarah nodded. "Mr. Macaw. He is very difficult to escape."
"It is simple to get away from such fellows," the Kafir pronounced. "It is only necessary to be rude. Civilized manners are not at all an asset, you know."
"You and I could have some truly splendid arguments, Your Highness." Sara tried to look severe, but the corners of her mouth curved up and betrayed her. Though the prince was alarmingly attractive, he was also Ross's friend, and it seemed natural to treat him with informality. "What a pity that I am the hostess of this party, and can't spend the next hour convincing you that manners are essential to smooth the rough edges of life. Shall we find my cousin? Being over-civilized, I can't bring myself to abandon you in the midst of strangers."
The prince glanced across the crowd. "No need to search, for Lord Ross has finally escaped the dreaded Mr. Macaw."
A moment later, Ross reached them. "Sorry to have left you stranded, Mikahl."
"No matter," the prince said. "Your cousin had no trouble identifying me. She has been instructing me in manners, but fears it a hopeless task."
Ross smiled. "If Sara will consent to be your mentor, you could have no better guide to local customs."
Peregrine looked hopeful. "Will you mentor me, Lady Sara?"
She laughed. "Mentor is not a verb, but if you wish, I will be happy to advise you." More seriously, she continued, "Ross said that you saved him from two dangerous situations. I cannot do as much for you, but I will do whatever I can to make your stay in England a rewarding one."
With equal seriousness, he replied, "I am most grateful for your kindness. May I call on you tomorrow morning? I have many questions that I dare not ask Ross, for he has too little respect for society to give reliable answers."
"While I, conventional creature that I am, can always be counted on to know what is proper," Sara said wryly. "By all means call on me. After all, how can you enjoy the pleasures of outraging London if you do not know what is considered outrageous? I look forward to furthering our acquaintance."
Ross broke into their banter. "Sara, Sir Charles has just arrived, and should be with us in a moment."
She raised her gaze to look for her betrothed, but from the corner of her eye, she saw that the prince was also watching Weldon's approach. Since his face was profoundly still, why did she feel that silent lightning crackled around him?
"Sorry I'm late, my dear." Weldon bent to kiss Lady Sara's cheek, but Peregrine was interested to note a slight withdrawal on the part of the lady. No, it was not a love match, though the two exchanged easy greetings like a long-married couple.
Peregrine studied his enemy with hungry eyes. The years had been kind to Weldon, and he looked like what he was: a distinguished man of breeding and wealth. In his youth, charm and good looks had masked his true nature, and on the surface those qualities were still present. It took an astute eye to interpret his face correctly, but as Lady Sara had said, it was experience that made a man, and a lifetime of evil had engraved subtle lines of cruelty in Weldon's countenance.
Lady Sara's soft voice cut across his thoughts. "Charles, let me introduce you to Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan. He is newly arrived in England, and is probably the first man of his people ever to visit Europe. Your Highness, Sir Charles Weldon."
"I hope your visit is an enjoyable one, Your Highness." Weldon offered his hand with unthinking social ease. Then his gaze met Peregrine's and his expression changed, casualness giving way to puzzlement. "This is your first visit to England? I have the feeling we have met before."
As Peregrine accepted his enemy's hand, for a moment his vision darkened as the bonds that restrained his rage came perilously near to bursting. It would be easy, so easy to pull out his dagger and thrust it between Weldon's ribs. The Englishman's heart blood would surge hotly over Peregrine's hand, crimson retribution for the past. He would live just long enough to be told why he was dying....
With a fierce internal oath, Peregrine reined back his madness. Yes, executing Weldon now would be easy, but it would be too quick and painless a death. Besides, assassination would send him to the gallows and ruin Lady Sara's party.
Once more in control, Peregrine shook his enemy's hand with a pressure just short of inflicting pain, then released it. "Have you visited India, Sir Charles? Perhaps we met there, though I do not remember such an occasion."
At the sound of Peregrine's deep, accented voice, Weldon's expression cleared. "No, I've never been to India, and we have not met before. It is just that your eyes are such a distinctive color. I've only seen eyes so green once or twice before." After a brief hesitation, he added under his breath, "Once."
"Green eyes are not unusual among my father's people," Peregrine said smoothly. Then he offered the bait that would draw his enemy to him. "I am pleased to meet you, Sir Charles. Your reputation in the City of London is very high. I am interested in investing in this country. Perhaps, if you have the time, you would be so kind as to advise me?"
Greed overcame any disquiet Weldon might have. "Delighted to be of service. Perhaps we can dine at my club soon?"
"That would be my greatest pleasure." Peregrine found secret satisfaction in the fact that all his comments were double-edged.
As they set a date later in the week, the flaxen-haired girl who had been talking to Lady Sara earlier materialized between her ladyship and Weldon, and regarded the foreigner curiously.
Weldon said, "Prince Peregrine, this is my daughter Eliza."
"A prince?" The girl's blue eyes rounded with delight.
"Indeed I am, Miss Weldon." Peregrine's research had included Eliza Weldon. The girl's mother, Jane Clifton, had been the daughter of a rich city banker, and her inheritance had started Weldon on the path to wealth. The heiress had died three years ago, when her daughter was eight. Eliza had her father's good looks, but if she had also inherited his warped nature, that fact was not visible. She was just a pretty, uncomplicated child, impressed at meeting foreign royalty.
"Eliza, make your curtsy to the prince," Lady Sara said.
The girl dropped into a painstakingly correct curtsy. As Peregrine returned a deep, formal bow, he wondered idly what would become of her. No doubt Eliza had relatives who would see to her upbringing when her father was gone.
Lady Sara said, "If you will excuse us, Charles and I must speak with someone who has just arrived. I hope to see you again soon, Your Highness."
As Lady Sara turned and walked away, Peregrine saw that she walked with a slight hesitation, not quite a limp. Perhaps that had something to do with the ghosts of old pain that he saw in her eyes? He could ask Ross, but it would be more interesting to discover the truth on his own. No man or woman was civilized all the way through, and it would be intriguing to discover what untamed currents lay beneath the lady's calm surface.
Silk and Shadows
The Silk Trilogy
Book One
by
Mary Jo Putney
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Silk and Shadows
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Page forward to continue your journey
with an excerpt from
Veils of Silk
The Silk Trilogy
Book Three
Excerpt from
Veils of Silk
The Silk Trilogy
Book Three
by
Mary Jo Putney
It was nearly midnight when Ian finally reached the village of Nanda. There he was given instructions and a village youth to guide him to Kenneth Stephenson's camp. After passing through a series of moonlit fields, they came to the edge of a dense forest that spread as far as the eye could see.
The young guide stopped and pointed into the woods. "Follow this track and you will come to Stephenson Sahib's camp. I would go with you but panthers hunt the paths at night."
Ian didn't blame the boy; he wasn't keen on going through the forest alone himself, though the risk of wild beasts bothered him less than leaving the moonlit fields. However, he had learned that it was possible to bear darkness when he was in the open air, so he thanked the guide, then set his teeth and urged his tired horse into the forest. Very soon, his mission would be accomplished, and he could start for home.
* * *
Laura was given no time to mourn. She was still kneeling by her stepfather's bed when Padam said, "Miss Laura, the tiger is near. We can hear it growling in the forest, hunting for prey."
For Laura, past and present had melded together, and the anguish she felt for Kenneth's death rekindled the shock and grief she had experienced when she lost her first father. Once more she was nine and alone and terrified, and it took time for Padam's voice to bring her back to the present. She wished he would go away. What did a tiger matter compared to the death of the only person in the world whom she had loved?
Urgently Padam said, "Stephenson Sahib's spirit has departed, miss. It is time to be concerned with the living. All in the camp are in danger. Something must be done."
Dully Laura realized that her stepfather's death meant she was in charge of two dozen people. The knowledge helped steady her grief-stricken mind; even so, she fumbled for words, though she had been speaking Urdu daily for years. "Build more fires around the edge of the camp. That will keep the tiger away."
"There isn't enough fuel, memsahib, and gathering more would be dangerous," the bearer explained patiently. "A man-eater is usually an old tiger, perhaps injured, always unpredictable. You must be ready with the guns if it decides to attack."
Guns? Laura opened her mouth to protest that her marksmanship was nonexistent. Kenneth had tried to teach her to shoot. She had managed to learn how to load and fire several kinds of weapons, but she had found the lessons so upsetting that her stepfather had discontinued them.
Still, no one else would do better, for her minimal experience was more than any of the servants had. It was her responsibility to set aside her grief, even though she loathed and feared guns. She closed her mouth and got to her feet. With bitter humor, she recognized that she was about to Keep Up Standards with a vengeance.
Kenneth had not been an avid hunter, but firearms were a necessary part of life in India. He had brought three weapons on tour: a pistol, a double-barreled shotgun, and a powerful rifle for big game. Her father's valet, Mahendar, brought out the guns, and one by one she loaded them with clumsy fingers. After showing Mahendar and Padam how to cock and aim, she put the pistol and rifle in their charge. The shotgun she kept herself, since she thought it would be the best weapon for frightening off a tiger.
Laura led the way outside and gave orders for a second fire to be built fifty feet from the main cooking fire. There was enough fuel for two fires, and she thought that if the servants slept between them, they would feel safer.
Though she dutifully went through the motions of securing the camp, she doubted that there was any real danger. Tigers seldom attacked humans, and even a man-eater was more likely to drag a solitary laborer from a field than to invade a busy camp. Still, tigers invoked panic far out of proportion to the risk, and Laura owed it to her servants to deal with their anxiety.
She managed to keep her voice calm and her step steady, but inside she quivered with grief and fear. She had always refused to consider what she would do if her stepfather died; in India, where disease was swift and lethal, she had been as likely to die as he was. But now he was gone and her life would change utterly. She had lost not just her family, but her home and financial security. She wanted to collapse on the ground and wail like a child.
When the fires were steady and the servants had begun to settle down, Laura beckoned to the three grooms. "Come, we must move the animals closer. They are in more danger than we are."
The men exchanged uneasy glances. "Don't worry, I'll guard you." Laura tried to sound cool and confident. "Padam, stay here with the pistol. Mahendar, bring the rifle and come with me."
Laura made a show of cocking the shotgun, then led the way through the cluster of tents. Behind her the youngest groom carried a torch. Their shadows swayed wildly as the small group walked to the edge of the clearing where the horses and bullocks were tethered. The animals were nervous and hard to handle, and the grooms had their hands full soothing their charges so the beasts could be led to a safer spot near the center of the camp.
Laura took the rifle from Mahendar so that he could help the other men. Then she chose a position between the line of animals and the forest and waited, shotgun in hand, the rifle lying ready at her feet. Again she reminded herself that no animal was likely to attack the camp, but this close to the forest it was harder to maintain her calm.
The tropical night pulsed with life, mysterious and dangerous. Shifting shadows looked like crouching beasts that vanished when she looked directly at them. In the distance jackals howled, and once the distinctive cough of a panther sounded from a spot that was shockingly near. She jumped and tightened her grip on the shotgun, but there was nothing to be seen in the teasing shadows. After wiping sweaty palms on her skirt, Laura raised the barrel of her weapon again and trained it at the forest darkness.
When trouble came, it was fast and incoherent. Two feline roars shattered the silence, so close that she half expected to feel claws sink into her flesh. A shrill whinny sounded behind her, and she glanced back to see a pony rear and jerk its reins free from the groom who was trying to calm it. Eyes rolling, the pony bolted, setting off a chorus of frightened bellows and whinnies from the other animals. The youngest groom shouted, "The tiger comes!" and pointed at the forest beyond Laura.
As Laura spun around, she heard rustling in the undergrowth. In sudden panic she fired one barrel of the shotgun at the sound. She had forgotten to brace herself for the recoil, and the gun jerked, sending the shot high as the stock kicked bruisingly into her shoulder. Acrid smoke stung her eyes and her deafened ears rang, but she gripped her gun more tightly and discharged the second barrel, this time aiming lower.
Irrationally convinced that an enraged tiger was about to burst out of the forest, she dropped the shotgun and grabbed the rifle that lay on the grassy turf by her feet. The weapon had the power to fell an elephant; as her finger curled around the trigger, she prayed that if the tiger attacked, her aim would be good enough to stop it.
* * *
Imprisonment had sharpened Ian's senses, and he smelled and heard Stephenson's camp long before he saw it. But as he drew close enough to identify individual noises and odors, he pulled his horse to a stop so he could listen more closely.
Something was wrong. It was past midnight and the camp should be quiet, but instead it was wide awake. More than that, he detected the subtle aroma of fear, a scent as unmistakable as it was indescribable.
He frowned. This was a safe, settled part of India, and it was unlikely that bandits would have attacked. Still, he had been a soldier for too many years to ride heedlessly into an unknown situation. He dismounted and led his horse away from the path, moving silently over the soft leaf mold.
As he nea
red the campsite, he heard sharp human voices speaking Urdu and the grunts and whickers of agitated animals. He tethered his horse, then cautiously approached the perimeter of the camp, his bolstered revolver ready to hand.
The boundary where forest met clearing was marked by thick undergrowth, which provided convenient cover. Stopping behind a large bush, he peered into the clearing. A churning group of men and bullocks blocked his view of the tents, but the layout confirmed that this was the camp of a British official.
His gaze went to the single guttering torch, which illuminated a youth who was trying to coax a nervous pony toward the tents. Other shadowy human shapes were moving about, but before Ian could study them, all hell broke loose. Two feline roars, one bass and one tenor, sounded from the shrubbery to his right. As the blood-chilling sounds split the night air, the pony whinnied shrilly and broke free, bullocks began bellowing, and someone shrieked that the tiger was coming.
Startled by the racket, the jungle cats bolted away through the undergrowth, passing less than a dozen feet from Ian. An instant later a shotgun blasted after them. As pellets shredded leaves and slammed into tree trunks around him, he cursed and dived to the ground, rolling to get out of the field of fire.
The gun thundered again, and this time the shot came closer. Ian crouched behind a tree and studied the darkened clearing. The torch had been dropped or burned out, and all he could see were horses and bullocks rearing and tugging at their tethers, their solid forms silhouetted against the campfires. The only man he could discern was less than twenty feet away, and a flicker of light along the barrel showed that the damned fool was raising a rifle and aiming it directly at Ian.
Apparently the gunman was trying to protect the camp from some imagined danger, and Ian had wandered into the middle by accident. Under the circumstances retreat would be the better part of wisdom, but he had always preferred offense to defense. He was also royally irritated at being shot at. That being the case, no sooner had Ian seen the movement of the rifle than he broke from cover and dashed toward the gunman, keeping low.
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