by Gaelen Foley
Unrolling the map, he carried it to the pair of thrones.
“When their plundering urges have been satisfied, the Pindari simply ride back up into their mountain hideaways—until the next raid. Our intelligence officers report that in this easy and comfortable existence the outlaws enjoy inside the safe haven that Baji Rao has granted them, their numbers have swelled to fifty…thousand strong.”
A shocked murmur rippled through the durbar hall at hearing the enormous number.
“Thirty thousand cavalry, twenty thousand foot—and they continue to acquire heavy artillery. Sounds like an army, doesn’t it? An army of barbarians, who are not beholden to any code of conduct, and respect no rules of war. Your Majesty, Your Highness, gentlemen of the court, by all that is honorable, this cannot be allowed to continue.”
When nods and vague murmurs signaled that everyone seemed to be with him so far, Ian clasped his hands behind his back and forged on. “Governor Lord Hastings has repeatedly asked Baji Rao to gather his army and hunt these killers in their mountain hideaways until the problem is eradicated. But he will not. For reasons known only to himself, your fellow king has chosen to protect these outlaws—one cannot help but wonder why. Does Baji Rao fear the Pindari too much to move against them? Or does he perhaps find them…useful?”
The sinister possibility hung upon the silence.
Ian shrugged. “It is not given to us to see inside another’s mind. All we can know for certain is our own, and our view of the matter is clear. If your kinsman refuses to stop the Pindari—to stamp out this evil—then the British will.”
“But Baji Rao will not permit your troops to cross his borders in pursuit of the Pindari,” the maharajah spoke up.
“Yes, Your Majesty. You are quite right. Baji Rao has proclaimed that if even one British soldier sets foot on his territory, he will consider it an act of war. As I understand it, he has already sent out his clarion call to you and all the other Maratha kings, laying claim to the old alliance.”
“It is so,” King Johar admitted. “We have received Baji Rao’s request for military support against what he describes as the threat of a British invasion.”
“And I am here, Sire, to assure you that no invasion was ever intended. Our only concern is eradicating the Pindari bandits. We cannot permit them to continue slaughtering innocent people. If Baji Rao wishes to call up his army and summon his allies to stand in our way, we will fight the Marathas, too, if we must. But in reality, it is completely unnecessary. The Pindari are a threat to all of our people. They are the enemy. We should not be fighting each other, but should work together to destroy them.”
“So, what do the British want from us?” King Johar asked.
“Nothing but your continued friendship, Sire,” he answered smoothly. “The British have no quarrel with Janpur. Indeed, over the past decade, our two peoples have enjoyed a prosperous cooperation. Your Majesty has graciously allowed British merchants to cross peacefully through Janpur transporting their goods back and forth between Calcutta and Bombay. In return, your kingdom has increased its coffers many times over by the tolls and taxes collected on this trade.”
“Indeed,” Johar said with a slight smile of pride. “But, in terms of friendship, well, perhaps you could be more specific.”
Ian nodded, lowering his gaze. Twelve years in the diplomatic service had taught him all too well that the universal sign of loyalty was gold.
He also realized that, as proud members of the Kshatriya, or warrior caste, the Marathas were bound to find his answer shocking. He braced himself for the reaction. “We would like to enter into a treaty of neutrality with Janpur,” he said. “In light of how much in the wrong Baji Rao is, we ask you to forsake the old alliance in this case and leave your kinsman to his own devices. Without your support, he may come to his senses and stand down, and this whole war can be avoided!” His final words were shouted, for the court had already erupted at his proposition, barely hearing his conclusion.
The viziers had burst into argument. The scowling palace guards gripped their giant spears and looked to their ruler for orders, but King Johar was silent.
The same could not be said for his hotheaded son.
“Neutrality?” Prince Shahu cried, shooting up out of his seat again. “By the sword of Shivaji, we will not betray our kinsman! We know the real reason you come here to sue for peace—because you are afraid of us, as well you should be! But if the British are too cowardly to stand against the full Maratha force, then you should go back and tell Lord Hastings—”
A blaring trumpet fanfare suddenly sailed in on the breeze, cutting off the prince’s tirade. Everyone turned to look.
The bold, brassy notes sounded the herald a second time, echoing up from the castle’s winding approaches.
Ian frowned, irked at the interruption. Sounds like His Majesty’s got visitors.
At once, the gaggle of advisers seized the reprieve to whisper among themselves.
King Johar sent his son out to investigate, along with a muttered order to get hold of his temper while he was gone. “Another such outburst from you, and you will not be invited back,” Johar growled at him.
“Yes, Father. I apologize,” he said quietly, though he still seemed to simmer with resentment. Scowling, but no doubt glad of the excuse to escape the odious presence of Englishmen, the heir of Janpur bowed to his father, then exited under the arches of the arcade, which led out onto the sentry’s walk atop the windy ramparts of the fortress.
Ian glanced at the maharajah, a little uncertain of the status of their meeting given the interruption. He knew King Johar would need time to think and that the advisers, too, would want to debate their response to the British proposition, but between Shahu’s outburst and the trumpets’ hail, everyone except for him seemed to have lost focus.
The whole court had turned into hubbub. Even King Johar had beckoned a minister over and now they were conferring in low tones, using the interruption to discuss the idea of neutrality.
Ian curbed his annoyance with the disruption and, leaving them to their murmurings, exchanged stoic glances with the Knight brothers as he returned to the table to take a quick swallow of water. The men needed no words to communicate their displeasure with the unexpected halt in these highly delicate proceedings.
Suddenly, Prince Shahu came rushing back in. “Father, a caravan’s coming—it looks like a royal entourage! There are twenty soldiers on horseback, and servants, and musicians, and many camels laden with gifts—and a princess, riding on an elephant!”
“A princess?” King Johar rose, frowning as the young man dashed back out again.
Ian’s first thought made him blink.
No—it couldn’t be! He shook it off. Impossible. “Was Your Majesty expecting visitors?” he inquired with studied calm, on his guard.
“No.” The maharajah’s rugged face darkened with mistrust. He looked at Ian, and Ian looked skeptically at him.
“Most irregular,” Ian opined, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He would not have been at all surprised if it were some sort of ruse from the court of Baji Rao.
“Hm,” Johar murmured, almost as though he in turn suspected that the British might have had something to do with it.
Irked with the interruption and unsure what mischief was afoot, Ian frowned. Perhaps the royal advisers had some deviltry up their sleeves. “With your leave, Sire, I should like a moment to appraise the situation.”
Johar waved his hand, inviting him do as he pleased.
Eyeing his hosts warily, Ian bowed to the maharajah and then left his post, striding out onto the windy ramparts to see this “royal princess” for himself.
Though he had not yet laid eyes on her, he had half a mind to wring the woman’s neck. Ah, but it took a female to muck things up properly—a principle as unfailing in his experience as Newton’s laws of motion.
The rushing breeze tousled his hair as he strode out onto the lofty battlements. Beneath an endless azure sky, Jan
pur Palace sat atop a sun-baked precipice, its mighty ramparts and soaring outer walls carved from the mountain’s lustrous ocher sandstone. Fantastical rounded bastions topped with airy cupolas guarded the approaches, each tower adorned with bands of glazed tiles made of brilliant lapis lazuli.
From its craggy peak, the ancient stronghold dominated the surrounding rugged vastness—tiger country—hills clad in teakwood forest and bamboo, swift rivers swollen with the end of monsoon, rushing waterfalls crashing through ravines.
As Ian rested his hands on the rough, sun-warmed stone and leaned forward, peering over the crenellated battlements, his vantage point directly overlooked the steep stone road that came winding up the mountainside in tight meanders, doubling back on itself, snakelike, as it approached the ominous main gate.
Prince Shahu had painted an accurate picture.
Ian counted twenty armed sepoys on horseback flanking the caravan. There were camels, too, a full dozen, their humped backs laden with glittering treasures. Six musicians in an ox-cart were already playing as their resplendent party approached, beating drums, playing ecstatic ragas on the sitar, accompanied by a reedy pipe.
But the centerpiece of this extravagant party wending its way slowly, musically, joyously up the road had to be the painted elephant. The creature’s gray face and trunk had been decorated with bright pink and yellow and green designs; the covered howdah on its massive back was festooned with colorful streamers that waved on the breeze.
Shading his eyes from the sun with one hand, he made out four figures riding in the howdah, but despite the gaiety of their parade, he bristled with suspicion.
What Trojan horse is this?
The music ended abruptly as the long procession reached the towering iron gates. The contrast of sudden silence was dramatic. There was only the blowing of the wind as the whole caravan came to a halt.
The mahout let out a curt order, and the great elephant hunkered down gently to let her passengers out of the whimsical conveyance. Then a dainty set of steps tumbled out, folding into place, and two ladies-in-waiting dressed in pastel veils and saris minced down the little stairs and assembled in a line, side by side, facing the castle.
Ian suddenly gasped. Oh, God.
He recognized the footman—from the marketplace!
The footman in showy lavender livery skipped forward and assisted a stout, black-clad matron of more advanced years down the little steps. Her ayah.
Last of all, the veiled “princess” herself glided down gracefully from the howdah.
He hadn’t really believed it until he saw her, but then she appeared, and the lightest breeze could have knocked him off the wall. Oh, to be certain, it was she—unmistakable Georgiana, with her flowing, liquid stride so full of self-assurance and the sleek lines of her feminine curves as elegant as the silhouette of a calla lily.
A silk sari dyed in bright pinks and vibrant rose hues draped her lithe figure, and Ian held his breath, unsure if he had heard or merely imagined the tinkling, ever so faintly, of those tiny silver bells around her ankle.
He stared, incredulous at her audacity, and once more irresistibly, almost magically drawn to her. The little enchantress mesmerized him. He didn’t even blink, watching her in guarded fascination.
A few feet away, Prince Shahu seemed to be suffering the same effects. “Ah, she is an apsara,” he breathed. Celestial maiden. The young warrior-prince was practically salivating.
Shahu’s obvious lust jarred Ian out of his stupor. He glanced at the prince uneasily.
Below, Georgiana’s liveried footman hurried after her, trying to keep a parasol positioned over her head to protect her from the sun, but instead, she handed him a small piece of paper and sent him forward to the gate with a graceful twirl of her hand, like that of a temple dancer. Her ladies, including the old one, gathered behind her.
Ian saw the footman run the piece of paper up to the iron gates, where he handed it through the outer portcullis to a guard.
While the little paper—Ian could only guess it was her calling card—began its rapid journey up through the fortress, relayed by sprinting pages, Georgiana lifted her gaze, as though she had felt them watching her.
When she looked up, the dramatic kohl lining around her eyes startled Ian. She had decorated her eyes in the Indian ladies’ style. Accented by the rich sable of her hair, the kohl heightened her sultry, exotic appeal. A translucent scarf was thrown carelessly over her head, with the long end flowing back to one side of her neck; it billowed languidly on the breeze.
Ian looked at her and in that moment wanted her more intensely than he had ever wanted any woman before. But her cool gaze dismissed him.
Searching the battlements, she spotted the maharajah, who had just now come out to see for himself what was the matter. Johar stared at her in recognition with a smile full of warm, male pleasure at the sight of a beautiful woman coming over his rugged face.
She pressed her fingertips together and bowed her head, greeting His Majesty with a graceful namaste. Johar was known as a bit of a ladies’ man—no great surprise, from a man with thirty wives and a hundred concubines—but Ian was startled by an inward jolt of some violent, inexplicable reaction as the king returned her gesture of greeting in kind.
In a deep voice full of amusement, he murmured an order to his servant: “Bring me my pearl.”
Then he gestured to the nearest guardsman. “Let her in!” Without further ado, His Majesty strode back inside.
Ian looked over the wall at Georgiana again, his jaw clenched. This did not bode well. The prince wanted her. The king wanted her. He wanted her. And no doubt, so would the Pindaris.
Bloody hell! How in blazes had she gotten away from her guards?
“What’s going on?” Derek and Gabriel Knight came out just then to see what was happening.
Ian swept a sardonic wave in their visitor’s direction.
The Knight brothers looked down at her, and suddenly exploded with shocked expletives.
“I don’t believe it! Georgie!” Derek lifted his fingers to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle while Gabriel waved.
“Georgiana! Griff, we must go to her! Do you mind?”
“Yes, will you pardon us for a moment?” Derek turned to him, his face beaming. “The meeting does seem to have broken up, after all.”
“Yes, mysteriously so,” he drawled.
“May we go and see her?”
“By all means.”
Ian had told her brothers he had met her in Calcutta, though he had spared them the details of the trouble she had gotten into. He had figured the particulars of the suttee rescue could wait until after their mission. He had hoped, apparently in vain, that they could all stay focused on the task at hand.
So much for that silly notion.
“Don’t worry, we’ll make sure she stays out of trouble,” Gabriel promised.
Ian smiled blandly. “Right.”
The brothers dashed off to greet her as the great gates of Janpur slowly began creaking open.
Only now, having first paid her respects to the maharajah, and then waving eagerly to her brothers, did Georgiana deign to meet Ian’s gaze. Her glance was sharp, lightning-bright, full of angry challenge.
Oh, this girl was trouble.
Glowering at her, Ian planted his hands atop the wall and shook his head slowly at her with a stare that promised the lovely young hellion his wrath.
CHAPTER
FOUR
S afe at last. Behind her veil, Georgie’s small sigh of relief puffed the light gauze silk that floated against her lips.
Two days into their journey, they had heard rumors from other travelers on the road that some of the Pindari Horde had been spotted in the area. But thankfully, they had made it to Janpur without incident.
As the towering gates slowly creaked open before them, she could feel her servants’ lingering uneasiness—indeed, she shared it—but she waited with a serene stare ahead and an outward show of tranquility un
til the Maratha guards waved them in.
With a nod to her trusty footman, who, in turn, signaled the whole caravan back into motion, they moved on. Rather than getting back up on her hired elephant, Georgie continued on foot up the castle’s processional road.
Still open to the sky, the long, narrow corridor rose on a slight grade, its smooth floor and austere, soaring walls built from huge blocks of stone. The processional way was lined with colossal statues set about every ten yards. There were massive deities, rampant desert lions with teeth bared and claws unsheathed, but most imposing of all were the giant pairs of stone war elephants. Their raised trunks formed arches under which visitors had to pass. The ceremonial walk was meant to awe all those who entered, and Georgie was beginning to feel quite small, but leading her party into the Maratha stronghold, her footsteps did not falter. She might have a little fear coursing through her veins, but she did not intend to let Lord Griffith see it.
Passing under a triumphal arch held up by more sandstone elephants, each holding a lotus in its trunk, the corridor ended in a huge central plaza that buzzed with activity.
Here, the maharajah’s household staff took charge.
Georgie’s animals and their keepers were escorted away in one direction, lumbering off to the elephant stables and those for camels and horses. Except for her maid and her ayah, all of her other servants, footmen and coolies, sepoys and musicians, were led off in the other direction to their accommodations, past the pyramidal Shiva temple and the huge wrought-iron cage full of shady trees that was home to the maharajah’s tigers.
A member of King Johar’s household staff led Georgie and her ladies straight ahead to the other end of the plaza, through another massive gate, and into a large enclosed courtyard with a fountain in the center. They were now in the palace proper; her heart beat swiftly. She and Lakshmi exchanged a bolstering glance, both certain that they’d feel much more at ease once they had been reunited with Meena.
