The Secret of the India Orchid

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “I wouldn’t know, sir, as I never gossip.” Pierre sniffed. He had served Anthony in Paris during the war and had willingly accepted the post again when Anthony had found him two years ago. Anthony’s London valet, Faring, was aging and not the sort to go off on an adventure. Pierre was middle aged, proper, enjoyed travel well enough, and took an inordinate amount of satisfaction in trying to transform Anthony into a respectable peer of the realm. Although Pierre himself was a Frenchman, his mother had been English, and he regarded duties of nobility in any country as a serious responsibility.

  Anthony smiled. “Let us assume, for the sake of discussion, that you did gossip. Or listen with an attentive ear. Which I happen to know you have. What might you have overheard today?”

  “I suppose I may have heard one of Lady Pilkington’s maids conversing with a cook, a Hindu woman with three sons and two daughters, all of whom are employed here at the Residency.”

  “Mmm. And the Hindu cook and the maid spoke in English, yes? Unless you are trilingual and have hidden it from me.”

  “They spoke in English.” Pierre held up Anthony’s suit coat and slapped at a smudge of dirt on one of the sleeves. “Apparently Lady Pilkington’s young son is quite distraught about the missing sea captain. Lady Pilkington does not know what to make of the child’s sudden reluctance to speak to anyone, and she seems to believe his ayah must be mistaken about the child’s actual knowledge of events. Certainly he would share such details, if he had them.”

  Anthony frowned. “The lady doesn’t believe her son witnessed something distressing?”

  Pierre lifted a shoulder and examined the other sleeve of the jacket. “It is my opinion, sir, that the lady is easily overwrought and prone to avoiding unpleasantries over which she has no control.”

  “And the inciting matter itself? What does the household have to say about that?”

  “Chatter in the servants’ third-floor sitting room, of which I take no part, indicates a popular belief that the sea captain is not merely missing, but most definitely dead. There was a particularly distasteful cleaning task awaiting the staff in Lord Pilkington’s study.” Pierre disappeared into the adjoining dressing room with the offending suit coat and returned with fresh dinner attire.

  Anthony glanced at the waistcoat, cravat, and coat that Pierre placed neatly over the arm of a chair. He had lived his entire life as a member of the aristocracy, so piling on the clothing was second nature to him. There were times, though, when he dearly would have loved to flout convention and show up to dinner in just trousers and a shirt.

  Fighting back a sigh, he put on the uncomfortable garments, Pierre rolling his eyes the entire time and muttering about an Englishman’s constitution being inferior to the French. Pierre dusted off Anthony’s shoulders, tugged the coat into smooth perfection, nary a wrinkle in sight, and made quick work of his neck cloth. He stepped back, examining his handiwork as would a proud parent or a Bond Street modiste, and pronounced Anthony fit for dinner.

  Anthony made his way to the drawing room where many of the guests gathered before the evening meal and heard snippets of conversation about a missing sea captain. Missing, not dead. Stuart had promised the Pilkingtons that he would keep the details of the crime as vague as possible for as long as possible, but Anthony wondered how long it would take for the gossip to spread from below stairs to the guests’ chambers.

  He noted Dylan, who stood half a head taller than anyone else save himself, and crossed the room to see Rachael and Sophia conversing with him. To his irritation, Mr. Gerald, the forward-minded, educated-women-adoring professor also approached the trio, and Anthony ground his teeth in frustration. Dinner the night before had been an exercise in agony as he’d watched Sophia turn the full blast of her charm on the other man.

  “ . . . hope you’ve enjoyed your second day in India,” Gerald was saying as Anthony reached them.

  “We have indeed.” Sophia smiled at the man and extended the pleasantry to Anthony. “And so good to see you again, Lord Wilshire. Major Stuart tells us you’ve gone into Bombay today.”

  “We did, although we saw only a fraction of the city. I understand there’s more to experience here than one can comfortably manage in a week. And although I’ve been in Bombay that long already, my time has mostly been spent here at the Residency or at the military compound nearby.”

  “As I’ve spent the last decade at home here in India, I must rely on visitors from England to keep abreast of news,” Mr. Gerald said. “Major Stuart mentioned your military time in France—was it a lengthy engagement?”

  Why did the man have to be so blasted affable? Handsome with pleasant manners, charming and humorous in conversation, sincere in the most basic of exchanges. For once Anthony wished Sophia was a snob and wouldn’t deign to socialize with a mere academic. Feeling peevish and petty, Anthony fought to keep himself from scowling.

  “Three years,” he told Gerald. “Some of it pleasant enough, much of it not nearly so, most of it tedious.” How he wished it were true. His entire tour in France had been fraught with secrets and lies, the danger of discovery hidden in every exchange.

  “But he made so many acquaintances.” Sophia spoke to Gerald, not bothering to glance at Anthony. “Lovely, accomplished people he still communes with to this day. His sojourn in France must not have been nearly so tedious as he implies.” She turned to Anthony with a smile that certainly seemed sincere enough on the surface. He knew her, though. The smile did not reach her eyes. His heart sank. He’d thought they were making progress. She was clearly still bitter, and his distracted behavior the night before hadn’t aided his cause.

  Dylan cleared his throat and saved Anthony from having to fashion a response. “I believe we’re being summoned to the dining room.” He motioned his head toward the door where Himmat was indeed informing the group that mealtime was at hand. They followed the crowd, and Dylan murmured in Anthony’s ear, “Sorry, old man.”

  Anthony shrugged. He didn’t want sympathy. He didn’t want anyone else knowing Sophia’s barb stung. She was not a mean woman, or cruel, but he had intentionally led her to a place of ignorance and the level of hurt she clearly felt at his desertion was hardly the boon he might have imagined it would be. He’d wanted to know she still cared for him, to know that she would have welcomed his suit. Realizing he’d truly caused her pain, though, dampened the thrill.

  Chapter 11

  Sophia placed her fingers on Anthony’s sleeve and fought back a pang of guilt. He hadn’t smiled, hadn’t tried to deflect her earlier jab, but his expression was sad. Resigned. For a moment he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. She tried to dredge up the familiar resentment to assuage her guilt. He’d been the one who left—and then all those rumors floated back to London in his absence. If he didn’t want people thinking he was a wastrel, then he ought not behave like one.

  Still, something was off. They walked into the dining room, but he didn’t meet her gaze, didn’t try to engage her in even the lightest of exchanges. It was the first time—probably ever—that he’d been quiet. Truly quiet, the kind that went beyond companionable silence or a comfortable lull in conversation. He had nothing to say, and it was disconcerting. Guilt, then? His conscience catching up with him? She tried to find satisfaction in it, but whatever the reason, it saddened her, and she didn’t like it.

  “Did you see anything in Bombay to recommend it?” she finally asked once they were seated at the table.

  He looked at her in some surprise but found his footing quickly enough. “Much, but as I mentioned earlier, it requires more time to explore. I expect the other guests will make an excursion into the city before long. Perhaps we might join them.”

  She nodded, her throat suddenly tight. His face was so familiar, so dear. She wanted to lay her palm against his cheek and place a kiss on his forehead. Or maybe his lips. She swallowed back a sigh. She didn’t know how t
o properly kiss a man, and he clearly wasn’t interested in pursuing such activity with a woman he viewed as his little sister, so that was that.

  Sophia made a decision as the rest of the guests settled in and the first course was served. No harm would come from reestablishing her former rapport with Anthony, and she needed to commit, if not for his feelings, then for the sake of her sanity. Either she would be nice to him or she wouldn’t, and it was time to stop waffling from one to the other.

  Although Anthony had shown mild signs of irritation the night before when she’d paid attention to Professor Gerald, she could reasonably attribute that to his protective feelings for her well-being, not unlike those that Jack might experience. Since Anthony clearly wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship with her, she could prevent her feelings from developing along that vein, and they could hopefully enjoy the easy communion they’d had before.

  “So. Tell me about these people.” She glanced at him as she picked up her soup spoon.

  He met her gaze and her breath caught.

  I can be his friend. I can be his friend without dreaming of more.

  “What would you like to know? And about whom?”

  She gestured toward the room at large. “Anything. About anyone. Come, Anthony, you’ve been here for more than a week. Surely you’ve observed some amusing things. This is what we do, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Mais oui.” His lips quirked, and he raised a brow, casting a glance down the table. “Seated near the head of the table is Taj Darzi; you met him last night at the ball.”

  “Ah, yes. Didn’t you say that his cousin, Prince Ekavir, is ill?”

  “Very near death, as we understand it. He seeks to subject his wife to sati on his funeral pyre.”

  Sophia paused and lowered her voice. “Cremate his body and her along with it?”

  He nodded. “Most of the princely states have done away with the practice, if for no other reason than to keep peace with England. But there are those who still remain committed to the tradition. It can be a delicate balance. Lord Pilkington’s purpose as a Resident—and indeed the role of the Bombay Army itself—is to function as a support for local rulers and royalty, as this is a princely state.”

  “I was told this area is under the wing of the Bombay presidency.”

  “It is. And although we recognize local princes, British might often rises to the fore and ‘support’ frequently becomes ‘control.’ Lord Pilkington, to his credit, seems to respect the Residency and his role in it. His relationship with Mr. Darzi and the prince is one of partnership. He seems to view Mr. Darzi as a man of integrity and optimism.” He lowered his voice. “I often suspect Lady Pilkington to be the true diplomat of the pair, however. She seems to have an astute grasp of local politics. Lord Pilkington often seems a happy bystander.”

  “And how do you know all of this?”

  He winked at her. “Ah, my dear, I listen very, very attentively.”

  She nearly sighed like a ridiculous debutante. This was how it had been between them. The easy familiarity, the ­humor—only before he might have also trailed a fingertip lightly along the back of her arm. Discreetly, of course. And not during dinner. It would have been at the side of a ballroom while conversing with mutual associates, or perhaps trying to catch her attention in a drawing room over a hand of cards.

  She felt warm at the memory and fought the urge to fan herself with her napkin. Thoughts, impressions, conversations suddenly tripped through her mind as would tumblers in a lock. And suddenly, the pieces all lined up neatly and clicked into place. She narrowed her eyes, knit her brows in a frown, and looked at him surreptitiously from the side, her head tilted as she thought. And thought. And remembered. So many little things, flirtatious things, loving gestures, whispers about nothing of consequence but meant for her ears alone . . .

  Older brother, my giddy aunt.

  Unless he was indeed a very sick man, there was no possibility that he had ever viewed her as he would a sister. She knew it as well as she knew her own name, and the realization quite took her breath away. But truly, she’d known it all along.

  Why, then?

  Why had he run? Had he been afraid? She knew he’d never felt enough affection for any woman in the past to warrant a proposal of marriage, and he’d never needed to hunt for a bride to fill the family coffers. Had his close association with her engendered emotions that were unfamiliar and unsettling? Had he fled because he viewed her as anything but a sibling?

  Sophia pursed her lips and tapped her spoon lightly against the bowl. He turned his head and caught her scrutiny.

  “What are you thinking in that clever brain of yours?” he murmured, his expression guarded.

  The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. “I am thinking I have been quite vexed with you for leaving London.”

  He swallowed, the guard slipping. “I . . . Sophia . . .” He cleared his throat. “We can discuss the matter later this evening, perhaps? I . . . It’s as I told you in my letter—”

  “Oh, I am well aware of what you said in your letter.”

  He blinked, and the mask was back in place as though it had never faltered. “Splendid!” he declared with a smile. “Nothing more to discuss at all, then.” He gave her elbow a friendly nudge.

  She narrowed her eyes. What would he do next? Slap her on the back and call her a good old chap? Invite her to Tattersalls to peruse horseflesh? This would never do. He would admit to her, like an adult, why he had run away from England. She may not like the truth; it may, in fact, put her in a mind to dismiss him permanently. A woman could hardly depend on a fulfilling relationship if the man grew frightened of it and left on a whim with no warning whatsoever. But if he couldn’t find the courage on his own to explain himself, she would play his game and beat him at it. One way or another, she would have her answers. Once equipped with them, she could then make an informed decision.

  Feeling strangely empowered for the first time in a long time, she elbowed him back and winked. “Nothing to discuss at all,” she echoed. “And I suppose I forgive you for leaving in the midst of the Season when there were so many people still to analyze.”

  He blinked again. “You do?”

  “I do. A true friend finds it in her heart to forgive all but the grossest of insults. Besides which, it really is past time I search in earnest for a husband. Now that we are together again, you can advise me. Jack is too busy these days. Put him in the same room with Ivy and Catherine and he’s utterly useless.” She fought the urge to slap Anthony’s back and give him a huge, affable grin—camaraderie between friends, after all—but there was no sense in overplaying her hand. She glanced at his face, satisfied to see his mouth momentarily slacken before he recovered himself.

  “Help you find a husband?”

  “Yes.” She nodded and continued eating her Korma Kashmiri, which was chicken in a sweet and creamy curry sauce with pineapple and cashews, a dish she was finding particularly to her liking. “When I failed to settle on a suitor for whom I felt even a modicum of affection, I had quite resigned myself to searching elsewhere. The Fleet seemed an excellent option. And, of course you know how tiresome London can be.” It was an effort to speak with sincerity, to avoid ­ruining her performance by sounding trite or forced. Anthony was not stupid, and his ability to read people was exceptional. He would know if she were putting on a show.

  And a show it was. The last thing she wanted was for Anthony Blake to find her someone else to marry. Whether or not he felt the same remained to be seen, but before they left India, she would know.

  She leaned back slightly when the footman cleared her plate and replaced it with a dish of fresh squid and prawns spiced with curry and fresh coconut. She fought a grimace and glanced at Anthony. “Some of this region’s wonderful food is wasted on me,” she whispered. “I do not care for seafood.”

  Anthony smiled. “I remem
ber. I suppose you shall resort to the time-honored method of moving the food about on the plate to appear as though you’re enjoying it?”

  “One does what one must,” she grumbled. “Distract me with tales, if you please. Surely you’ve made observations on more than simply Mr. Darzi, the prince’s cousin.”

  Anthony speared a bite of his squid and nodded at her as he closed his lips around the fork and chewed. She gagged in the back of her throat, and her eyes watered. She quickly put her napkin to her mouth and looked away from him with a cough. She heard his answering laugh and wondered how badly it would embarrass her sponsor if she were to dump her plate of seafood in Anthony’s lap and storm out in a dramatic huff.

  “Very well,” Anthony said, his voice merry. “Seated at the other table is Clergyman Denney, Mrs. Denney, and their two daughters. He leads the flock each Sabbath with verses from the Old Testament and is less concerned with growing the flock than he is filling those who already attend with fire and brimstone. His wife is very gentle, very kind, and very likely trampled beneath her husband’s formidable personality. Their daughters return to London soon to enjoy the Season—their second and first, respectively, I’m told—and Mr. Denney is quite determined that one, or preferably both, daughters will make a splendid match. There is soon to be a dowry at play which could serve both daughters very well.”

  Sophia studied the family as she absently stirred her food about on her plate. “The younger of the two is the prettier, is she not?”

  Anthony’s answering smile was wry. “I had arrived at the same conclusion myself. I anticipate exactly what you’re about to say.”

  “I fear that unless the elder is gregarious, she may find herself eclipsed.” Sophia paused. “Although, she does seem to have captured the attention of the soldier seated to her right. Of course, he seems to be doing the majority of the conversing.”

  Anthony leaned toward Sophia to look at the couple in question. “Ah, yes. That is Corporal Mailor. He was the shepherdess at the costume party, if you’ll recall.” He lowered his voice. “He fancies himself a bit of a charmer. I do hope Miss Denney has a good head on her shoulders and will not be deceived by a few flowery compliments.”