The Secret of the India Orchid

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Sophia inhaled and blew the air out slowly, closing her eyes. “He is terrified. And so little. And his awful parents are sending him away to school in two years.”

  She opened her eyes to see Anthony smiling at her. “My parents sent me away to school when I was young.”

  “And they were awful.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  Sophia knew she was being dramatic and overwrought. The Pilkingtons were perhaps absent regarding their son, but not truly awful. Her heart still hurt for Charlie. “Why would a mother send her child away at such a young age to be harassed by cruel peers and smacked about by harsh professors?”

  “If it’s any consolation, I’ve heard many parents here intentionally maintain distance from their children because they know they will be sending them away in a few short years. It is very difficult, especially on the mother.” He smiled at her. “It is the way things are done. Makes men out of boys.”

  She snorted and muttered something very unladylike. It made Anthony laugh, and she looked at him holding the little girl. He was so handsome it hurt. The only thing to improve upon the scene would have been a puppy in his other arm. Perhaps a kitten.

  “What do you think Charlie saw just now?” he asked her quietly. “The person who killed the captain?”

  She shrugged, uncertain why she was feeling so ridiculously teary. Perhaps because Charlie was so small and utterly without defenses. He was not a rough-and-tumble boy; he was the sort who could be a target of ridicule. And his automatic physical response to his fear today was something that would see him mocked mercilessly by other children should it repeat itself in a different setting. She wanted to hide him from the world, from anyone who would be cruel.

  “Why do you think he was so afraid?”

  “He . . .” Her lip trembled and she forced the whisper. “He wet himself, Anthony. And he was pale and nearly fainted.”

  Anthony’s brow knit. “Could he possibly be ill?”

  She shook her head. “He was fine earlier, nearly smiling. And then the crowd arrived, and everyone poured into the courtyard. He stared at someone, but I couldn’t tell who.” She took another breath and blew it out, pulling herself together. “Amala took him immediately to one of the carriages. I told her I shall visit the nursery later.”

  Anthony nodded. “I am going to circle the crowd, make note of everyone here. Young Master Charlie may have just seen the person who killed the captain.” He handed Ruth back to Sophia. “You find Miss Scarsdale. I am going to reconnoiter.”

  Chapter 15

  The group returned from the ­ruins dusty and tired, but for the most part in good spirits. Anthony found Sophia in the Residency foyer and was about to offer to accompany her to the nursery to check on Charlie when Himmat approached and placed his hands together with a bow.

  “Miss Elliot, you have a caller. Memsahib instructed me to place him in the front parlor.”

  Sophia blinked. “A caller? Who would call on me?”

  “The gentleman said he met you at the costume ball.” The old man’s lips twitched. “He was dressed as a gladiator.”

  “Ah.” Sophia nodded. “Mr. Belving, the Darjeeling expert.” She turned to Anthony, trying to shake what he knew was a worried mood. She found her smile, even if her eyes still held concern. “He runs a plantation left to him by his father and desperately needs an heir.”

  Anthony felt his eyes narrow slightly. There was only one reason for a gentleman to call on a lady in India, especially one so recently arrived. “Well, then,” he said tightly, “perhaps my task shall be finished before it’s begun.”

  “Your task?”

  “Of finding you a suitable husband.”

  “Ah.” She smiled. “Suitable. But I must also adore him.”

  “You do not adore the gladiator?”

  She tipped her head to the side. “It is difficult to judge my level of adoration after spending such a short amount of time with a person. I suppose I must rectify that before I make a proper decision. Himmat,” she continued, turning to the butler, “please inform Mr. Belving that I shall be with him momentarily. I must freshen up.”

  Anthony ground his teeth together and offered what he hoped resembled a smile. “I must meet with Major Stuart. I hope to see you at dinner?”

  She curtseyed very prettily and smiled. “Of course. Until then.”

  He watched her cross the foyer, turn when her name was called by an acquaintance, and then make her way up the stairs, chatting easily with the young woman. Her laughter floated back down toward him, and he took a deep breath. He glanced at Himmat, who looked at him with something akin to sympathy.

  “Yes?” he asked the good-natured old man, whose wrinkled face settled into a smile.

  Himmat shrugged. “When Miss Elliot returns, I must inform her that another caller also awaits her in the ­second-floor sitting room.”

  Anthony glared at the butler, as though it was his fault Sophia would likely be on the receiving end of two proposals before dinnertime. He pinched the bridge of his nose as Himmat laughed softly. He had to find Dylan as soon as possible to avoid making a fool of himself by interrogating the gladiator in the front parlor.

  “Who is the man in the second-floor sitting room?” he asked Himmat, not bothering to affect a casual air, which the butler would undoubtedly see as false.

  “Sir Larkin, the Baron from Swansea. He has an interest in Indian railroad development. Quite successful, I hear.”

  “Of course he is.” Anthony paused. “And he is well advanced in years?” He heard the pathetically hopeful note in his own voice.

  Himmat smiled widely. “Not so many years beyond yours, my lord.” The butler placed his palms together and bowed to Anthony, whose nostrils flared at the man’s retreating back.

  He needed a distraction, and badly. Anthony found Dylan without delay, and the two men retired to Anthony’s chambers to compare notes on the picnic. Anthony scribbled a list of everyone he remembered seeing at the ­ruins. “There. Have I missed anyone?”

  Dylan nodded when he reached the end and held his hand out for Anthony’s pencil. “There are a few other women I recognized, plus three additional men from my unit.” He jotted on the paper and added, “We can assume the other nannies and their charges are exempt. Miss Sophia indicated the boy was fine until all of us arrived later.”

  Anthony nodded and rubbed his forehead. He sat back in his chair with a sigh and tugged at his cravat, his coat having been already divested. Entering the ­ruins and seeing Sophia standing there, holding a baby, had been quite the most alluring sight he had ever seen in his life. It reaffirmed everything he knew he’d always wanted with her, and he felt slightly guilty thinking about it while her brother was one of his best friends.

  “What’s got hold of your thoughts, old man?” Dylan crossed his legs at the ankles, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

  I am in love with my friend’s sister and desperately want her to be the mother of my children. “Nothing. Tired, I suppose.” He took the paper back from Dylan and reviewed it. “How do you plan to move forward?”

  Dylan’s eyes remained closed. Anthony knew he was tired. Between his duties with the First Cavalry Light Brigade and now this investigation, his friend was spread thin. “I believe we might try a two-pronged approach. I shall make it known to Pilkington and a few others here who are prone to gossip that I am officially investigating Captain Miller’s disappearance. Those with nothing to hide may be forthcoming with details yet undiscovered. Others, however, may be more inclined to let something slip to a less-threatening party. You, for instance.”

  Anthony nodded. “I shall be the charming aristocrat with nothing better to do but . . . be charming.”

  “Good. I believe I shall beg continued hospitality of our hosts and remain here at the mansion.”

  “Although Pilking
ton outwardly supports the notion, I am under the impression he isn’t thrilled about people officially poking around in this thing. I wish you good luck,” Anthony said.

  Dylan smiled. “He owes me a favor. Or two.”

  Anthony gave him a salute. “’Tis a smart man who collects favors.”

  “And I am nothing if not a smart man.”

  The drawing room that evening was abuzz with chatter as groups of young people played hands of whist or vingt-et-un, without gambling, of course. Women took turns at the pianoforte with eager gentlemen offering to turn pages. The verandah doors were wide open, hosting excess socializers as the drawing room eventually proved too confining, and it was there that Sophia found the Denney sisters.

  She hadn’t seen the girls since the outing at the ­ruins. Their father had spirited them away, and Sophia hadn’t been seated near them at dinner. Charity beckoned from a spot near the wall of netting that allowed access to the cool outside breeze. Sophia approached, and Charity grasped her hands.

  “You must forgive us for disappearing so suddenly!”

  “Not at all, I worried that my invitation to join us at the ­ruins caused contention with your parents.” Sophia looked at Beatrice, whose face was characteristically impassive. The girl frowned, and something in her eyes gave Sophia pause.

  “I grow weary of it,” Beatrice said quietly. “It is a very small thing to enjoy a day with friends and paint with watercolor. In point of fact, it is what we are raised to do.”

  Sophia bit her lip, noting the light tension in the air and wondered if she was witnessing the seeds of an oncoming rebellion. “That is certainly true,” she ventured, uncertain whether to discourage or encourage it.

  “Your mother, Miss Sophia—what is her nature?” Beatrice said.

  Sophia blinked. It was the most forward question she’d heard the young woman ask anyone. “My mother? She is very gentle. Our circumstances were . . . That is, we have not always enjoyed the status we do now. My mother worked as a seamstress, and I was a lady’s maid. My mother was ill more often than not, and I worried constantly.”

  Beatrice’s eyes softened with sympathy, and Charity’s were round with curiosity. “Gentle,” Beatrice murmured. “She sounds much like our mother. And your father?”

  “’Tis a long story best saved for another time, but my father had been disinherited by his father. It does not happen often. But my grandfather was a very powerful man with an enormous amount of influence. My brother came into the title at my grandfather’s behest and everything changed for the three of us.”

  “Ah,” Charity breathed. “That is the reason you are addressed as ‘Miss Elliot’ rather than ‘Lady Elliot.’”

  Sophia inclined her head. “But why do you ask me this, Beatrice?”

  Beatrice shifted her gaze to the netting on the window, which she suddenly seemed to find very interesting. “I find myself at a crossroads.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have attracted the interest of a man, and I suspect my father will either heartily approve or vehemently forbid his suit.”

  “My goodness, such extremes.” Sophia wished Rachael were part of the discussion, but she was in the drawing room with Anthony and Dylan Stuart. Rachael had been reared as a woman of gentility. She would know how to guide Beatrice. Sophia’s inclination was to tell the girl to follow her heart. She glanced at Charity, who was uncharacteristically silent. The younger girl pursed her lips as though trying to keep her mouth closed.

  Silence stretched, and Sophia cast about for something to say that might be of use. She could not bring herself to tell Beatrice to listen to her father. From the little she’d observed, and according to Anthony’s impressions, the man was heavy-handed and immovable, which was never a good combination. Beatrice and Charity both were looking at a lifetime spent in a place they didn’t like because their father had been dissatisfied with the choices he’d made for himself.

  Charity bounced, the movement barely discernible, until she finally grabbed Sophia’s arm and hissed, “It is the prince’s cousin!”

  Sophia’s mouth rounded in surprise, and she looked at Beatrice, who stared at her sister with murder in her eyes.

  “Charity!” Beatrice ground out.

  “I’m sorry!” Charity slapped both hands over her mouth and looked at Beatrice in horror. “But if anyone might understand, certainly it’s a woman who used to be a lady’s maid!”

  Sophia squinted at her, unable to follow the logic. She turned her attention back to Beatrice and put a hand on her arm. “Shall we stroll outside for a moment?”

  “Perhaps in the atrium? That way we shall avoid the insects.”

  Sophia nodded, and Charity blurted, “May I come also?”

  Beatrice made a sound resembling a snarl, but Sophia nodded, more concerned about keeping the younger sister quiet than desiring to involve her further into Beatrice’s admittedly not dull affaire de coeur.

  Sophia led the way through the verandah, into the drawing room, past the two gentlemen whose proposals she had gently declined, and out to the front foyer. They turned a corner that led to the atrium, which was blessedly empty of people, and chose a bench at a bay window that overlooked the back gardens. There were a few sconces lit, but most of the light came from the bright moon outside and the torches placed evenly outside the windows.

  Sophia turned to Charity first. “I know you love your sister, and you do care for her splendidly. I heartily approve of the way you champion her.”

  Charity nodded.

  “I need you, however, to just listen for a moment. Beatrice is going to talk, and should she require a response, it will come from me.”

  Charity blinked, but nodded again.

  “Beatrice.” Sophia turned to the other sister and clasped the girl’s hands, which were ice-cold despite the comfortable temperature inside. “Have you been corresponding with Taj Darzi?”

  Beatrice sighed. “Yes, for four weeks. I noticed him when we returned home after last Season, but he took notice of me only recently and asked if we could exchange letters. He is here often as a representative of the prince, of course, and I feel I have come to know him quite well. He is attentive, very charming even when we cannot remain long in each other’s company, and he writes beautiful things in his letters. We share many similar interests.”

  Sophia took a breath and tried to be fair despite her proclivity for jaded assumptions. It may well be that the man had seen in Beatrice the same potential Sophia saw, but it might be wishful thinking. Taj Darzi was a man who moved in his cousin’s political circles, and while his reputation was sound, there was no way to determine whether or not he acted in his own interests.

  “Admittedly, I do not know him well, but I would exercise caution.”

  Beatrice’s features tightened.

  “I do not suggest you should not encourage his suit, but as with any courtship or potential marriage, a woman must be very, very sure of both herself and the gentleman in question.” Sophia paused. “Do you understand? When I was a lady’s maid, I was propositioned most improperly by men who were supposedly above reproach in behavior and station. They were appalling, but to outward appearances, they seemed everything a gentleman should be.”

  “What did you do?” Charity interjected.

  Sophia held up a finger to the girl and kept her attention focused on Beatrice. “Mr. Darzi has enormous wealth, enormous influence. I suppose what I mean to say is if you decide you would like to pursue a life with him, be absolutely certain. Much as any woman should be when choosing a husband. But when a man has power such as Mr. Darzi has at his command, your options, should matters not . . . go well, would be extremely limited. Even more limited than those which a woman usually finds in a marriage.”

  Beatrice nodded and gave Sophia’s hand a squeeze. “I do understand what you’re saying. And I have not made any rash decisi
ons. I’ve not made any decisions at all, in fact.” She sighed and a frown creased her forehead. “I do not know what to do.” She paused. “He is kind. And I quite adore him.”

  “Has he suggested furthering your association?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “He would like to. The prince is ill, and he fears his health will only grow worse. Mr. Darzi is his heir.”

  “He would like to secure his bride before then?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Certainly, marriage to a British woman of good reputation is a wise political decision,” Sophia said gently. “Caste considerations aside.”

  Beatrice nodded. “I harbor no illusions that he is captivated by my beauty or charm. Frankly, however, I do have the most sterling of reputations for the area—especially with the Fleet continually arriving.” She grimaced apologetically. “There are those girls from England who behave with a certain amount of scandal and bog down the reputation for the rest, I’m afraid.”

  Sophia nodded and pursed her lips in thought. If Darzi were indeed in search of an impeccable reputation, he could do no better than Beatrice Denney. Sophia didn’t know if the man’s motives were pure, but was he really worse than any of the young men who surrounded them? So many of the Englishmen in India were desperate enough for wives that they proposed multiple times per Season. And dalliances on the side with native women or Eurasians—offspring of European and Indian—were common. It wasn’t as though marriage to a British citizen guaranteed love and fidelity.

  Sophia drew a breath. “As your friend, Beatrice, and one who finds you enormously talented and gracious, I would suggest you take the matter as slowly as you are able. I realize you feel an untoward amount of pressure from your father and the fact that he plans to send you back to London again soon. Be certain, though, that Mr. Darzi has your best interests at heart, as well as his own, before you commit to him.”

  Charity clapped her hands. “That is beautiful, and exactly what I would have said. Had I thought of it.”

  Sophia and Beatrice both glanced at the younger girl, and Sophia fought to keep her expression neutral. Charity was flighty, perhaps, but she was genuine. And she loved her sister.