The only way you’ll pay for this treasure is by selling your drafty house in Kent and every antique it possesses, Purdy thought cynically.
With a sniff he turned to the opposite side of the room. “Do I hear twenty-five thousand?”
Another hand rose.
“Twenty-five thousand. Do I have thirty?”
A keen-eyed man in blue broadcloth sat forward, then motioned stiffly.
Your sort, too, I know, Purdy thought. Just another upstart mill owner from Yorkshire, for all your fine airs and expensive dress. The Eye of Shiva’s too good for your likes, too.
“Thirty,” the auctioneer said curtly. “Have I—”
“Fifty thousand pounds!”
Loud gasps filled the room. The elite of London turned to gape, squinting to see who had offered this fabulous bid.
Purdy felt a wave of elation. Surely this dark-haired man in the perfect but carelessly tied cravat must be Lord St. Cyr.
But his hopes were dashed a moment later as he recognized the bidder. A retired British official, the man was newly returned from India, where he had been the governor of Bengal—or had it been the Punjab?
Not that it signified. All that mattered to Purdy was that the man had returned as rich as Croesus, with a staggering amount of wealth plundered during twenty years of government service.
Purdy’s nostrils flared delicately, catching the heady scent of money about Sir John Humphrey—a vast sea of money, in fact.
“Fifty thousand,” the auctioneer repeated. “Do I hear sixty?”
“Sixty thousand,” the Yorkshire mill owner barked, forgetting in his greed that a gesture would have sufficed.
Purdy barely hid a sneer. Greedy little parvenu, he thought. “Do I hear—”
“Eighty-five thousand,” the Earl of Bellingham countered loudly.
“Eighty-five thousand. Do I have ninety?”
Silence crept over the room, punctuated only by the rustle of stiff satin, freshly laundered linen, and crisp wool. Even the hushed muttering had ceased.
“Do I have ninety?” Purdy prodded. Damned if he’d let the gem go for a shilling less than one hundred thousand!
Slowly Purdy twisted the open box. All sound ceased.
“Ninety thousand?” he repeated, scanning the crowd.
And then, from the corner of his eye, Purdy saw a motion at the end of the second row. Ah, this was a face he knew well, as did most of London. Heavy-lidded eyes and full, fleshy lips. A small man in a suit that never seemed to fit properly, for all that his tailors were the best money could buy. Slim fingers and hands that looked too white to be capable of the monstrous deeds attributed to him across three continents.
James Ruxley. The Merchant Prince of Lombard Street.
At least that was what the newspapers had dubbed him last year, Purdy thought. The man’s vast fortune had been acquired in shadowy ventures too numerous to name, stretching across Europe to the Crimea and from there all the way to the far-flung Himalayas.
Opium in Calcutta.
Star sapphires in Ceylon.
Guns to the Taiping rebels overrunning south China, and escape to work teams building the railroad through the American West for those Chinese desperate enough—or foolhardy enough—to accept terms of virtual slavery.
All were ventures it did not pay to investigate too closely, as more than one unfortunate rival had discovered.
It was even rumored that Ruxley and St. Cyr had crossed paths, somewhere in the heathen East. And that Ruxley had emerged much the worse from the encounter. Perhaps that was why he always wore gloves in public.
That was a confrontation he would have given a great deal to witness, Horace Purdy thought.
So now the Merchant Prince had his sights set on the ruby, did he?
The auctioneer’s eyes glittered. He was not surprised, for the man was rumored to have a taste for rare and beautiful things, along with the unlimited funds to indulge his whims. And lately Ruxley was rumored to be in the market for a highborn wife to go along with those beautiful artifacts of his, and the sheen of respectability such a marriage would bring him.
Perhaps he planned to use the ruby to secure such a wife.
Yes, here was his man, Purdy decided abruptly, studying those heavy-lidded eyes. “Ninety thousand pounds,” he prompted, feeling the tension in the room build.
A duke slumped forward slightly. Two young earls scowled, their limits reached.
Purdy’s eyes flickered to the other bidders. The mill owner was fingering his collar anxiously, but the official’s jaw set in a mulish line.
Excellent!
And now to stir the flames higher.
As prearranged, the auctioneer made a tiny gesture to his assistant, who immediately hurried forward with a vellum envelope on a silver tray.
Purdy was careful to maintain the fiction of surprise as he ripped open the envelope and scanned its blank sheet of paper. “It appears that we have another bidder tonight, ladies and gentlemen. A silent bidder, who prefers to remain anonymous.”
“St. Cyr!”
“Pagan! It must be Deveril Pagan.”
The words leaped from a dozen lips—just as Horace Purdy had hoped they would. How gullible people were, after all, even for such an old trick as this.
With a quick gesture he refolded the vellum sheet and slipped it and the envelope into his pocket. “I now have one hundred twenty.” It was a gamble, of course, but Purdy was confident it would pay off.
A gasp went up from the jeweled crowd. The young Earl of Bellingham cursed harshly. Unnoticed, Purdy’s envelope slipped from his pocket and drifted to the floor.
“Do I hear—”
Five rows back, Sir Humphrey gestured sharply.
“One hundred thirty,” Purdy intoned, already envisioning the agreeably elegant townhouse he would purchase off Regent Street. Praise God for greedy men, he thought.
But he was careful to keep his glee hidden. “One hundred and thirty thousand from the gentleman in the fifth row. Do I have one hundred forty?”
The mill owner gestured tensely.
“One hundred forty.”
“I go to one hundred seventy thousand!” Sir Humphrey announced a moment later, his cheeks darkening to a dangerous, mottled purple.
Bad heart, Purdy decided. The result of all that rich Indian food, no doubt. Or perhaps from bedding too many Indian whores. The auctioneer’s eyes narrowed and he prayed the man’s heart would hold out until the bidding peaked.
Purdy reached for the ruby, tilting the box under the gaslight until fire shot from the stone’s dark heart. “I have one hundred and seventy thousand. Do I hear one hundred eighty?”
Sir John Humphrey’s color fluctuated alarmingly.
“Do I hear one hundred eighty for this magnificent jewel, this prize of rajahs and the star of Serendip?”
Something made the auctioneer glance to the rear of the hall. But the turbaned figure in the curtained alcove sat oblivious to the bidding, conferring with one of his bodyguards, who bowed deeply and then disappeared through the doors at the back of the room.
A small movement made Purdy turn back to the second row.
James Ruxley’s eyes seemed to glitter.
“I rather think…” the Merchant Prince drawled. “Yes, I believe I shall offer two hundred thousand.”
Noise rocked the room in the wake of Ruxley’s cool announcement, followed by a spontaneous outburst of applause. All the people in the room, whether bidders or spectators, realized they were witnessing history in the making.
Purdy’s knees went weak. Vainly he pounded his gavel against the podium, struggling to restore order. “Ladies! Gentlemen! Order, please. Or-der!” Even then it was some minutes before the excited chatter subsided enough for him to continue.
By then Horace Purdy was feeling something dangerously close to delirium. “I am bid two hundred thousand pounds for the Eye of Shiva,” he said slowly, savoring the sweet roll of those words. “Do I have another
offer?”
Purdy made one last scan of the room, noting the mill owner’s angry scowl, the darkening hue of Sir Humphrey’s face, and the young earl’s forced air of unconcern.
So that was that.
A fine conclusion, to be sure.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand!” It was a wild, choked cry, almost inhuman.
Purdy stared, speechless with shock, unable to believe Sir Humphrey’s desperate bid. Slowly the auctioneer turned to Ruxley.
The Merchant Prince scowled, jerking his head in a savage negative. A moment later he sent the hatchet-faced lackey at his side scurrying from the room.
Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds!
I can retire tomorrow, Purdy thought triumphantly. No, by heaven, I can retire this very night!
Cold air brushed across the auctioneer’s neck. Had that careless clerk of his forgotten to close the window in his office again? No matter—he would soon be finished with all this. Never would he set foot inside that dark cubicle again.
Purdy had just raised his gavel to pronounce the sale complete when a cloaked figure burst through the doorway at the back of the room.
“Mar ja sale! Death to all betrayers! Not tonight or any other night will the sacred Eye of Shiva fall prey to foreign hand,” the man screamed, ripping off his cloak to reveal loose Indian breeches and tunic. “Death to all who sit here tonight!” He leaped forward, brandishing a gold-butted percussion revolver.
For an infinity of terror Horace Purdy stared into that cold barrel, seeing his life flash before his eyes in all its petty calculation and casual cruelty.
The lower trigger clicked, turning the cylinder and cocking the hammer. A hail of bullets strafed the podium. Women screamed and threw themselves to the floor, their men following seconds after. Only Purdy’s well-trained assistant had the presence of mind to catch up the rosewood box containing the Shiva’s Eye.
But Horace Purdy would never know that, for five inches of smoking lead had already ripped neatly through the center of his forehead, throwing his inert body back onto the envelope that lay forgotten upon the polished floor.
“Grab him!” a man shouted. “Kill the heathen bastard!”
“Stop him—he’s come for the ruby!”
One head rose, surveying the room tentatively. “There the brute is!”
But the assassin had turned, and his revolver now leveled upon the silk-clad rajah standing impassive before the curtained recess.
For long moments neither man moved. The rajah’s face was a mahogany mask, his eyes obsidian slits. Suddenly he uttered one word, harsh and guttural.
The other man blanched, his weapon shaking visibly. He brought his other hand out to steady it. “Mar ja sale! Die, betrayer!” he screamed.
No one present was ever quite sure what happened next, though the question would be hotly debated for years afterward.
It seemed that the assassin shouted again and at the same moment the rajah took a step forward. In a blur of motion the Sikh bodyguard reached up to his turban, ripped a metal ring free, and spun the razor-sharp quoit about his forefinger.
With a high hum the circular blade flashed through the air, finding its target a moment later and severing the assassin’s throat cleanly.
Blood gushed up. At least six women fainted.
With an odd grace for a man so large, the rajah soundlessly crossed the room. Some dark emotion flared in his eyes as he bent down to study the features of the dead assassin, then pocketed one of the spent copper cartridges.
When he arose, his face was unreadable.
As he moved, his tunic shifted, revealing a stain of crimson at his thigh.
“Sweet heaven—he’s been wounded!” a woman cried.
“By Gawd! And the fellow didn’t even flinch!” a male voice answered with reluctant admiration.
But the rajah seemed to have no further interest in the evening’s proceedings. With a last low command to his remaining bodyguard, he turned and strode from the room.
He left more than one observer wondering exactly which side the hard-faced bastard had taken in the recent Indian upheavals.
CHAPTER FIVE
At that same moment, in a very different part of London, a slim figure in black came to a halt before the planked door of a run-down public house. With an explosive crash, the door burst open, and two brawling figures fell into the snow-covered yard.
Growling and cursing, the men lunged back and forth drunkenly. A moment later the door crashed open again, and a pair of boots and the splintered remains of a wooden chair flew out.
All in all, it was a normal night at the Boar’s Head Inn.
Silently the woman inched back into the shadows of the yard, drawing a shawl about her head.
It would be dangerous to enter, but Barrett had little choice. Only one street away lay her final destination, a mediocre hostelry known by the misleading title of the Royal Arms. But its owner was an old friend of her grandfather’s and Barrett knew he was a man she could trust.
While the two men circled, she thought of the other times she had come to this part of London. It had been over her grandfather’s protests, of course. But in the end he had been glad for her help on his various scientific projects. On their few trips to London, she had worn boy’s breeches and riding boots, her tawny hair scraped back beneath a floppy boy’s sailor hat.
Now the tawny curls lay hidden beneath a layer of boot blacking and she was swathed head to toe in widow’s bombazine. Barrett’s lips thinned in irritation as she looked down at her dusty, unwieldy petticoats.
But the disguise was necessary. She prayed that old Fenton was still at the Royal Arms, for she knew he would help her with no questions asked.
But first Barrett had to be certain no one was following her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the telltale flicker of movement at the far end of the lane, the same shadow that had clung to her so faithfully since she’d left Great Russell Street.
The rajah’s man, of course. Barrett had expected him to come after her. Only a few streets back, she had come close to losing him, but somehow he had turned up again.
Now she would have to elude him. She wanted no chance of him or anyone else discovering her final destination.
She waited until the fighters fell to the ground. Then, her lips set in a thin line, she stepped over their drunken bodies and slipped inside the pub’s smoky interior, sparing barely a glance for the crowded tap room. Instead her whole attention was focused on the narrow passage back to the kitchen.
Silently she sped down the soot-stained corridor to the rear. Two children, thin and glassy-eyed, looked up at her as she passed, then resumed their work peeling potatoes.
Barrett pulled her shawl tighter, overcome by the stench of fetid oil and rank meat. By the time she reached the back door, her stomach was churning, hunger long forgotten.
Through the single grimy pane she could make out the cheerful colors of the Royal Arms opposite. She would not hazard the well-lit front entrance. The darkened alley that adjoined the Boar’s Head would do nicely, taking her safely around to the stables.
Barrett smiled. The rajah’s man would not find her now. Soon she would be safe in Fenton’s best private parlor, warming herself with a hot cup of tea.
She made for the back door.
“‘Ere then! What’s all this?” An angry voice exploded from her left, where a wall of barrels screened a corner of the kitchen.
White-faced, Barrett wrenched open the door, only to feel beefy fingers lock onto her shoulder.
“Nippin’ out on yer bill, is it now? Old Cobbett’ll ’ave me ’ide if ’e finds out.” The fingers tightened. “Now it’s back inside with yer, missy.”
Barrett’s heart slammed against her ribs as she felt the iron fingers jerk her about.
“Drink Cobbett’s ale and run out, will yer! We’ll soon see about that!”
Think! she told herself. “Let me go, brute! It’s—there’s—”
Th
e beefy fingers tensed. “Eh? What nonsense yer talking, wench?”
“Fi—” Her first effort was no more than a tentative croak. “F-fire. Fire!”
Her captor’s face froze in ludicrous dismay. “Fire? Bleedin’ ‘ell, woman—why didn’t yer say so sooner?” With a curse the man pushed her aside and made for the front of the pub. “If Cobbett’s gone an’ tossed a bleedin’ cheroot into that storeroom again, I’ll—”
Wrenching open the back door, Barrett flung herself outside and plunged down the steps, gulping in the cold, sweet night air.
Nothing moved as she slipped into the alley. No sounds came to her but the muffled clamor of the taproom at the front of the public house.
Silently she crept over grimy cobblestones heaped high with vegetable peelings. A rat exploded past her foot.
Barrett concentrated on the alley’s end and the bright stable yard beyond. She moved lightly and noiselessly, keeping to the shadows. Her grandfather had always called her his little heathen, saying he despaired of ever turning her into a lady. Barrett thought the notion had pleased him, though he would never have admitted it.
At the alley’s edge she stopped and peered into the Royal Arm’s yard, where two hostlers were currying horses and a carriage was setting out for the front drive.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she inched forward, rehearsing her story for Fenton. He would be wary at first. She would have to be very convincing, lest he take it into his head to send a message to her grandfather. The last thing she wanted was for her grandfather to leave the safety of the north and come looking for her. And she had to believe that Goodfellow, their steward, had followed her directions to carry her grandfather to safety. After she had steered her pursuers off on another fruitless search, she would slip away and make her own way north to the isolated cottage on the Isle of Mull where her grandfather was safely hidden, under Goodfellow’s care.
At least, she prayed he was.
Finished with their work, the hostlers led their horses back into the stables.
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