“Poor you,” said Alex, peeling back the tent flap and ducking under. “Nothing but hunting and nautch girls to while away the empty hours.”
“It’s a damnable shame,” agreed Tajalli, giving him a slight push to speed him along. “Look who else I’ve brought to greet you.”
A figure moved in the dim interior of the tent, rising off the piles of rugs and cushions that Tajalli considered essential for even the briefest of jaunts.
“George!” exclaimed Alex.
“Surprised you, didn’t I?” said his brother with evident satisfaction. The elaborately pierced lamp picked out the copper tints in his hair, part of George’s legacy from their father. “I knew you wouldn’t expect me.”
Alex hadn’t, but he was damnably glad to see him. He thumped his brother on the back in greeting. “Shouldn’t you be in Sardhana? How did you persuade the Begum to give you leave?”
George’s eyes shifted away. “It’s not ‘leave’ precisely. The Begum had an errand she wanted me to run in this part of the world.”
“And you’re not happy about it.” George had always been an open book. At least, he gave the impression of being so, an impression that was frequently very useful to him, especially in his dealings with women. It was, Alex thought, as much a part of his legacy from their father as his coppery hair and Scots blue eyes.
It was a legacy that had passed Alex entirely by. He took after his mother’s side, dark-complexioned Welsh preachers with stiff spines and morals to match.
George grinned at him. “Something like that,” he admitted. “I’ll tell you what I can of it.”
“I wouldn’t ask for more,” said Alex, and meant it. “Don’t tell me anything that might come back to bite you.”
Now that the Begum Sumroo was bound by treaty to the British, their interests were theoretically in alignment, but Alex knew it would take only a moment to change that. If George were to be caught ferrying information to the British side, his life could be forfeit. Any confidence that might endanger his little brother wasn’t worth knowing.
It was a damnable situation they were in. Beginning when George was just out of swaddling clothes, a series of orders had come down from the Governor General’s office, disqualifying anyone with an Indian parent from serving in the East India Company’s army. With his Rajput mother, George was banned by his birth from joining his father’s regiment, forced to seek service instead as a mercenary in the employ of a native ruler.
It never ceased to amaze Alex that George seemed to bear no resentment at all against his father or his father’s people for the restrictions they had placed upon him for no greater fault than an accident of birth. Alex resented it for him. It was one of the reasons that Alex had decided to leave the Madras Cavalry. It didn’t feel right to belong to a force that wouldn’t take his own flesh and blood, simply because the blood ran darker on one side. Even that was a misnomer. George was fairer than he was and always had been, from the moment he had bounced into the world. He had been a fat, fair, chuck-ling baby with a cap of red curls that had gradually darkened to the color of an antique shield as he grew from a toddler’s dress into boots and breeches.
The situation had gone from merely offensive to actively dangerous the year before, when George’s employer, the Begum Sumroo, had joined with her overlord, Scindia, against the British. Scindia had slaughtered those British-bred mercenaries still in his pay at the start of the conflict. The Begum Sumroo, loyal to her own—and with an eye for a good-looking young man—had refused to take such drastic measures, but George’s position had been an uncomfortable one, exposed to suspicion and resentment from his messmates in the Begum’s camp, forced to maintain a distance from his family.
Despite it all, he had maintained his sunny disposition. George was and would always be George.
Unlike Jack.
George plopped down onto a silk-covered cushion. “I got your letter from Calcutta right before I left the Begum. How is the new Special Envoy to the Nizam?”
“As awful as anticipated,” admitted Alex. Making a comical face, he added, “Today, he fell on his groom and knocked him into the river.”
“On purpose?” asked Tajalli with interest.
“No, by accident.”
Tajalli made a scornful, snorting noise.
“Had he done it on purpose, it would have been rather clever,” said Alex thoughtfully. “The groom is a plant from Calcutta, one of Wellesley’s men. I’m sure of it.”
“Sent to keep an eye on—what is his name?”
“Lord Frederick,” Alex provided. “Or Freddy, as his wife calls him. No, I don’t think so. Lord Frederick is exactly what he seems and not worth the watching, either by Calcutta or anyone else. I do wonder if the point of sending Lord Frederick was less about Lord Frederick, and more a means of getting Wellesley’s man into the Residency to keep an eye on James. Again,” he added darkly.
“So you think the groom is the real spy?” asked Tajalli.
“Maybe yes, maybe no. It might as easily be the cook, the valet, or Lady Frederick’s ayah. All of them were hand-picked by Wellesley’s staff.”
George leaned forward on his cushion. “What do you think of Lady Frederick?” he asked.
Alex smelled a rat. “Did Father write you?”
“No,” demurred George, at his most guileless. If his eyes opened any wider, they would be in danger of popping right out. “Why?”
“Never mind,” said Alex. “Lady Frederick is . . . not what I expected.”
That was the understatement of the century.
“Worse?” asked George with an irrepressible grin.
“Different,” said Alex, with great finality. “But you didn’t come to meet me just to ask me about my trip. What’s going on?”
His brother and his best friend exchanged a long look. “You start,” said George generously.
“No, no,” demurred Tajalli. “It really begins with you.”
“For the love of God,” intervened Alex. “I don’t care who tells it as long as someone does.”
“So impatient,” complained Tajalli, with a wag of his head.
“Always,” agreed George. “Never takes the time to sit back and smell the frangipani.”
“That’s because I was too busy looking after you lot,” said Alex with some asperity. “What is it?”
Leaning back against his cushions, George steepled his hands together at the fingertips in the classic pose of the storyteller.
“You’ve heard of the Rajah of Berar’s treasure, of course,” he began importantly.
“You mean the hoard he claims disappeared at the siege of Gawilighur last December? Everyone’s heard that tale.” Heard it, looked for it, failed to find it. Wellesley had had teams of soldiers combing the fort, and Alex suspected more than one soldier had done a little unauthorized treasure hunting of his own. Not a rupee had been found. “It’s a classic fairy story. All it wants is a dragon.”
There it was again, that look, a look from his brother to his friend, the sort of look that said they knew something he didn’t know.
Alex folded his arms across his chest. “What?” he demanded.
“It’s not a fairy story,” said Tajalli. “At least, someone claims it’s not.”
George leaned forward, so that the light of the lantern fell across his face, illuminating the bone structure that was so uncannily like their father’s. “Someone sent a message to the Begum Sumroo offering her a tenth part of the Rajah of Berar’s treasure if she would break her treaty with the British and join in a new alliance against the British.”
“A new alliance with whom? Holcar?” To be fair, the northern Mahratta leader appeared to being doing pretty well against the British all on his own.
“Not just Holcar,” said George seriously. “The entire Mahratta Confederacy. And Hyderabad.”
“That’s nonsense,” said Alex reflexively. “The Nizam would never—”
He broke off, suddenly unsure of the truth of wh
at he had been about to say. The Hindu Mahrattas had always been to the Islamic state of Hyderabad what the French were to the English, a constant threat upon their borders, to be neutralized with defensive diplomacy when not being pushed off by force of arms. It was largely due to the Mahratta threat that the British even had a military foothold in Hyderabad; the old Nizam having treated with the British for a military force to protect his domains against his Marathi neighbors.
But the recent war had changed all that. The Maratha Confederacy was—at least momentarily—broken. The new threat to Hyderabad’s sovereignty was no longer the Marathi. It was the British.
“Exactly,” said Tajalli, watching as Alex’s mouth clamped shut. “The new Nizam isn’t the old one.”
“And Mir Alam isn’t Aristu Jah,” Alex agreed. The new First Minister might once have been a friend of the British, but a combination of exile and leprosy had twisted his mind and his allegiances. “Fine. I see your point. For the sake of argument, let’s say that someone is trying to broker an alliance between the Marathi and Hyderabad against the British. Who’s at the heart of it? Holcar? Scindia?”
George shifted on his cushion, looking uncomfortable. “It’s unclear who he represents,” he admitted reluctantly. “Whoever it is calls himself the Marigold.”
“The Marigold?” repeated Alex.
“As in the flower,” provided George helpfully. “He signs his notes with a rather attractive little orange flower. It’s actually quite well drawn. Very detailed.”
“You must be joking.”
“It isn’t a joke,” protested George, with all a little brother’s indignation at not being taken seriously. “It’s a conspiracy.”
“Of flowers.”
“No, just run by a flower,” said Tajalli, with his usual irrepressible good humor. “It is rather amusing, isn’t it? But perhaps that’s what this Marigold wants, to amuse us into a false sense of security. Who would be afraid of a gentle blossom?”
“It’s not even poisonous,” agreed Alex in disgust. “What sort of alias is that?”
“The alias of a clever man who wants us to think he’s not,” suggested Tajalli.
“Or a clever woman,” pointed out George, who worked for one. “Don’t underestimate the zenana.”
Alex felt that they were rather straying from the point. “Or someone who just likes to draw flowers. If this . . . Marigold approached the Begum Sumroo, I imagine he must also have made contact with someone in Hyderabad.” The pieces clicked neatly into place. He looked hard at Tajalli. “That’s where you come into it, isn’t it? That’s why you volunteered to play messenger.”
Tajalli made a resigned face. “Naturally. The Marigold sent my father a very nice ring as a token of his esteem.”
“In exchange for—?”
“My father’s influence with the other members of the durbar. At least, so far as I know. I am not,” he said, and Alex glimpsed a hint of something steely behind his friend’s pleasant mask, “exactly in my father’s confidence.”
“If you were,” said Alex, with an equal measure of steel, “you would not be here.”
Tajalli inclined his head in acknowledgment of the point. His father, Ahmed Ali Khan, had been one of the most vociferous supporters of the French faction at the Nizam’s court during those tense days not so long ago when both the French and the English maintained corps of troops outside the city of Hyderabad, each vying for the Nizam’s favor. But Ahmed Ali’s political opposition had only reached the level of personal vendetta when news came out of the English Resident’s secret marriage to a Hyderabadi lady of quality, Khair-un-Nissa. Apart from his revulsion at a descendant of the Prophet marrying an infidel, Ahmed Ali had a more personal reason to be affronted. Khair-un-Nissa had been promised in marriage to Tajalli’s older brother. The girl’s marriage to the Resident was an insult that made the Montagues and Capulets look like good neighbors.
Alex sometimes wondered how much his own friendship with Ahmed’s son owed to the son’s desire to flout his father. He liked to think there was more to it than that, but there were times when he found Tajalli as difficult to decipher as the intricately penned verse on a Persian scroll.
“Whoever it was knew to go to your father,” said Alex. “Whoever it was knew that he would be sympathetic.”
“He hasn’t made any secret of his sympathies.” Tajalli held out both hands, palm up. “You know how word travels.”
His expression very clearly indicated that further discussion about his father would be unwelcome. Tajalli might be allowed to criticize him, but for an outsider to do was to cross an unwritten line.
Fair enough. Alex felt much the same way about his own father. Turning back to George, he asked, “Did you see this man when he waited upon the Begum?”
“Man, woman, camel—no idea,” said George, shaking his head. “The Begum is too canny to allow me near anything like this. Doesn’t want to expose me to temptation,” he added, with a grin.
“But she trusts you to relay her letters,” pointed out Alex.
“All in code,” countered George without rancor. “You can’t expect her to trust me that far. It’s rather nice of her, really, not to put me in positions in which my loyalty would be tested.”
“Nice” wasn’t quite how Alex would have put it, but he decided to let it go. The Begum Sumroo hadn’t risen from dancing girl to ruler of her own state by being nice.
“Fortunately for you,” George continued cheerfully, “Fyze doesn’t feel at all the same way. She was the one who told me about the orange flowers and all that.”
“I see,” said Alex slowly. George had for some time had an understanding with one of the Begum’s favorites, an association that had served to cement his position in the Begum’s court. It helped that George appeared to be genuinely fond of the girl.
Tajalli grinned. “Nicely done.”
“It’s not like that,” protested George, looking hurt. “I wouldn’t have asked her if I hadn’t thought she would volunteer.” Being George, he actually believed it. “She said there was something odd about the syntax of the letters.”
“Odd how?” asked Alex.
George squinted at the gaily striped canvas of the tent. “Slightly awkward. As though the writer weren’t quite proficient in the language but was trying to sound as though he were. Although,” he added, “that could be a result of it having all been mangled into code and back again.”
“What language was it written in?”
“Persian,” supplied George. It was the official language of the Mughal court, the common tongue of aristocrats and scholars across the Islamic world. It certainly wasn’t definitive, but it strengthened Alex’s suspicion that the source of the notes was probably Marathi. And why wouldn’t it be? Holcar was currently engaged in a struggle against the British; if his resources were secretly failing, he might be looking to drum up allies.
An even more convincing case might be made for Scindia, Britain’s primary adversary in the recent Anglo-Maratha war. He would still be smarting from his humiliation at the hands of the British, reluctant to allow Holcar to seize all the glory. Like Scots clans, the Marathi tended to spend their time intriguing against one another as much as their enemies. It would be very like Scindia to attempt to scrape together a new confederacy so that he might complete what Holcar had begun, seizing the leading role for himself.
“Presumably a Marathi, then,” said Alex.
“Or a European,” suggested Tajalli. “Imperfectly schooled in the language.”
“To what end?” demanded Alex. “I don’t see what a European would have to gain.”
The topaz rings on Tajalli’s fingers glinted in the lamplight like Lady Frederick’s eyes. “Captain Raymond had grand plans for uniting the states of India against the British.”
“Yes, I know. And for handing them off to Bonaparte, all tied up with a pretty bow.” Alex dismissed the ambitions of the former French commander in Hyderabad with a wave of his hand. “But Ra
ymond is dead. There’s a large mausoleum to prove it. And Piron went back to France with his tail between his legs.”
“As far as we know,” interjected Tajalli. “He was told to do so and he promised to do so, but what a man may promise and what a man may do may be two very different things.”
“Marvelous,” muttered Alex. “That would be all we need. Frenchmen lurking about in disguise, modeling themselves after marigolds.”
His money was still on Scindia. Raymond and Piron might have made a nuisance of themselves conspiring with other French commanders in India, training large numbers of troops under the revolutionary tricolore, and flaunting their Caps of Liberty, but their dreams of conquest had died with Bonaparte’s aborted mission to Egypt more than five years before. James had put paid to the French force in Hyderabad and Wellesley had dealt with the rest by treaty, making it a condition of the Marathi leaders’ surrender that they dismiss from their service any Frenchman. Despite General Perron still throwing his weight about in the service of Scindia, as far as Alex was concerned, the French threat was long over.
Alex said as much.
“Of course, he might not be French,” suggested Tajalli, watching Alex closely. “He might as well be one of your own.”
“You mean one of our half-breeds,” said Alex flatly, not looking at his brother. “Banned from any useful occupation and out for revenge.”
“Do you think Jack—,” George began.
“No.” The negation was ingrained reflex. “No. What does James say about all this?”
Tajalli smiled at him. “Like you, he says it is a fairy story, a—what was the phrase?—a tempest in a teapot. He does not believe in the Rajah of Berar’s gold and he thinks that the Marigold is merely an attempt at agitation, and not a concerted conspiracy of which one should take notice. He had other matters to concern him.”
The Special Envoy among them, Alex was sure. Kirkpatrick didn’t react well to Wellesley’s rooting about in his private life.
For a moment, Alex found himself confronted by the image of the Special Envoy’s wife, standing forlornly outside the canvas walls of a tent, while her husband drank and gamed within. Kirkpatrick’s wasn’t the only private life that didn’t bear close examination.
The Betrayal of the Blood Lily Page 10