Twilight 0f Memory (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Watters

  She shrugged. "I hadn't intended to do a tattoo at all tonight and when you gave me no choice, a rat is what came to mind. But I tried to make it an elegant rat."

  Damon looked into eyes filled with mirth. She had no way of knowing what she'd done, the irony of it, but he refused to let her see his distress. Standing abruptly, he shrugged into his shirt and said, "This has been an interesting evening," then turned and left.

  CHAPTER 3

  The heat was oppressive. Eliza unfastened several top buttons of her uniform and fanned her chest. It was unbearably hot for so early in the day, but she was determined to complete the task before the sun was high when it would be stifling.

  Dropping to her knees, she collected the last of the dead mice and deposited them in a tin. Grappling around for the bloated bodies was repugnant, but it gave her a reason to be in Damon's bedchamber and a chance to search for the opal in the unlikely event it was there. Still, her mind was divided between searching for the opal, and Damon's hasty departure the evening before.

  Something about a rat cut deeply. At first she'd thought he'd been surprised with what she'd done, but afterward, she saw misery creep across his face. She'd felt a bizarre desire to go after him and tell him she was sorry and put her arms around him...

  Which was precisely why she must find the opal and leave because, if she stayed, she feared she might suffer her mother's fate and fall in love with a man too high above her half-breed status to return her love, and she refused to burden herself with that misery.

  Stepping to the hallway, she looked both ways, and seeing no one, she began her search, starting with the trunk at the foot of the bed. Finding only men's clothing, she moved to the bed and checked beneath the mattress. Finding nothing there, she made up the bed with fresh linens and dropped the diaphanous mosquito netting...

  ...through a gossamer veil… the glint of gold on the wing of a nose… the sparkle of a tika on a forehead...

  The image, though fleeting, immobilized Eliza. It was the face of her mother from her childhood memories, though the features were vague. She closed her eyes, trying to bring back the image, but it was gone. Only a sense of foreboding lingered.

  Dismissing the disturbing reflection, she returned to her search. Stepping to the wardrobe she opened the double doors and searched beneath the hanging clothes for a strongbox. Finding, instead, the shredded remains of an abandoned mouse nest, and deciding it might be useful if she needed to justify her search, she set it beside the tin instead of inside. That done, she shoved the clothes on their hangars to one side and started methodically searching pockets.

  She had just slipped her hand into the pocket of a frock coat when a deep voice startled her. "Are you looking for something?"

  Eliza turned to find Damon. "I was, umm… searching for mice like you instructed."

  He eyed her with suspicion. "In the pocket of my frock coat?"

  Eliza retrieved the mouse nest by the tin. "I found this in the wardrobe, so I was checking your clothes for other signs of the little beggars, but, if you'd rather I not do such a thorough search I'll consider my task done and tend to my other duties."

  "No, please. Carry on." Damon's gaze fixed on her chest where her dress lay open.

  Eliza gathered the lapels. "It's very hot in here."

  "Pity. I was hoping you'd unfastened your dress for my pleasure, like you did at the horse fair when you allowed your sleeve to drop off your shoulder so you could give me a view of what you have to offer, but you never delivered on your promise."

  "Like I explained, I was following the orders of my elders. I'm rarely required to deal in horses. I either tattoo or dance, after which I pass my tin cup. But the elders gave me orders to sell the horse however I could, which is what I did."

  Damon peered down at her, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. "If I fill your cup with rupees will you dance for me?"

  Eliza eyed him sharply. "Why? So you can look down your noble nose at me and tell me what a fool I am to degrade myself by being what I am?"

  Damon's face sobered. "No, so you can share a sample of the life you lead so I can try to understand what's holding you to it."

  "I doubt, my lord, you could. Most gorgios cannot."

  "And after you leave my employ? What then?"

  Eliza gave him a droll smile. "I'll carry on as before, begging, stealing, all the things I do best."

  As she turned to go, Damon took her arm and pulled her around to face him. "I don't suppose I have a hope in hell of convincing you I'm sorry if I offended you."

  The way he looked at her brought a surge of unexpected desire coursing through Eliza. Whatever concerned him about the tattoo the night before had vanished, along with her resolve to keep her distance. But it was the look in his eyes that captivated her now. No man had ever looked at her that way, as if she mattered.

  Did he feel something for her? Could he feel something for a half-Hindu woman, maybe take her into his heart and make her his wife? As Lady Ravencroft she'd shed her gypsy ways and be the wife he'd want her to be.

  She focused on his mouth. How could a man's lips look so inviting? And why did she want to sample them one more time? He was, after all, just a man with an ordinary mouth.

  No, not ordinary. No man she'd ever met had a mouth like that. Strong... firm... soft... inviting...

  Before she could process what was happening, he pulled her behind a privacy screen and into his arms and covered her mouth with his. When the tip of his tongue teased her lips apart, she responded, her tongue touching and tasting his, and his tongue darting in and out of her mouth like a game of tongue tag, reminding her of a bevy of gypsy urchins running and tagging and darting here and there. But it was the sweet, smoky taste of him that near took her breath away. It was so pleasantly warm, so deliciously refreshing, so wildly exciting. She'd never dreamed that kissing a man could be like this. But oh, how she didn't want it to stop...

  And it didn't. He seemed as excited with their oral sparring as she, their tongues touching and thrusting and lunging like two fencers in a duel, then twisting and curling together like playful pups, until her nerves hummed, and satisfied purrs reverberated in her throat. It was beyond reason to analyze why she was kissing Lord Ravencroft as if her life depended on it, when she should be searching his house for the opal…

  The opal!

  Abruptly, she moved out of his arms, looked at him in shocked surprise, and said in a breathless voice, "I don't know what got into me." Embarrassed and humiliated at what she'd allowed him to do, she darted from behind the screen. And froze.

  Mrs. Throckmorton stood in the doorway, eyes a pair of baneful slits.

  Saying nothing, Eliza scurried past her and down the hallway as fast as her feet could take her, yet aware that the woman was close behind. On reaching the stairway leading to her bed chamber, Mrs. Throckmorton grabbed her arm and yanked her around. "Filthy girl! Lusting after his lordship! And on Sunday no less!"

  Eliza's hand came up to gather the lapels of her dress. "I was disposing of mice remains. It's what Lord Ravencroft asked me to do."

  "Lies!" Mrs. Throckmorton slapped Eliza across the face. "I heard the sounds coming from behind that screen. And look at you with your dress unfastened to tempt his lordship. You are a filthy, despicable girl. At least Alice didn't try to rise above her station. She did her lusting with a stable boy, but you covet lusting with his lordship. Well, you'll not be tarrying in his bedchamber again. From now on you'll work in the wash house. Perhaps then you'll shed your high-flown ways and no longer have immoral designs on his lordship. At sunrise tomorrow you will prepare yourself for a long day in the heat." She released Eliza's arm and turned and walked away, and Eliza continued up the stairs.

  In her room, she found her chamber mate, Aanya, wrapping herself in a yellow sari in preparation for attending church. Aanya took one look at her, and said, "I think you just get tongue lashing from Mrs. Throckmorton."

  Eliza explained what happened, leaving ou
t the kiss, but saying she'd been caught with Lord Ravencroft in his bedchamber while searching for mouse remains.

  Aanya's eyes grew wide. "He jungli pagal sahib—wild crazy man. Is talk he kill someone. He keep matched guns and shoot canna lilies off stem, bang, bang, bang. If he in duel he kill other man."

  "Just because he owns dueling pistols doesn't mean he killed someone. Many men own dueling pistols," Eliza said, surprised to be defending the man.

  Aanya's eyes sharpened with concern. "Something bad happen in this house long time ago, but no one know what. Only hear talk that house hold terrible evil. That his lord evil too."

  Although Eliza vowed not to be drawn into the servants' prattle, the fact was, she too knew something unspeakable happened there when she was a child, something so terrifying her mind blocked all memory of it. And perhaps those memories were best left buried.

  As for Lord Ravencroft...

  Few aristocrats moved to India without good reason. India was for those without title or land, those who had to make their own living. Those who had to flee the country. Still, she was absolutely certain he was not capable of killing a man. Fairly certain, that is. Wasn't she?

  ***

  During her first week in the sweltering confines of the wash house, Eliza had never suffered such misery. Air redolent of slaked lime and wood ashes stung her nostrils, brought tears to her eyes, and made her throat scratchy. Her hands were raw from the caustic gray water, muscles in her back ached from bending over the tubs, and her hair was a mass of limp curls. After each day in the oppressive heat she was so lethargic while lying in bed waiting for Aanya to fall asleep so she could creep out and search for the opal, that she too would fall asleep and not awaken until the six o'clock gong announced another day of drudgery. By week's end, she feared she might not accomplish her goal, but she wasn't ready to abandon her mission yet.

  Two nights later, as she left the washhouse, the distant strains of gypsy music drifted on the night wind. She had no idea when the gypsies arrived, or if it was her clan, but she felt an urge to follow the sound. The moon was bright so she had no trouble finding her way. Following a path leading in the direction of the music, she scurried ahead, only to come to an end where she found a stone pedestal that looked as if it had been the base for a statue...

  ...outstretched arms... blood-red arms... blood...

  A portent of foreboding enveloped her. Was she going mad? It was nothing but a vacant pedestal. She backed away, turned and fled. By the time she returned to where another trail led in the direction of the music, she couldn't remember what it was about the pedestal that frightened her so. It was, after all, nothing but a small stone pedestal.

  For now, the night was alive with music and she felt an urge to dance, if only in the shadows. On her return later, when Aanya and the others would be asleep, she'd search the upstairs drawing room. If she didn't find the opal there, her next course would be to creep into Mrs. Throckmorton's bedchamber while she slept and take the keys to the library and master study. One of those rooms would undoubtedly contain the opal.

  ***

  Damon stepped onto the veranda, lured by the sounds of gypsy music. Corina, a maid who'd been with his staff for some time, stood gazing toward the jute fields. Damon walked over to stand beside her. "What the devil's going on out there?" he asked.

  "Gypsies, m'lord. Runyon saw wagons and chattel out there, and goats and donkeys in the fields. I don't mind saying, I'm a bit anxious about them being so close."

  "No worry. The gatekeeper won't let them pass."

  "It's not just that, m'lord, it's about the new dhobi in the washhouse. Who knows what she'll be takin'. Me and the others are thinking you'd best guard the silver."

  "I'll keep that in mind." Damon wondered if Eliza was the reason the gypsies camped so close. "Meanwhile, I'd better see what's going on." He left for the stables, and a few minutes later, mounted his horse and headed toward the jute fields.

  He hadn't gone far when he spotted a lone figure dancing in a clearing. Reining in, he realized it was Eliza. Bathed in the white witchery of moonlight, she moved to the lilting music of gypsy violins, her body snaking with passionate intensity to the glissandos and plaintive melancholy. When the music changed to the wildest fury, she whirled and whirled, clapping her hands, smacking her ankles, scuffing her feet against the earth. Arms above her head, she snapped her fingers, her lithe body twisting like a palm in a gale to the insistent frenzy of the music. Her body trapped by silvern-blue light seemed more ethereal than mortal, and as Damon watched, he knew he had to have this beautiful exotic bird as his mistress.

  At once, the music stopped. Hands high, head back, Eliza struck a dramatic pose.

  Damon dismounted and stepped from the shadows. "Bravo," he said, clapping his hands. "Had I expected to find such sublime entertainment I would have brought rupees to toss at your feet. What else can you do, gypsy girl?"

  "Flee on silent feet." With the agility of a deer, Eliza moved out of the circle of moonlight and fled into the grove.

  Damon rushed after her, lured by her moving form and fleeting footsteps. But soon he realized the form he was after was shadows cast by moonlight, the footsteps, the chatter of brush wrestling with the wind.

  The woods became still and he thought she'd evaded him. Then soft laughter drifted on the breeze. She was taking pleasure teasing and eluding him, the provocative little witch. Hands on his hips, he waited, but heard only the distant voices of gypsies. Then behind him came her voice. "Over here, my lord."

  He turned and walked in the direction of her voice, only to stop short and turn back when she called from another direction. "No, my lord. Over here."

  "I can think of better things to do than hide from each other," Damon called out.

  Eliza emerged from the shadows. "What do you have in mind?"

  "This." Damon pulled her into his arms and kissed her, teasing her lips apart.

  Eliza responded by gliding her arms around his neck and kissing him back while moans of pleasure reverberated from her. Breaking the kiss, Damon darted his tongue into her ear and kissed the length of her neck and the slope of her shoulder, then pulled her down with him to stretch out on a bed of moss, where he captured her lips once more. When Eliza made no move to stop what he was doing, he slipped his hand beneath the hem of her skirt and dragged it up her bare leg, and before long she found herself writhing in his arms while letting out little moans of pleasure at the sensuous things he was doing…

  From the direction of the encampment, shouts erupted and dogs started barking.

  Still, Damon continued his sensual foray, even while Eliza was reminding herself that her blouse was off her shoulder and his lips were kissing where no man's lips should be, and his hand was moving yet further up her leg. And all the while her powers of reason seemed to have escaped her as she gloried in the plethora of sensual awareness overwhelming her…

  The shouts became more strident, the barking more frenetic …

  "Bloody hell!" Damon withdrew his hand from under her skirt. "We'll continue this later." He stood abruptly and looked toward the encampment. "Are those your people?"

  Eliza rearranged her camisole and blouse. "I don't know. I only came to dance to their music." She drew herself to her feet and stood beside Damon.

  "I need to make sure my jute isn't getting trampled." Damon pulled her into his arms and kissed her, then launched himself onto his horse and left.

  As he cantered off, Eliza stared after him. Perhaps she was more gorgio than gypsy. A gypsy girl would not have let a man not wed to her do the things Damon had done, nor would she have this nameless yearning for something more.

  The crackle of brush came from behind, and when she turned, she looked into the malevolent eyes of Januz Kazinczy, who glared at her with disdain. "You act like harlot with gorgio earl."

  Refusing to be intimidated, Eliza said, "What do you want?"

  "To tell you to get Kalkhi-Avatar tonight. Word from Kris Romani
. You find it in box under desk in library."

  Eliza eyed him, dubiously. "How do you know where it is?"

  "You not ask questions. Get opal. Come to gate at midnight. I have horse for you there. Tonight, posh-rat, or you banished."

  ***

  A sharp creak resounded like a shot in the silent room. Poised motionless between footsteps, and in the pitch-blackness of Mrs. Throckmorton's bedchamber, Eliza dared not move, dared not breathe. She hadn't anticipated the creaking floor, nor had she expected the room to be so hot, or so utterly dark. She remained immobile for what seemed like an eternity. Beads of sweat crept down her face. Gradually, dusky objects began to take form. Mrs. Throckmorton turned in her bed, fluffed her pillow and let out a sigh. The room became quiet. After a while, Eliza heard a low burr and knew Mrs. Throckmorton was again asleep.

  Edging toward the bedside table, Eliza's hand nudged a glass, almost toppling it. Grabbing it, she paused and waited, relieved that the snoring remained steady. Padding her palm over the table, she felt a ring of keys. Curling her fingers around them, she lifted them from the table and crept to the door, closing it silently behind.

  Keys in hand, she ascended the stairs while considering what Januz said. She didn't doubt the opal was in the library. It was one of the rooms that remained locked. She was puzzled though, how Januz knew where it was, and why he was helping her. But she didn't have the luxury of time to find out, so regardless of his motive she would get the opal tonight.

  After letting herself into the library, she lit a lamp and spotted the strongbox on the desk. To her surprise, it lay open, and in plain sight. The penscript of a letter addressed to Damon caught her attention. Lifting it, she read the name, Lord William Sheffield, Holly Lodge, Campden Hill, London, England. She stared at the writing. Her father's writing.

  Opening the letter, she read her father's terms for selling a parcel of land to Damon, then she tucked the letter with her father's address into the pocket of her skirt. While searching for more letters from him, a yellowed newspaper clipping caught her eye. A note attached to the clipping, dated October 17, 1865, read: Well, old chap, I thought you would enjoy reading about the notorious Lord Carlisle. You have created quite a stir here in London. I will keep you posted. The signature was unreadable.