by Maya Banks
She turned to look out the window and swore under her breath once more. Damn her weakness. Why couldn’t she just sleep? Mary’s tea held a concoction of herbs intended to help her rest, and it usually succeeded, but she hated having to rely on it.
Even after hours of tedious reading, she couldn’t manage to fall asleep on her own. Every night she stayed awake until the first light of dawn appeared in the sky. Only then could she bear to close her eyes and usually only with the help of Mary’s tea.
Her thoughts drifted back to her father’s notes as she gazed over the rolling landscape of her modest family estate. Modest. She nearly laughed. Was that what one called it when they were on the brink of bankruptcy?
She’d spent night after night pouring over her father’s papers, arranging and sorting so she could write his memoirs. Anything to bring in enough income to survive. After so many years of travel, all she wanted was a place to call home. A place of refuge and a place to heal. And the country that had once been home to her, her beloved India, now invoked images of horror, not the comforting measure of security.
But all she’d found was reference upon reference to the lost city of Pagoria. Not surprising given the passion she and her father held for the subject, but what disturbed her were the things she had read tonight.
Many theories existed about the location of the city. What caused it to vanish. What kind of disaster had befallen it. Over the years a few relics had been produced, but still no definitive location for the ruins. Her father was one of two leading authorities on the city. Well, not according to his peers who thought him half crazed, but he did know more about the city than nearly anyone else.
In the recesses of her mind, she wondered if some of what was said about him was true. In his own handwriting he recounted a visit with an aging man who had claimed to have visited the city. According to the man, the city still lived. Still thrived. And afterwards her father had seemed obsessed with the idea that the city still existed.
She frowned. Only once had he given voice to his theory. It had been at a lecture given to members of the Historical Society during one of the few trips back to England in the last fifteen years. He had been laughed out of the building.
He’d never spoken of it again, not even to her. She had assumed the theory had lost support with him. Now upon reading his private journal, she realized just how prevailing his obsession had been.
Despair threatened to swell in her chest. How could she put to paper his ideas on Pagoria? He would be more of a laughingstock in death than he was in life. She couldn’t bear for his peers to shake their heads knowingly and think they had been right all along. Her account would only validate the censorious articles written about him.
But without the funds from publishing his memoirs, she may as well forego any notion of keeping her home. If she had any hope of being taken seriously, she would have to leave out his views on the city’s current state. She rubbed her hands wearily over her forehead, trying to assuage the dull ache in her temples.
She glanced up in relief when Udaya returned with a tray of tea.
“Sit down, Beti,” Udaya said firmly. “I’ll pour you some tea.”
Not arguing, India sat down at her dressing table and gratefully took the hot cup of tea her trusted companion offered. Udaya’s deft hands smoothed the strands of her hair behind her ears, and India sighed in pleasure.
“Shall I sit with you until you fall asleep?” Udaya asked, softly stroking India’s head.
India shook her head. “I must learn to do this on my own.”
Udaya patted her shoulder and collected the tray. “Summon me if you have need of anything further.”
India watched as Udaya left in a swirl of silk then she glanced across the room to her bed. She stared at it with ambivalence. How could something so soft and comforting turn into the enemy?
Determined not to let her inner demons win, she climbed into the bed and yanked the covers up. She stared, wide-eyed at the ceiling, willing the calming affects of the tea to settle over her.
Soon her eyelids grew heavy and relief swept over her. Within minutes she would slip into a dreamless sleep. One devoid of the frightening images that had tormented her since her return.
###
Ridge flipped through the pages of the journal as his carriage bumped and swayed along the road to Hertfordshire. At first when he’d discovered the odd drawings in the journal, he’d been puzzled, but then he’d realized the pages were written in Pagorian. His excitement mounted when the other entries led him to believe hidden in the indecipherable script was the key to locating the ruins of the ancient city.
But there was still the problem of translating it. Which was why he was traveling to Hertfordshire to the home of India Ashton, daughter of the late Phillip Ashton. Odd name for a woman, but given the fact she had likely been born in India, he supposed her father gave her the name of her homeland.
Ashton and Sir Roderick had been the leading authorities on Pagoria. But now both were dead, and his last hope remained with Ashton’s daughter who traveled with him for the last fifteen years.
According to all the stories that had been printed over the years, Miss Ashton seemed as knowledgeable as her father when it came to historical matters. He only hoped it was true or his trip would be for naught.
The accounts of her return to England were varied and all equally sketchy. Some of the more dramatic ones revolved around her capture by a remote band of rebels in India and her captivity for three months. Miss Ashton had been reticent about the details of her return, shunning interviews and offers to give talks to the historical society. There was mad curiosity about the club over the details of Ashton’s death and how much information he may have held about Pagoria, but Miss Ashton didn’t seem inclined to assuage it.
In fact, were it not for the captain of the ship bearing Miss Ashton home, her return would not be known at all. Ridge thought it more likely she was mourning her father rather than the sensational stories that floated around London. How must it feel to enjoy such a close relationship with the man who sired you? He was sure he had no idea. His own relationship with his father bordered on tolerance.
He had to admit, he burned with curiosity over the mysterious Miss Ashton. She’d had an unconventional upbringing to be sure, and she’d seen places that most other people only dreamed of seeing. That he had dreamed of.
That she might bring him closer to realizing his dream of finding irrefutable proof of Pagoria’s existence and location was more than he could contemplate. He would embark on the journey of a lifetime, and when he returned, he would publish his findings, proving once and for all the validity of his claims. And proving his interests weren’t vacuous.
Finally the carriage pulled into a dusty drive and headed up a hill toward a distant house. Automatically, he reached for his spectacles and laid them on the seat beside him. The carriage halted and Ridge descended, waving a hand to dispel the dust that swirled around him. He eyed the small brick home, noting its state of disrepair.
Ivy curled in an unruly manner up the walls nearly taking over the house. The wooden door was dull and fading, appearing to be in need of a good polish. A crack marred one of the upper windows, and the rest suffered under a layer of dust. The house looked—felt—sad.
He shook the feeling and stepped onto the walkway that was chipped and overgrown with weeds. After straightening his coat, he knocked on the door and waited with growing impatience.
To his surprise, a large, dark skinned man wearing a turban swung open the door and stared unwelcomingly at him. His gaze flitted up and down Ridge as if measuring some sort of threat.
Clearing his throat, Ridge offered his card, and the man took it. He glanced down at it then back up at Ridge. “How can I be of service, Sahib?”
“I am here to see Miss Ashton.”
“My regrets, Sahib. She is not receiving callers.”
“Not receiving?” Ridge frowned an
d checked his fob. It was well past the polite time to call. Was she not at home? But this rather large man hadn’t said that. Just that she wasn’t receiving.
“No, Sahib.”
“I see, well perhaps if you could just tell her that it is most urgent that I speak with her. I’ve come all the way from London.”
The Indian man wiped one hand down his neatly trimmed beard then crossed his arms over his chest and widened his legs in a surly gesture. “I regret that I am unable to do that, Sahib. Mem-Sahib is not receiving callers.” His voice rang with finality, and Ridge could tell he wasn’t going to be swayed.
Well, he hadn’t come all this way to be turned away. Not when he was so close to achieving something so important to him. And whether Miss Ashton was receiving or not, she was going to have a visitor.
He pushed past the imposing man and stood inside the foyer. “If you will direct me to the sitting room, I will await an audience with Miss Ashton.”
The Indian’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you did not hear me, Sahib. Miss Ashton is not receiving.”
“Yes, so you’ve said,” Ridge interrupted. “But I will wait until she is ready to receive me.” He stood with his arms crossed unwilling to move until he was shown into the sitting room.
Anger flitted across the Indian’s face then his expression quickly became shuttered. “Very well. This way,” he said stiffly, turning and stalking into a small room to the right of the front entrance.
Ridge took a seat on a faded damask couch and surveyed the interior of the room. Much like the exterior, the inside of the house had seen its better days. The drapes were bleak from exposure to the sun, and the furniture threadbare.
Adventuring must not bring much in the way of an income if the house and its contents were any indication.
Ridge sat for a long period then became restless as Miss Ashton remained conspicuously absent. He hoped her manners weren’t indicative of her personality. The butler hadn’t even offered him refreshment, a matter he found lacking in proper decorum. Finally, he stood and began to inspect the bookcase across the room.
He wiped the dust from the tops of several then took one out. He squinted then grimaced when he read the title. Poetry. But of course the sitting room would not be filled with any historical books. Those were likely tucked away in her library.
After an hour, he decided Miss Ashton had much more resolve than he would have imagined. Either that or she truly wasn’t at home. In which case, the servants displayed an abysmal lack of ability in their duties.
Disappointment rendering him irritable, he strode toward the door intent on returning to London. He nearly collided with a petite woman who eyed him with disdain.
“My apologies,” he murmured as he stepped back. Could this be Miss Ashton? His brow lifted as he took in the young woman’s appearance.
Dressed in trousers and a loose-fitting shirt, she looked more like a stable boy than a gently bred woman. Her dark hair was as short as a boy’s, curling slightly at her ears. She was thin, too thin perhaps, the pants accentuating a narrow waist and slender legs. Were it not for the swell of her breasts straining ever so slightly against the shirt, she could easily be mistaken for a young boy. But what caught his attention the most were the dark smudges under her gray eyes. She looked tired. Very tired. Had he awakened her?
“Kavi informs me that you refused to leave,” she said with a frown. “Perhaps there is something wrong with your hearing, or your manners one. I am not receiving callers.”
“And yet, here you are,” he said with a grin he knew to be rather charming.
“Anytime someone barges into my house uninvited, it is a great concern. I would appreciate greatly if you would take your leave at once.”
So much for his charm. Though this woman didn’t appear to be a lady who swooned when a man smiled at her. But then he wasn’t exactly a rake with considerable experience in making the ladies titter like a flock of sparrows.
He cleared his throat and shifted under her scrutiny. She stared pointedly at him, her gaze as unfriendly as her demeanor. Clearly she was unused to callers, but then nothing about her seemed welcoming enough that she could have many.
And then he saw it. Reflected in eyes that reminded him of an overcast day. Fear. She was clearly afraid of him. He moved forward only wanting to reassure her that he meant her no harm, but she backed hastily away.
Cursing his stupidity and his over eagerness, he stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. Now he wished he’d worn his spectacles. What woman could possibly be afraid of a man wearing them?
“Miss Ashton, I mean you no harm. My name is Viscount Ridgewood and I belong to the London Historical Society.”
Too late, he realized that giving her his name before he could persuade her to his cause might not be the best course.
Her eyes narrowed, and anger glinted in gray eyes.
“I don’t care who you are or that you belong to a group that has long disparaged my father,” she said icily. “I’ve already refused to give lectures or interviews. Now if you will excuse me, I have more pressing matters to attend to.”
He ground his teeth in frustration. He was going about this all wrong. “Clearly we’ve started off on the wrong foot, Miss Ashton. If you would but allow me to start over.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and jutted out her chin. “If it will expedite your departure, then by all means carry on.”
Prickly one, she was. He drew the journal out of his coat and looked directly at her. “I assume you know who Sir Roderick Castleton is.”
She didn’t answer so he continued on. Perhaps she thought it too absurd a question to respond to. “I’ve recently come into possession of a journal that belonged to him. Given that our interests are much the same, I was quite overjoyed with the purchase.”
He opened the book to the page where the Pagorian script began. Then he extended it to her. “But as I don’t understand Pagorian, this is a complete mystery to me, though I think, perhaps, that it outlines the location of the ancient ruins.”
A flicker of interest shone in her eyes as she took the book from him. Satisfaction gripped him and he battled a smile. Oh yes, she was Phillip Ashton’s daughter.
Her eyes flitted across the paper, and she froze, an indiscernible expression on her face. She thrust the book back at him. “Sorry, I cannot help you.”
He stared incredulously at her. “I was given to understand that you were more proficient at reading the ancient script than your father.”
“I cannot help you,” she repeated calmly. “Now, if you will excuse me.” She gestured pointedly toward the door.
Her hand shook, a direct contradiction to her demeanor, and when he looked at her eyes again, the pupils were dilated. What had she read?
“Miss Ashton, if you will help me, I would be more than willing to compensate you for your time. Generously.”
Brief indecision crossed her face once more before her lips tightened and her eyes hardened. “Clearly, you are a man used to getting your way, but in this case, I fear you will fail. I have asked you to leave. Will you refuse?”
He dare not push her further. Not if he planned to return another time. That he would not give up was a certainty. But this was not the time. Perhaps when she was in a more accommodating mood.
“Very well, Miss Ashton. I regret that I thought you to be more knowledgeable. I bid you good day.”
He started past her, and a small smile drew the corners of her mouth upward. “Your goading won’t work. Unlike so many of your peers, I do not suffer from an inflated sense of importance.”
He stood a moment, stunned by the transformation the smile brought over her face. It softened her eyes, and she was lovely. He shook his head at the absurdity of the notion. The woman stood before him in pants and a man’s shirt. She hadn’t even deigned to offer him a curtsy, and she clearly cared little what his opinion may be of her. He stifled a smile of his own.
As he rode back to London his agitation simmered. Insufferable. Stubborn. And prickly as a mound of hay. He had never dreamed he would have come away from his meeting with Miss Ashton empty handed. What had she read in the journal? Curiosity consumed him.
He had to know.
And why wouldn’t she help him? Did she refuse because of the articles he had penned disagreeing with her father? He had merely treated it as an intelligent discourse, one scholar disagreeing with another.
And the fear and fatigue he saw in her eyes. There were so many unanswered questions. More now than before he arrived, and he was determined to get the answers. No matter what Miss Ashton thought.
He picked up his spectacles where he had left them lying on the carriage seat and pulled them on. Then he opened the journal to pour over the pages he’d already read. Hoping to find something he had missed previously.
By the time he had finished the journal in its entirety, save the few pages in Pagorian, the carriage had entered London and was nearing his townhouse. He put aside the book, and when the carriage stopped, he hastened inside.
His attention still focused on the infuriating Miss Ashton, he walked straight to his study. He frowned when he saw the door ajar. The servants knew well not to go within. It was the one room he held private. The room that housed his many books, papers, and artifacts. He made a mental note to speak to Moreland, his butler, about the matter.
He pushed open the door and let loose a long string of expletives when he saw the inside. Books and papers lay scattered across the floor. His desk was in shambles. Even the furniture had been ripped, the stuffing from his settee strewn about like snow.
His gaze drifted up to the shelves that housed his precious books to find them pulled down, many ripped. Shards of glass gleamed in the soft light. His heart sank to see one of his prized artifacts shattered in the middle of the floor. This wasn’t the work of a servant. His fingers dug into his palms as he clenched his fists in fury.