by Laura Parker
Under escort, Japonica made her way through the crush of shoppers and vendors, choosing decorated tins of gingerbread biscuits and handmade Scottish shortbread for the Shrewsbury Christmas. As she walked among the busy counters absorbing the sights and smells, homesickness struck her with unexpected intensity. Praising her cousin’s splendid wares, she proclaimed the large well-stocked shop to be the closest thing in London to the open-air bazaars that she loved to browse in at home. Despite the chill, the pungent aroma of foodstuffs filled the space. Aromas from bins of spices and bowls of savories filled her nostrils, reminding her of Bushire’s sunny days beneath vaulted blue skies limned by a warm sea harbor. Stopping here and there, she passed barrels of pickles and olives from the Middle East. Other barrels contained filberts, walnuts, hazelnuts, cashews, and almonds, shelled and unshelled. Threading her way past barrels of sugar and salt and peppercorns, past aisles of dried fruits from sunnier climes, she came to gunnysacks rolled open to reveal dozens of varieties of dried beans and peas with colors from pearl to gray to green to speckled to red and black. Sacks of meal and barley sat side by side with unmilled kernels of wheat and oats.
Her favorite spot was the emporium where hothouse pears, dark-skinned plums and tart red apples lay in straw-lined baskets. Beside them dishes of red, black, and golden currants lay like shiny beads from broken necklaces. Crocks of honey from such places as Cornwall, Dorset, Newmarket, and the Scottish Highlands filled shelves, all with labels touting their special taste owing to the flowers the bees preferred. On other shelves sat rows of ginger and apricot preserves, along with creamy sweet-tart lemon curd and rose petal jelly. Rows of ruby marmalade made from robust and bitter Spanish blood oranges stood beside jars of pickled green walnuts, sweet and sour cucumber, and figs marinated in West Indies rum. In another aisle she found tins of mustard and chutney and horseradish.
In the Tea Emporium she chose tins of Oolong and Keemun. Again and again she was urged to sample a pungent English cheddar or the blue-veined Stilton in earthenware jars. There were many more cheeses she had never heard of before such as Blue Wensleydale, Gubbeen, and Red Cheshire.
At the butcher’s, she ordered a dozen dry-cured York hams, and crocks of smoked guinea fowl. In the readymade section there was caviar and smoked Scottish salmon along with game pies, pates, and raised salmon scallop pies. Nearby, live turtles and fish swam in tanks while waiting to be bought and turned into some fortunate diner’s dinner. She chose instead oysters and salmon, both fresh and smoked, to be delivered to Croesus Hall, along with three large Christmas puddings.
After purchasing a paper twist full of chestnuts roasted to perfection in open braziers, she excused herself to her busy host and took a seat to open and enjoy the chestnuts in peace.
Quite by accident she had discovered a few days earlier that without Lord Abbott to order things, there had been no preparations made for Christmas at Croesus Hall.
Peony had been to the kitchen to ask when the currant tarts would be baked for the holiday, and returned with a tearful face.
“There were no puddings baked in October, Miss, nor mincemeat set aside to cure in brandy. Cook says the hams that hang in the smokehouse were not specially cured for the season. How can there be Christmas without pudding? Oh, Miss, what shall we do?”
Japonica discovered that aristocratic households were no different from other sorts. Without a mistress or master in charge, no servant took it upon him or herself to see to anything. The cook claimed that she, “Wasn’t to take it upon meself to see to the orderin’,” and that the Shrewsbury daughters would not hear of the extra expense now that the dowager was in residence.
But Japonica was not too happy to allow the holiday to go unmarked at Croesus Hall and now that she was in London she could choose the best Christmas delicacies the city had to offer. Though they did not yet know it, the Shrewsbury sisters had extra reasons to celebrate, as had she!
She had awakened this morning to the amazing news that several of the wives of the gentlemen she met the night before at the Mirza’s residence had left morning cards for her. Sir Ouseley’s wife had written “at home” days on the back of her card. At first she was hurt that none of the ladies had actually asked for her until Bersham, bless him, patiently explained the custom of London cards and calls. Visitors often first left only their cards, signaling an acknowledgment that the homeowner was in town. She was expected to return the calls in the next few days but not actually meet any of the ladies save Lady Ouseley, because she had made known her “at home” hours. If the ladies then decided to actually visit her, it would be the first step in being accepted into London society. Only the first step, but significant.
Though they were not “out,” Bersham agreed that Hyacinthe and Laurel could certainly be present during Japonica’s “at home” days and accompany her on visits where only ladies would be present.
Japonica smiled as she chewed a peeled chestnut. Perhaps by the New Year the girls would have suitable connections to insure them invitations to balls and routs once they made their bow at St. James. It had even occurred to her how she might be able to remain in London long enough to secure the presentation at court for them.
Satisfied that the girls were well provisioned, she checked her list. She had given the roundsmen orders for baskets of food and drink to be shipped to Surrey for the laborers and cottagers who would come by Croesus Hall for their annual gift from the manor. She had also ordered enough to feed the tenants and tradespeople Bersham told her to expect for dinner on Christmas evening, a tradition that was observed whenever viscount Shrewsbury was in residence.
The viscount! Would he be in residence at Croesus Hall for Christmas?
She dipped her chin in the high collar of her fur-lined cloak, hoping the footman and maid who accompanied her would not notice the change of her complexion as blood warmed her cheeks.
When Devlyn left her bed a little after four of the clock that morning, she had not been thinking of the Shrewsburys or Croesus Hall. They had whispered and giggled like children as she helped him find his things in the dark. And while he puckered up as she helped him button his shirt and waistcoat, he did not quibble about her aid in fastening his breeches. In fact, she had had to push him playfully away with the admonition there was such a thing as too much ecstasy. Though if they had not feared discovery, she doubted either of them would have been satisfied with the amount they had shared so far. He promised to come the next evening to take her to the opera, that London might have its first public glimpse of her.
She had fallen into an exhausted sleep and awakened to the rapturous realization that the future she had not dared hope for might yet be. She did not expect marriage, nor would she accept the position as mistress. She had heard, even in her part of the world, of widows who kept discreet company with a lover. Perhaps he would accept something less than wedded vows not bound by vulgar commerce. But first, she must tell him about Jamie.
Over her ablutions she thought about how she might broach the subject of a son, his son. She could not very well do that until she had revealed yet another truth. He now knew that there had been a man other than the viscount in her life, the Hind Div. Was it not a short leap from the Hind Div—to who the Hind Div was—to the revelation that it was himself? Perhaps he would remember it all on his own. Perhaps not.
By the time she had dressed and sat with her cup of chocolate, the simple construction of revelation began to seem inadequate. In order for him to believe that he was Jamie’s father, he must accept that he was the Hind Div. If his memory did not supply it, where could she find corroboration with which to buttress her truth? How would he react to the news when up to now she had gone out of her way never to admit that they were not strangers? Would he now think she had made a dupe of him?
By the time her chocolate cup was empty, her doubts were full to brimming. Even if he believed her it might take time for him to accept it all. There was only her word, and Aggie’s. If he did b
elieve her, what then? He would want to see the child. Therefore she must bring Jamie and Aggie to London!
Why had she not thought of that before? She would put them up in a small residence in London under an assumed name, somewhere nearby where she could visit every day and the Shrewsburys need never know.
Before she could change her mind, she had penned the note to Aggie and included a bank draft that would pay for their passage.
If in the end Devlyn would not accept Jamie as his, at least she would have her son close again. And if he did, Devlyn could enjoy getting to know his son in privacy. It was no one’s business what they did. Once the first of the Abbott sisters was launched, she would not care a fig what London society thought of her.
At the last minute she made a final purchase before leaving Fortnum and Mason, a sack of musk which she would leave with her card as a present for the Mirza. Persian etiquette required a thank-you for his excellent hospitality of the evening before, though she would have done so anyway out of gratitude. The evening in the Mirza’s company had prompted Devlyn to reveal, for the first time, the man beneath the enigma. Jealousy was, she was discovering, a wonderful motivator.
Devlyn strode past the Horse Guards, located between Whitehall and the parade ground of St. James’s Park. He had been told he would find his fellow lieutenants in temporary quarters nearby. He came upon the address just as the two officers exited the doorway of the boarding establishment and turned in the opposite direction.
“Winslow! Hemphill!”
The two men swung about.
“Sinclair! This is a surprise.”
“Didn’t expect to see you about so early, Col—Viscount” Hemphill grinned. “Requires a moment to remember your title.”
“Just going round to London Tavern for bacon and oysters,” Hemphill added. “Join us.”
Devlyn shook his head. “I would speak with you on a private matter.”
“Step back into the parlor,” Winslow suggested. “I’m sure the proprietor can secure us three glasses of port to title us over.”
When the port had been poured, Winslow raised his glass. “Before we begin I’d like to make a toast to the Shrewsbury widow.” He had swallowed the salute before he went on. “Admit it, didn’t recognize her last evening. Rumor would have it you’re behind the transformation, Sinclair.”
“You do me too much credit,” Devlyn answered coolly as he noted the salacious smiles blooming on the other men’s faces. “If all beauty required was a fashionable gown there wouldn’t be a spinster in all of London.”
“Too true,” they chorused.
Frowning, Devlyn fiddled with his untouched glass. “Is there much rumor of that sort?”
“Rumor? Paint it scandal,” Hemphill avowed. “The way she and the Mirza got on …. spouting love poems at each other? A bit of luck, what, her arriving in London at the same time as the ambassador? The morning’s on dit is that Ouseley’s chosen the widow to be his secret mistress.”
“All this before breakfast,” Devlyn remarked in a low voice.
“Don’t traffic in rumor myself,” Winslow asserted, for he accounted Sinclair a friend and Lady Abbott was his married-in kin. “Still, it does strike one as odd that the Mirza should give her the whole of his attention for the entire evening.”
Devlyn reached for his wine but did not drink. He knew a great deal about Japonica’s fascinations. In fact, had been able to think of little else since he had left her bed. But she was not a mistress to be boasted about. All the more reason to end nefarious speculation about her. He could not come out and defend her directly without giving rise to another kind of speculation. And, there was the Mirza’s reputation as well to be considered.
“Strange, that rumors should make counterfeit our first impression of her as a most unremarkable sort. I, for one, mistook her for a governess.”
“So did we all,” Winslow answered. “I quite believed the first account of her that Lord Abbott married her simply to provide his children a mother.”
Devlyn nodded. “An altogether prosaic transaction. She was his nurse in Persia. Her way with the ill and young would explain her governess quality. Her life as a colonial explains her easy manner. Amid the formality of London one might misconstrue it as familiar and forward.”
Devlyn saw doubt and disillusionment pucker his companions’ expressions. He had only to seal shut their doubts on her character. “I will admit to being taken aback to learn that she is a relation of the Fortnum grocers.”
“Mercantile class, do you say? Not even gentry?” Winslow questioned with a scowl of disapproval.
“We all know how morality-ridden the middle classes can be,” Devlyn introduced as if in afterthought.
“Positively infested with virtue,” Hemphill said with a grimace of dislike.
“Innocence is charming,” Winslow concurred. “But save me from the pious!”
“As for the breach in the Mirza’s vows, you have no doubt seen the results of a man condemned to be boiled in oil?”
Hemphill blanched.
“So then this business of lovers must be distorted,” Winslow murmured.
“I don’t doubt,” Devlyn answered.
“A fellow would never be so lucky to actually find such flesh and blood temptation within his grasp,” Hemphill said with a sulk of disappointment. “More likely she is one of those tiresome widows looking to wed again.”
“Gad! Save me from all talk of leg-shackling.” Winslow grimaced. “Mama will speak of nothing else since my return. ’Tis enough to send any man off to war again.”
“If we are done with rumor?” Devlyn said lightly. “Which of you retains native connections in the East Indies?”
“I do,” Winslow answered. “Not so much as you once did, o’ course. Why do you ask?”
“I would learn the whereabouts of a shadowy figure who goes by the name of the Hind Div.”
Both men’s expressions arrested in surprise.
“You’re bamming me!” Hemphill said.
“Why do you inquire?” Winslow asked with a concerned look.
Devlyn picked up his glass and drained it without thinking. He had not expected he would need to explain his motives to fellow officers. He did not look at them as he said, “I believe I once knew the fellow.”
“Welladay! I don’t wonder,” declared Hemphill, with nervous laughter.
Winslow’s sharp glance made Hemphill swallow his mirth. “You remember nothing of Persia?” he asked.
“I have dreams.” Devlyn gazed into his empty glass. For the second time in as many minutes he felt the discomfort of making a confession.
“I see.” Winslow dragged the words out as if his mind were busily working out some puzzle. “What do these dreams tell you, if I may ask, of the Hind Div?”
Devlyn reached for the decanter of port and poured a full glass. “That I must redress a wrong. It would be paid at sword’s point were I not incapable.”
“A duel? With the Hind Div?” With each question Hemphill’s voice rose until he ended in a whistle of amazement.
Devlyn slanted him a dark look. “I am in need of a few facts. If neither of you can help me I will turn elsewhere.”
Winslow’s gaze remained glued to Devlyn’s face. “He was one of ours. An agent, don’t you know?”
“The Hind Div is English?”
“As much as I or—you,” Hemphill volunteered, and then cleared his throat nervously. “The devil of it is, we were never allowed to know exactly who he was until after he was dead.”
Devlyn forced himself to take a breath. “If you knew he’s dead, why lead me this merry chase?”
“Hemphill should say reported dead.” Winslow took a cheroot out of his pocket and began nibbling on the end. “Thing is, old friend, the report of his death was premature.”
“Then he lives?”
“As you live and breathe,” Hemphill answered, amusement making the edges of his li
ps turn up. “Dash it all, Sinclair. Did you have to lose your wits?”
“I apologize for the burden it places upon our acquaintance.” Devlyn looked suddenly alert. “Or is it something more?” He turned swiftly on Winslow, his expression struck by surprise. “Is one of you the Hind Div?”
Winslow fell back in his chair before Devlyn’s gaze. “Faith, no! Do I look the sort to mark his face like a jungle cat or go unnoticed among the Persians and Indians?”
Looking at Winslow’s light eyes and freckled skin and then Hemphill’s sandy hair and complexion that colored up with every emotion, Devlyn grasped his meaning. “But you knew—know him.”
“We know him.” Winslow hung his head.
Suspicion lifted the hairs on Devlyn’s forearms though he could not guess the nature of the danger he felt himself to be in. “Tell me everything.”
“Steady on, friend.” Winslow gnawed his lip a moment. “The doctors said we were not to press you with memories of your past.”
“My past. A past that includes the Hind Div?”
Both men looked away.
Bile churned in his gut, but Devlyn did not quite believe. If it were true, surely the truth would register in his mind, some shred of memory would escape from the morass of lost thought to confirm it.
“I need confirmation.”
“I can see how you might,” Winslow answered. “There is something that might supply you with answers. We were given custody of it on your behalf. It’s a small chest sent to the Governor General of Calcutta after you went missing last year. Delivered by agents of Zaman Shah of Afghanistan. In it was proof that you had been killed, or so we thought at the time.”