The Golden Leopard

by Lynn Kerstan

  Pausing, he wiped his damp forehead with his sleeve and took a deep, shuddering breath. It was time, past time, for a desperate gamble. He looked at the nizam, pinned on his throne between two rows of powerful teeth, and tossed the dice. “The dream was carried,” he said forcefully, “in the mouth of a great jungle cat.”

  Shivaji, translating simultaneously now, raised a hand when the black-clad man tried to interrupt.

  Duran, who’d have been glad of time to scratch up his next load of moonshine, would rather Shivaji had not interfered. But they were all looking expectantly at him, so he blundered ahead. “I know not how, O Star of the Firmament, I was able to stumble upon a place I had never been before. Alanabad is a far distance, I believe, from the road I had been on. So I must ask myself this question. How else could I have found you, had I not been sent?”

  Shivaji’s tone sharpened when he completed the translation and turned again to Duran. “What has been stolen, Englishman?” The question was his own, because the nizam had not spoken. “And where is it to be found?”

  An old hand at lying, Duran knew his bluff was being called.

  Chains rattling, he lifted one arm in the direction of the marble pedestal. The nizam and all the courtiers followed his gesture, their gazes focused on the gauzy golden cloth.

  So far so good, but time was running out. Big cat. What kind? Images sprang to his mind. Tiger. Cheetah. Leopard. Lion. A one-in-four chance. Closing his eyes, Duran tossed the dice for his life.

  “The leopard,” he said in a transcendent voice. “I have been sent for the leopard.”

  Without translating this declaration for the onlookers, Shivaji crouched beside the throne and conversed softly with the nizam.

  Duran had run out of guesses and theatrical gestures. Muzzy-headed and wildly hungry, he lowered his aching arm and let his gaze wander around the durbar hall.

  This one was not so very different from other courts where he had spent more pleasurable time. Two attendants flicked fly whisks made of yaks’ tails to drive away evil spirits, while others fluttered peacock-feather fans for the same purpose. A brawny fellow stood like a monolith, holding the princeling’s golden mace and silver stick, the emblems of his power. Two boys sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling the ropes that waved a damask punkah over the throne.

  Incense and silks and spices and the languor of a hot India afternoon swept over him. Black spots danced before his eyes. Fragments of the muttered conversation drifted to his ears, but he could scarcely attend them.

  “He lies. Who does not know of the leopard?”

  “. . . all else has failed.”

  “. . . draw out his nails and sever parts of his body one by one . . .”

  “The people have lost faith . . . insurrection.”

  “. . . secure . . . centuries.”

  “. . . put him into my hands.”

  More blather. Duran grew weary of it. Clearly the nizam rated his tale a crock, which it most certainly was, but Shivaji continued to press his cause. Why the devil would he set himself to spare an obscure aristocrat’s hide? Duran hoped that he’d succeed, but he wasn’t counting on it.

  He wanted to go home, though. God but he wanted it. He had unfinished business in England. Unfinished business with Jessie, who would not be at all pleased to see him again. It would be her bad luck if this gamble paid off.

  One of the guards pushed him to his knees again. He raised his clouded gaze to the nizam, who was regarding him from a pair of wily brown eyes.

  “Where is the leopard?”

  Duran barely remembered to wait for the translation before replying. “It is in England, Powerful One.”

  “Why not in France or Portugal or Egypt?” the nizam shot back.

  “In such a case, a Frenchman or a Portuguese or an Egyptian would be kneeling before you now. I know only that I must seek the leopard in my own country and return it to yours.” He put his hands together in the traditional gesture of respect. “Can a dream reveal the truth, Eminence? Was I sent to you?”

  There was a soft rustling from the crowd behind him as Shivaji translated his speech. When the nizam’s eyes narrowed with displeasure, Duran felt a moment’s triumph. His Rotund Majesty’s plan to make a public spectacle of the Englishman’s death had come unraveled. A challenge had been laid at his feet.

  The nizam stood, and all the courtiers dropped to their knees. “Hear your fate, wretch.”

  Shivaji’s translation followed swiftly.

  “You will be put to the Trial of a Thousand Screams. If indeed the gods have chosen you, they will grant you the strength to endure it. No man has done so before.”

  Duran wished he had kept his mouth shut and settled for a straightforward execution.

  The nizam pointed a long-nailed forefinger in his direction. “The will of the gods is ever disclosing itself in unfathomable ways. I accept the possibility that you have been sent to do their bidding.”

  His voice hardened, although Shivaji’s translation rippled like a clear stream.

  “As did my forefathers who ruled Alanabad before me, I have the gift to read the hearts of men. You are a creature of lies and false promises, Englishman. I do not trust you. But should you survive the Trial of a Thousand Screams, I shall grant you one year to find the Golden Leopard.”

  Chapter 1

  London, 1822

  On what was supposed to be her night of triumph, Jessica Carville moodily paced the Turkey carpet in Mr. Christie’s office, feeling very much alone.

  A dull pain throbbed at her temples, but she recognized it as a safe pain, low and unthreatening. The headache would not interfere with what she had to do. It must be the oncoming storm that had set her on edge. The London air crackled with the heat of late summer, and when she brushed her hand over a brass lion couchant on a side table, sparks shot from her fingertips.

  The rumble of distant thunder sent her to a window, where she made an opening in the curtains to look outside. The new gas lamps lining Pall Mall shimmered in the humid air. On the street below, carriages were lined up as far as she could see.

  Dear heavens. She’d never dared to hope for such a crowd. Parliament had dissolved weeks earlier, and most of the beau monde had already fled to the country. But it seemed that everyone of note still in the city had decided to attend the exhibition, if only to see what Lady Jessica had got up to now.

  They had come here for gossip, of course, but they would be disappointed. Her unsuitable profession had long since been dissected to the bone, and tonight’s reception, while something out of the ordinary, was not at all the stuff of scandal.

  Nonetheless, disaster hovered in the muggy air. She sensed it, the way she felt the lightning pulsing in the heavy clouds. For a few minutes, she watched servants push through the crowd of onlookers to open lacquered carriage doors and let down the steps. Gentlemen in sleek evening dress descended, offering their arms to the elegant ladies who followed them. Liveried footmen bearing flambeaux led them across the pavement to the doors of Christie’s auction house.

  Jessica recognized most of the guests, but Christie’s had also sent invitations to customers who did not move in her circle. And to her profound displeasure, an advertisement had appeared that very morning in the Times. She had agreed to it when the contract was signed, trusting that Mr. Christie would think better of such vulgar publicity. But he had not, and now any commoner was free to wander through the viewing rooms, rubbing shoulders with aristocrats, wolfing down her lobster patties, and guzzling her expensive champagne.

  As voices floated up the staircase to the first floor, she resumed her pacing. It was the infernal waiting that gnawed at her. She could never bear being closed in.

  A soft knock sounded at the door and Mr. Herbert, Christie’s chief appraiser, stepped inside, a look of concern in his hazel eyes. “Nervous, my dear?”

  “Not in the least,” she said, and it was quite true. “But I should very much like to get on with it.”

  “Certa
inly.” He went to the chair where she had draped her silver-shot gauze shawl. “The Duke of Devonshire has claimed the honor of escorting you downstairs. By your own arrangement, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  She smiled at her mentor as he threaded the shawl around her bare arms. “I mustn’t appear to be engaging in trade, you know, and there is nothing like a duke for lending one a bit of cachet.”

  Devonshire, waiting at the head of the stairs, greeted her with a bow and their traditional joke. “Tsk-tsk, Lady Jessica. An ape leader still! I swear, there is no accounting for it.”

  She put her gloved hand on his sleeve. “Such a notorious pair we are—the Bachelor Duke and the Dedicated Spinster. But I am sworn to wed the day after you do, Hart, if only to confound those who have wagered in the clubs that we shall never relent. You will let me know if you take a sudden whim to marry?”

  “To be sure. But when afflicted with a whim of that sort, I invariably scurry to my bed and have myself a nap until it passes.” He led her slowly down the stairs. “You are in exceptionally fine looks tonight, Jessica. The crimson is perhaps a trifle startling at first glance, but it suits you.”

  “I mean to be noticed,” she said, pleased at the compliment. Years ago the duke had advised her to dress herself in purest jewel tones—sapphire blues and ruby reds and emerald greens. The vibrant colors went well with her dark hair, and the simple lines of the gowns he had helped her choose flattered her tall, slender figure. She was more self-assured now, thanks to his kindness.

  For the next half hour she needed every bit of confidence that a few yards of scarlet silk could provide. The duke stayed by her side while she moved around the exhibition hall, answering questions about the items to be auctioned the following day. But the moment His Grace’s attention was diverted, a formidable woman accosted her and practically towed her to a glass case on the other side of the room.

  “Two hundred pounds for a supper plate?” Lady Fitzmorris queried in a shrill voice, one intended to be overheard. “Highway robbery, if you ask me!”

  A number of people gathered around, scenting an incident.

  Jessica gave them a smile of welcome before turning to the dish, and voices stilled as everyone waited for her to speak. She let the silence draw out to the last possible moment.

  “Do you think so, Lady Fitzmorris?” she asked gently. “That is the minimum bid we shall accept, but I expect it to fetch a great deal more. It is difficult, though, to place a value on a silver platter, even one that graced the table of Queen Elizabeth. Some would care nothing for that, as you do not, but others will consider it a fragment of history worth preserving in a collection.”

  “They might,” Lady Fitzmorris fired back, “were there proof of what you say. But how can you possibly know who owned it centuries ago? Have you an acquaintance who actually saw it on the queen’s table?”

  A few people laughed, but most waited for Lady Jessica’s response to the uncivil attack.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, smiling as if Lady Fitzmorris had made a joke. “Before I recommend an item for purchase, I naturally consult with experts. A dinner service in this pattern is recorded in Her Majesty’s household inventory, and Sir Thomas Revenon assures me that the provenance for this particular dish is indisputable.”

  She tilted her head, considering the plate. “I can say only that I stake my reputation on every piece in the exhibit. Should anyone buy an item and later discover it to have been misrepresented, I shall immediately refund the price in full.”

  “But how are we to be sure of that?” Lady Fitzmorris objected. “Have you ever made such restitution?”

  “It has never been necessary. But as you have so wisely reminded us, evaluating art and historical objects is a prodigiously difficult business. I claim only a love for beautiful things and an instinct for matching people with what they will most cherish. Do you see the porcelain lady just there, on the pedestal nearest the door? Her eyes are an unusual and magnificent shade of blue.” She lifted her gaze. “Precisely the color of your eyes, Lady Fitzmorris.”

  “Are they indeed? But what is that to the point? I have never been partial to gaudy knickknacks.” Lady Fitzmorris swept through the tangle of onlookers with a disdainful sniff.

  Jessica, glad to see the back of her, was reasonably certain that she would eventually meander over to that figurine, imagine a resemblance, and decide to bid on it.

  “Well done,” said an unwelcome voice at her ear. “The vanquished harpy flees, leaving the redoubtable Amazon in possession of the field.”

  The stink of gin and stale cologne made her stomach lurch. Jessica turned and greeted her brother-in-law with a curt nod. “Good evening, Gerald. How astonishing to see you here.”

  “Oh, but I adore these summer parties.” His thin lips curled. “And I am positively agog that your little pastime is developing into a profitable enterprise. It is profitable, I trust? What’s the use of family connections, I have always said, if they fail to put money in one’s purse?”

  “And what is the use of gaming, if one consistently fails to win?”

  He stiffened. “I game no more than any other gentleman. But let us not pluck that crow again. M’wife has more than enough to say on the subject.”

  Jessica’s hand itched to slap his handsome, dissipated face. Her sister never complained, more the pity. “You must excuse me, Gerald. I have guests to attend to.”

  “Then I shall trail along. It happens I’ve been dabbling a bit in the art trade—the odd piece here and there—and being seen in company with the dashing Lady Jessica is certain to enhance my reputation.”

  Aware that people were watching them, Jessica responded with a delicate shrug. “Link your name with mine,” she said past a false smile, “and I shall grind you to powder.”

  “Not likely, sister-in-law.” He seized a glass of champagne from a passing servant. “For Mariah’s sake you will pretend to be in charity with me, as you have always done. But to preserve goodwill between us, I’ll wander about a few minutes longer and then take a quiet leave. Cooperation, Jessica. That’s the key.”

  He sauntered off, sipping at his drink and nodding to acquaintances, most of whom turned away. Sir Gerald Talbot was bad ton, a minor baronet who had married into a good family and spent most of his time gambling and evading his creditors. But he was clever, too, and ruthless. Jessica loathed him.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. Could anything more go wrong? The storm had hit full force, resonating through her body like a strike of lightning. Rain pounded against the windows, and a blast of thunder rocked her on her heels. Mingle, she instructed herself. Be charming. This is what you have worked for these last many years. She forced her eyes open.

  And saw him.

  Time melted away. Of a sudden she was one-andtwenty again, recklessly besotted with a handsome scoundrel.

  He was standing between the open doors of the exhibit hall, regarding her lazily from a pair of copper-colored eyes. She felt the heat blazing behind those eyes and sensed it coiling around her as his lips curved in a familiar, knowing smile. His mocking gaze efficiently stripped the clothes from her body.

  Nothing had changed.

  He had not, except that a strong sun had darkened his skin and streaked his tawny hair with pale gold. Otherwise he was just as she had tried not to remember him—tall, lean, exotic, and self-assured.

  Hugo Duran. Invitation to sin.

  No. Not everything was the same. Jessica Carville was all grown up now. A patented woman of the world. She would be accepting no more invitations from heartless men.

  Soon Duran would approach. They would exchange civilized pleasantries while she made her indifference to him quite clear. Then, with exquisite politesse, she would turn her attention to her guests and deliberately ignore him. She looked forward to the pleasure of ignoring him.

  But he only gave her a slight bow before entering the room, not moving in her direction at all. He wandered instead to the exhibits along the
opposite wall, pausing occasionally to examine a painting or a snuffbox or a jade dragon, never looking at where she continued to stand like a fence post.

  How dare he?

  Cheeks hot with mortification, she recalled that it was precisely the sort of thing he would do. Duran invariably made it clear that he was in control, whatever the circumstances. It was why she feared him.

  No. Feared her response to him. The way he made her feel. The man himself was perfectly harmless, if dealt with in the proper way. He had surprised her, that was all, and she would be firmly in control of herself after a few moments to catch her breath. She ordered her feet to carry her to a safe place.

  Devonshire smiled warmly when she appeared at his side. “Tomorrow’s auction will be a splendid success,” he assured her. “Everyone I have spoken with has promised to be here, and Stevesbury is saying that he will have the Florentine chest no matter the cost. I mean to bid against him until he pays three times its worth.”

  “That is most kind of you, Hart. Do raise the price if you can. The owner is in need of the money, and I ought not have tied her good fortune to my own shaky venture at Christie’s.”

  “Ah, but you have always gambled against the odds. It is what I most admire about you.” He tilted his head, examining her more closely. “You are remarkably pale, Jessica. I saw you speaking with Lady Fitzmorris. Was she horrid?”

  “No more than usual. But it has been a long day,” she said with a return of spirit, “and I’ve always loathed the dreg ends of parties. Better I go now, while the guests are still enjoying themselves.”

  “Have you an escort?”

  “Of course I do. Let me slip out unnoticed, Your Very Proper Grace, before I begin to give the appearance of a street seller flogging her wares.”

  Devonshire was frowning as she moved away. She took her time about it, pausing to exchange greetings with people she knew, searching the room for Duran.

  He had vanished.