The Golden Leopard

by Lynn Kerstan

  And good riddance, she was telling herself when Lord Philpot planted himself in front of her and began to drone on about an Etruscan necklace he had almost bought for his wife thirty years earlier.

  As if it mattered now, for pity’s sake. But she had trained herself to appear interested, as a woman of business must do when dealing with potential clients. Her profession was all she had, the only thing that she cared about, and her unruly temper was never permitted to get in the way of a sale.

  “Would you buy the necklace if it were offered you tonight?” she asked when there was a brief pause in his monologue.

  “Indeed I would! My sweet Clarissa longed for it, but I was so very certain that it was a fake. And what if it was? She rarely asked anything for herself. I ought to have leaped at the opportunity to give her the pleasure of it.” He released a small sigh. “Now it is too late, you see. Her mind is gone, or near to. She recognizes me only one day in seven of a week, and then for the briefest moment. But I would drape that golden chain around her neck in a heartbeat, aware she’d not know it from a hemp string, if a miracle put it into my hands again.”

  She looked more closely at his florid cheeks and doughy jowls. At the glowing eyes, welling with tears, and the tension in his shoulders. Lord Philpot had come to Christie’s hoping to discover that long-lost necklace in one of the exhibit cases.

  Jessica nearly forgot the urgency of escaping before Duran pounced on her. It was no coincidence, his presence here tonight. He did nothing without calculation and some devious purpose of his own. But at this moment, Lord Philpot’s quest seemed vastly more important than evading a confrontation with Duran.

  Envy clouded her gaze. This pudgy little man, for all his eccentric hair and pillowy face and tiresome conversation, had known a great and abiding love. His wife might not remember him, but he would remain steadfast to the end, searching for ways to make her happy.

  “I’m afraid the necklace you seek is unlikely to be found,” she said gently. “Would not another, one of a similar style, do as well?”

  “No, no.” He shook his head, dislodging the few gingery strands of hair combed over his bald pate from both sides. Sticky with pomade, they lifted up and perversely remained aloft, creating something like a Roman arch over his shiny scalp. “It must be the real necklace.”

  For his pride’s sake, Jessica wished she could smooth down those raised hairs. But of course she could not. Everyone would remark on it. “Will you come with me to Mr. Christie’s office?” she asked, striking out in that direction and trusting him to follow her.

  Still grumbling, he joined her in front of the large mantelpiece mirror where she was waiting for him. “I wish you to draw a picture of the necklace,” she said. “Try to remember how it looked and send the picture to me.”

  “Bless you,” he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the carpet. “I wish above all things to put a light into Clarissa’s eyes. Sometimes she tells me stories about our life together as if I were a stranger listening to them. She recalls the old days, when I courted her, far better than I do. I mostly remember the times when I let her down. It is the regret that eats away at us, Lady Jessica. The things not done that torment us in the night.”

  The things done torment us as well, she thought. Especially when they come back in person.

  She gave Lord Philpot a card with her direction inscribed on it. “Do not count on me finding the necklace you seek, sir. Resign yourself to a substitute. It will be Etruscan and of similar design, if such is to be had, but that is the best I can do. It will be up to you to make Lady Philpot believe it is the one she desired. She’ll want to believe that, you may be sure.”

  “But I cannot pretend such a thing,” he objected. “It would be a lie.”

  “Only a very little lie, sir. A kind one. But you must do as your conscience tells you.”

  “I—” He cleared his throat, glancing around the room with obvious discomfort. “Yes, yes, but undertake no special search. None at all. Notify me if you come upon . . . That is, sorry to disturb you.” He made a vague gesture. “You’ll want to return to the exhibit hall.”

  She couldn’t help herself. Lifting her arms, she combed her fingers through his sparse hairs and smoothed them back into place. “Do pardon me, sir, but the electricity in this stormy air has set your locks aflying. My own as well, I expect, but since I am about to take my leave, I shall cover them with my bonnet.”

  Not looking at him, knowing he wouldn’t want her to, she went to the peg where her cloak had been hung. “You must sample the prime beef at the buffet supper, which is laid out in the room adjoining the exhibit. But before you join your friends, sir, will you be so kind as to inform Mr. Herbert that I require my carriage?”

  It was what he needed after the embarrassment of her rearranging his hair—a place to go and a task. He gave her a courtly bow. “My pleasure, Lady Jessica. And I do thank you, on every count.”

  When he had left the room, she removed her shawl, folded it into a neat square, and laid it on the desk while she donned her satin cloak. She had always meant to take an early departure, after all. And if she was leaving a trifle earlier than she’d planned, without so much as a word to Mr. Christie or Mr. Herbert, it was only because of the storm and her headache. Nothing whatever to do with Duran.

  She returned to the mirror, bonnet in hand, and gazed at her reflection. The only person she had ever lied to with any success was herself. Given time and persistence, she could make herself believe almost anything. She had lied herself into confidence, talked herself into independence, and stampeded herself into a profession wholly unsuitable for the daughter of an earl. And always she wondered when the fraud would catch up with her, as it was bound to do. Sooner or later everything would collapse around her, and she would be altogether alone.

  She brushed back the tendrils of hair that had pulled loose at her temples and placed the bonnet on her head. Really, the evening had gone exceptionally well. She ought to be elated. She would muster the right amount of enthusiasm on her way back to Sothingdon House, where her secretary was waiting up to hear a report.

  There was a click as the door latch lifted and a creak from unoiled hinges. She watched in the mirror as Duran entered the room with his usual indolent grace, closed the door behind him, and leaned his shoulders against it. She knew that pose all too well—one leg crossed over the other below the knees and arms folded at his chest.

  Well, she had expected this, or something much like it. And better the scene play out here, in private. She was no longer so careless of her reputation as she once had been.

  Deliberately, she took her time tying the ribbons of her bonnet.

  “Hullo, Jessie.” His voice was smooth and dark. “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.”

  “Lord Duran.” She turned, making no hurry of it, and favored him with the polite, disinterested smile she reserved for clients who were unlikely to buy anything. “So it was you I glimpsed in the exhibition room. I had imagined so, but what with the crush, I could not be sure of it. You were certainly the last person I was expecting to see.”

  “Glimpsed?” He chuckled. “Confess it, princess. You stared as if I’d begun to sprout two horns and a tail.”

  “Did I? How rude of me.” She moved a few steps closer so that he would not imagine she feared to approach him. “My mind must have been elsewhere at the time, but I do apologize for not making you welcome. It is always delightful to come upon a former acquaintance, especially in the summer. London is so thin of company this time of year. Remind me, will you? How long has it been since last we met?”

  “Precisely six years, two months, eighteen days, twenty-three hours and—” he drew out his pocket watch and flicked it open—“seven minutes.”

  “Rubbish!” She had a misbegotten urge to laugh. “You are making that up.”

  “Probably. It felt much longer than that. But I do remember most explicitly the time we spent together. I remember, in splendid detail, what we did
together.”

  “Then your memory is far more vivid than mine, sir.” She was pleased to have said that with commendable nonchalance, given the mental images he had conjured with a few simple words.

  What we did.

  “Cat got your tongue, princess? Or have you decided to pretend that we were never lovers?”

  Ice gathered at her spine. A blessing. It held her erect and kept her cold. “Lovers? Well, I suppose so, although I have always thought that to be a ridiculous euphemism. But I have never been one to refine upon the past, and I certainly do not mean to revisit it. Were you hoping otherwise?”

  He lifted his hands in a gesture of mock protest. “Not I. Hope is for those who will not seize what they want. Should I still desire you, Jessie, I would do whatever it required to have you.”

  “Short of force, I trust?”

  For the first time, one of her arrows struck home. His eyes narrowed, and his arms dropped to his sides. “That would be out of the question. As you very well know.”

  “Yes.” What she most hated about Duran was the ease with which he could wring honesty from her. “I’m sorry. It was a mean-spirited thing to say.”

  “Indeed. But you have every right to wish me to the devil. I expect you are doing so at this very moment.” He cast her a benevolent smile. “It may console you to learn that your wish will be granted within a year. As a matter of fact, I could peg out at any time.”

  Had he picked up some deadly sickness in India? The very thought of it sent her heart plummeting. He might be a vast nuisance at close range, but a world without Duran somewhere in it would be oddly colorless.

  He looked healthy enough. If anything, he was more tautly muscled than the man who used to sweep her up in his arms. But she sensed a different sort of strength in him now, as if he’d been tempered on an anvil.

  “If you are ill,” she said with studied calm, “I am sorry to hear it. Is that why you have returned to England?”

  “You are concerned for my health? How very kind. But I’m perfectly well, save that my life is no longer my own.” He made a sharp gesture as if dismissing the subject and slouched back against the door. “For the time being, my intentions are entirely honorable. The only proposition I have for you at the moment concerns a matter of business.”

  Business? Unaccountably insulted, she twisted the strings of her reticule between her fingers. “I already have more clients than I can possibly manage. But I’m sure that if you explain your requirements to Mr. Christie, he will refer you to someone who can be of assistance.”

  “I have, and he did. That’s why I followed you upstairs. Christie has informed me that you are acquainted with every important collector of antiquities in England. By his account, you are the only one who can provide me the information I require.”

  “Mr. Christie said that?” A thrill of pride tingled at her fingers and toes. For the briefest moment, she let herself enjoy it.

  “He added that I should expect no more from you than a list of names. In his opinion, you know everyone in Society and nothing whatever about the profession you aspire to enter. More to the point, you are a female and therefore not to be taken seriously. He only indulges your hobby because of your connections.”

  Trust Hugo Duran to slam her back to earth without mercy.

  At the least, he was consistent. The goodwill of others, he had always said, should never be taken into account when making important decisions. But at the time, she had thought he was referring to himself, warning her not to rely on him.

  She had since learned to rely only on herself, and credited him with teaching her to survive even the most crushing disappointments. In another thirty or forty years, she might be grateful for the lesson. Meantime, the ice at her spine had begun to melt. Her confidence was seeping away. He was still so beautiful, damn him, and she was still so weak.

  “I can certainly provide you a list,” she said, pleased to hear an assured voice emerge from her clogged throat. “Put in writing a description of what you are looking for and post it to my secretary. Mr. Herbert will provide you her name and direction.”

  “I shall call on you tomorrow,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Perhaps in time for breakfast. Do you remember how it used to be, Jessie? We could never have breakfast together.”

  “But that, I believe, is commonplace when engaging in a clandestine affair. And you needn’t bother dropping by, for I shall not be at home.”

  He closed the space between them, moving so near she felt his breath against her forehead when he spoke. “Don’t run away, Jessie. I promise you’ll not succeed.”

  When she tried to dodge around him, his hand grasped her forearm with just enough pressure to keep her in place. She looked down at the long, white-gloved fingers curled below her elbow, shocked that he was touching her and astonished at what she saw.

  His black coat sleeve had pulled back from his cuff, exposing a heavy gold bracelet coiled around his wrist. Not quite meeting at the center, the bracelet thickened on each side to form two knobs, each crowned with a large cabochon gem. An emerald and a ruby. Her gaze lifted to meet his eyes.

  He looked amused. “Do you like it?”

  “A charming bauble,” she replied, withdrawing her arm. He did not try to hold her. “But a most peculiar affectation, Duran, even for you. Unless you wish to be laughed at?”

  “Oh, I think no one will laugh at me, princess. Certainly not to my face. And I cannot remove it, you know. Not even when I bathe.”

  A flash of memory. Steam rising from the water. His lean body lounging in the copper tub while she rubbed lemony soap over his chest . . .

  She shook her head, willing the vision gone. “I wish to leave now, Duran. Please step out of my way.”

  He bowed and moved aside. “Don’t forget what I said, Jessie. When I call on you tomorrow, be there. Hear me out. And when you agree to help me, you may name your reward.”

  Chapter 2

  “You’re very good at this,” Duran said as the nimble fingers unbuttoned his waistcoat and slipped it off his shoulders.

  “Yes.” The soft voice was without expression. “I have some experience in these matters.”

  “I’ll see to the rest.” Duran tore off the stiff, high-pointed collar that had been stabbing at his neck all evening and let it drop to the threadbare carpet. Then he stood for a moment looking down at it, wondering why it kept moving about.

  The whole room was moving. Shifting. Dividing itself.

  A hand wrapped around his arm and led him to a pair of wingback chairs that miraculously became one chair while he was considering which of them he preferred. He let himself be turned, felt behind him for the seat cushion, and lowered himself gingerly. When it wasn’t spinning, his head was splitting like a log at the sharp end of an ax.

  The wages of virtuous living, he reflected sourly. Having fallen out of the habit of vice, he was having considerable difficulty falling into it again.

  “If you wish, Duran-Sahib, I shall provide a remedy for the consequences of your godless immoderation.”

  Duran focused his bleary eyes on the slender man who was standing in the invisible envelope of stillness that always surrounded him. Arms relaxed at his sides, Shivaji wore loose white cotton trousers and a knee-length overtunic belted with a pewter-colored sash. His straight black hair, gray streaked and parted in the middle, reached below his shoulders. He left off his turban when they were in private, and his shoes as well, but he never removed from his left earlobe the inch-long emblem of his profession.

  A eunuch at the nizam’s court had told Duran what it signified. “The Iron Dagger,” he had whispered in a reverent tone. “The Sign of the Assassin.”

  There were more subtle signs as well, Duran had soon begun to notice. The hard calluses along the soles of Shivaji’s narrow feet. The power in his slender hands. The controlled, assured grace with which he moved.

  “The draught will ease the pain in your head,” Shivaji said. “Shall I prepare i
t for you?”

  Duran nodded assent and let his eyes drift shut. It had been a long night, the first he’d been permitted to spend outside the dingy rooms they had taken in Little Russell Street, and he had set himself to make the most of his unaccustomed freedom. Shivaji could not follow him into Christie’s, nor into White’s Club, where he’d gone after leaving the auction house.

  The manager, remembering him, had advanced him a handful of markers on credit, and the few gamesters who had braved the thunderstorm were ripe for the plucking. He had come away with several hundred pounds that had to be hidden before Shivaji took them from him.

  But where could he conceal a stash of banknotes in this sparsely furnished room? He wrenched open his eyes and looked around. There was a lumpy bed several inches shorter than his height, the shabby chair he was sitting on, a stand of drawers, a commode with a basin and shaving mirror, and not much else.

  Shivaji slept on a pallet in the dressing room, where he kept the battered portmanteau and large wooden cabinet that seemed to be his only possessions. Once, when he was left alone for a few minutes, Duran had rifled through the cabinet, discovering scores of bottles and vials, packets of herbs and powders, mortar and pestle, and metal implements suitable for drawing teeth, lancing boils, and performing most any form of primitive surgery.

  There were poisons, too, he had no doubt. A man under sentence of death could not help but notice potential means of dispatching him.

  Escape was the ticket. Gathering and hoarding money. Making contact with people who might help him. Not many candidates for the position, once he ruled out anyone who had known him in India. His reputation there, not quite all of it earned, placed him square on the border between rakehell and traitor to his countrymen. He was, he supposed, a little of both.

  There were two or three men he recalled from his previous visit to England, but the last time he’d seen them, he was collecting the gaming debts they owed. They were unlikely to remember him with any great fondness.

  That left John Pageter, a decent, straitlaced military fellow who had boarded the Bombay Caravan in Cape Town. Pageter had been reasonably good company on the voyage, despite his refusal to gamble or procure for his shipmate the occasional bottle of brandy. But any man could be corrupted. Duran had only to find Pageter’s weakness and exploit it.