by Lynn Kerstan
“I have been sent to England,” he said with a dry mouth. “On a mission, so to speak. That is, I am delegated to find a . . . well, an object, on which the fate of a small principality may depend.”
There. That was straightforward enough.
Jessica appeared unimpressed. “Was it stolen?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. But the Englishman who made off with it was subsequently found dead in lodgings near the Madras docks. It was a fever, we think. In any event, the object was no longer with him, and we deduced that he had passed it on to someone who then shipped home to England.”
“Or perhaps it never left India at all,” she said. “You have come a long way, it seems, on what could well be a futile errand. Or have you scratched up a clue to its location?”
“None whatsoever.” He smiled. “I require your help to track it down. And there is something more. A deadline. Unless I find the object within the next four weeks, the consequences will be—shall we say?—unpleasant.”
Her gaze, water clear, met his. “Unless I am very much mistaken, India is a considerable distance from England. How can anyone there possibly know if you have succeeded or failed?”
Nothing escaped her. He took another drink, the cognac burning down his throat. “It’s becoming apparent you’ll not be satisfied with the abridged version of this tale. But I fear the alternative is a very long story indeed, most of it privileged information.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly willing to keep your secrets,” she said. “And since I slept most of the day away, I wouldn’t mind a bit of evening entertainment.” She drew up her legs on the chair, propped her elbow on the armrest, and rested her chin on her hand. “Will you mind sitting over here, where I can see your face?”
He did mind. But taking the decanter with him, he went to the chair across from her, noticing the marks on the carpet where it had been dragged from its previous location. She had arranged everything to her liking, and almost certainly provided the cognac as well. It had always been his favorite drink.
Her steady gaze was disconcerting. Settling on the chair, he leaned back with his head against the bolster and pretended to look at the ceiling, acutely aware of her scent and the slight rustle of her gown as she breathed.
Everything depended on the next few minutes. Unless she agreed to cooperate, he would have no excuse—none that Shivaji would accept—to remain in her company. He would be swept back to London and ordered to examine shipping records, for all the good that would do.
On the whole, his prospects were decidedly grim. Unless the leopard strolled out of a hedgerow and jumped into his arms, it was never going to be found. Not in four weeks. Not in a lifetime.
Which were, in his case, one and the same.
“Duran?” Jessica’s voice was tinged with amusement. “Cat got your tongue?”
Chapter 11
During the long silence Jessica diverted her thoughts from a mild pain at her temples, the echo of last night’s headache, and focused instead on Duran’s long, tapered fingers twisting the stem of his cognac snifter. He was mentally rehearsing his speech, she supposed. Putting his lies in order.
He needn’t have troubled. She had already decided to pretend to believe him.
“A little more than a year ago,” he said at last, “I was traveling alone from Poona to Mysore when my horse lost a shoe. I went looking for a blacksmith, but at every village I came to, I was directed to yet another village. The locals were deliberately steering me into the remote principality of Alanabad, sending word by pigeon that I was on my way. When I finally arrived at a fairly good-size town, an armed patrol was waiting to clap me in irons.”
He looked up from his contemplation of the glass. “Do stop me if the narrative gets muddled. Before now, I’ve never told anyone this story.”
She had no doubt of that. “I am following you well enough, thank you.”
“Then I shall proceed. They took me to the capital, where I was imprisoned for several months. The nizam—that’s the ruler—had it in for Englishmen because one of them stole a valuable icon, and he was making a grand show of my trial to impress his people.”
He frowned at her over the glass. “It’s about to get complicated. A cult of fanatics was using the theft of the national idol to turn the people against the nizam. Their leader, an ambitious politician who claims to be the reincarnation of some deity or other, demanded that an example be made of the foreign devil. Matters were getting out of hand until I came up with a proposal.”
“Let me guess. You volunteered to find this missing idol. What is it, by the way?”
“So much for impressing you with my ingenuity,” he said, sounding disgruntled. “It is a statue of a leopard supposedly presented by Krishna to one of the nizam’s ancestors as a symbol of the family’s divine right to rule. Or some such nonsense.”
Nonsense being the relevant word, she thought, preserving the expression of mild interest on her face. “So the nizam told you to run along and find his statue and bring it back. Why would he trust the likes of you with such an errand?”
“He didn’t. An unexpected ally spoke on my behalf. But I’ll get to him later. Malik Rao, the cult leader, was calling for my blood, so the nizam, who turned out to be a clever chap, figured a way to give everyone a bit of satisfaction. If I could prove the gods had sent me to recover the leopard, I would be granted the opportunity to do so. All I had to do was survive the Trial of a Thousand Screams.”
“Good heavens.” She scrutinized what little she could see of his flesh. “You appear to have come through it relatively intact. Or are you missing a few vital bits of your anatomy?”
“Any particular piece of me you would be sorry to forfeit?”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “I’d as soon all of you went missing.”
He turned on her the intense regard she remembered far too well. And deplorably, its effect on her had not diminished over the years. Passion like a windstorm, leaving her empty of caution and good sense, had once driven her into his arms. She longed to feel again that rush of desire for a man, for this particular man. She ached to feel like a woman who is desired.
But no. To feel was to lose herself.
“I’m not sure,” he said quietly, “that we shall ever escape our past, any more than we can disregard what exists between us now. If you tell me you don’t sense it, I won’t believe you. It is practically visible whenever we are together. But I’ll say no more on the subject, if that is your wish.”
It was. She had feared precisely this, a confrontation that forced her to acknowledge what she could not bear to face. Past reason, beyond hope, she still wanted him. And that was why she had met with him here, under the scornful gaze of her mother. Her very own guardian devil. In this room, she could not be seduced into folly.
Room? In truth, it was a battlefield. Beneath their civilized exchange of words raged a war for ascendancy and control. His weapons were the customary ones—charm, lies, and the potent male beauty that always rendered her breathless. But she was wiser now. Her defenses were strong. She did not mean to lose.
“Go on with your story,” she said with a precise blend of courtesy and indifference.
The gleam in his eyes confirmed that the battle was joined. “Very well, Boadicea. After the nizam made his ruling, I was taken to a room at the top of a round tower. A good-size audience gathered in the courtyard to enjoy the festivities, which began with the official torturer circling the balcony and whetting his blades to enthusiastic cheers. The citizens of Alanabad are partial to public executions. They made rather a fuss when told the actual paring of flesh would occur indoors, so the court musicians were brought out to entertain them. Peddlers sold refreshments in the courtyard, and there were jugglers and acrobats. Meantime, I had come up with yet another grand idea. You won’t guess this one.”
“I wouldn’t presume to try.”
“Well, it pleased the nizam, though rather better than I intended. But I’m getting ahead of myself. My ro
le in the Trial of a Thousand Screams was, of course, to scream, which I did quite effectively until my voice gave out and a flunkey took over. Now and again pots of blood were poured down the tower wall to show what a fine job the torturer was doing. Chicken blood, I think. Three hours later, to mingled disappointment and rejoicing, the nizam announced that I was, miraculously, still alive. Should Krishna grant me a complete recovery, which was likely to require several months, a ceremony would be held to celebrate.”
“Months? Since you were the object of a miraculous cure, why not a swift one?”
“That might smack of trickery. The people had to believe I’d really been chopped up, you see. They wanted me to suffer.”
“That,” she said, “I can well understand.”
He chuckled. “Rao’s gang of bullies had been going about spreading rumors and making trouble, so the nizam was being especially cautious. But primarily, the delay was needed to create what I am about to show you.”
He rose with feline grace and retrieved the leather case he’d left by the door.
She took her time about it, but curiosity finally sent her to the game table where he was removing a soft leather bag from his coat pocket. There were three keys inside, and one by one he fitted them into holes neatly concealed by the tooling. Then he raised the lid.
Inside was a shallow tray divided into small, felt-lined sections, each containing a vial or bottle. Rather like an apothecary’s chest, she was thinking, until he lifted out the shelf. Beneath it, nestled in a bedding of thick black velvet, lay an object wrapped in oilcloth. He removed the bundle and placed it at the center of the table.
Pausing, he glanced over at her. “You’ll better appreciate this, I expect, with more light.”
While she brought two lamps from the mantelpiece, he began to strip away the oilcloth. Beneath it was a wrapping of leather, and under that, a sheath of muslin layered in thin bands like a mummy’s casing. He located a loose end and began to unwind the gauze.
Jessica moved closer, drawn in spite of herself by a flutter of anticipation. As he peeled away the last of the binding, she glimpsed flashes of color—red and blue and green and crystal white—against a background of rich, gleaming gold.
When the entire figure had been revealed, she saw a leopard about the size of a house cat, its spots picked out in gemstones as large as her thumbnail. It was seated on its haunches, tail curled around its front paws, the expression on its carved face aloof, regal, and smug. But the eyes, two cabochons of a deep yellow-orange stone she had never before encountered, were alert and wary. “I am not to be trifled with,” they seemed to warn.
She looked over at Duran, who was attentively observing her reactions. “May I?”
He nodded, his smug expression rather like the leopard’s.
She moved slowly around the table, examining the figure from all angles. It was splendidly formed, defining the sleek grace, the taut musculature, the serene confidence and lethal strength of a magnificent animal.
With both hands she lifted the statue, astonished at its weight. Then, holding a lamp a bare two inches away, she examined the gems. Sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds captured the light and scattered it across the ceiling and walls.
“As you see, the leopard is solid gold,” Duran said. “Just enough alloy mixed in to give it the proper strength. And the stones are genuine.”
“Perhaps. I am not an expert appraiser. I do know that paste gems, if produced by a talented artisan, can stand up to all but the closest scrutiny. The figure itself may be of some base metal coated with gold. Have you had it examined?”
Scowling, he leaned over to study the carving. “In fact, this is the first time I’ve seen it. But I am assured it is an exact replica of the original.”
“But how could the artist have made a perfect copy without the original to serve as a model?”
“How the devil would I know? Perhaps that’s why it took so long. In any case, the idea—my idea—was to draw out the possessor of the authentic idol by claiming to have it myself, or something along that line. This is, not to put too fine a point on it, prodigiously expensive bait.”
“And you wanted me to spread word of it, using my influence to lend you credibility. But how did you know I had begun to trade in art and antiquities?”
“I read it in the Times,” he said. “On the morning of your exhibition. An amazing stroke of luck, don’t you think? Before seeing the notice, I had planned to advertise the statue for sale or commission Richard Christie to put it up for auction. But there is a degree of risk to making our intentions public. We may have been followed.”
“Good heavens. All the way from India?”
“Rao’s thugs attacked us on the road to Madras and again shortly before we took ship. It’s possible they took passage on a later sailing, especially if Rao somehow learned about the replica. I had one devil of a time convincing Shivaji to let you see it.”
“Shivaji? Your valet?”
“He is acting that part here. In Alanabad he is one of the nizam’s chief advisors, but his primary duties relate to . . . security.”
He had been going to say something else, Jessica thought. Perhaps he’d realized the story was already so elaborately ludicrous that another exaggeration would topple the whole edifice.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Your mouth is all twisted. Have you another headache?”
She was clinging to the back of a chair for balance. “N-no,” she said. “I’m trying, really I am, to keep from laughing. But I don’t think I can.”
“Good God, Jessica!” Turning on his heel, he stalked to the other side of the room and back again, speaking all the while. “Listen to me. I know it sounds absurd, but everything I told you is the absolute truth. The nizam. Rao. The trial. How I came by this replica. The attack on the road. The whole lot of it. Well, I admit you haven’t heard the entire story, but the parts I’ve given you are on the mark.”
“But withholding selected pieces of the truth is just another way of telling an outright lie. What little details have you omitted?”
He stopped directly in front of her, lips taut and fists balled. “Have it your way. I only concealed this to protect your female sensibilities, but here it is. If I fail to trace the leopard before the deadline set by the nizam, which happens to be twenty-five”—his gaze went to the clock—“no, twenty-four days from now, Shivaji is under orders to execute me.”
For an instant, anger nearly overtook her amusement. Did he think her a complete hen-wit? But it was only her vanity taking offense, and he mustn’t detect even that small chink in her armor. “Oh dear,” she said cheerfully. “When not polishing boots and pressing cravats, your valet is an executioner. But surely you have noticed he is older than you, and not so tall, and of slighter build as well. I should think you could take him down if you tried.”
“And I assure you, madam, that Shivaji is more than capable of dispatching me by several means, none of which require the use of a weapon. If ever I doubted that, what I saw when we were under attack by Rao’s followers convinced me utterly.”
Did he truly expect her to believe this nonsense? After one last look at the leopard, she made her way back to the chair and erupted into laughter. Incorrigible man. The Trial of a Thousand Screams, of all things. Nizams and fanatics and stolen icons. He ought to be writing Gothick novels.
“I’m delighted to have amused you,” he said, taking up a position across from her with one arm resting on the mantelpiece and the other folded behind his back. “But by God, I had six months on ship to concoct a fable. If I were out to gull you, surely I’d have come up with a more plausible story.”
“Perhaps. Or you could be relying on the my-story-is-so- outrageous-that-it-must-be-true ploy. It won’t wash, Duran. And when I cease being amazed at your powers of invention, I’m rather certain I shall take offense. Do you take me for a featherbrain?”
“Of course not. For all my sins, Jessie, I’ve never underestimate
d you. The story sounds ridiculous, I know. I could hear that even as I was speaking it. But I’d got used to it, you see. I lived every last one of the events I described to you. Look. Ask Shivaji. He’ll back me up.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Because you think he’s my paid servant.”
“Or a fellow conspirator. He’s not the usual sort of valet, certainly.” Memories unfurled in her mind. A slender figure leaning over her. A soft, accented voice speaking from what seemed a great distance. “Did he come into my bedchamber last night?”
“You weren’t meant to see him. I apologize for breaking your confidence, but I needed his help. Shivaji was the one brewed up the teas and advised me how to care for you.”
“Ah. When he’s not out killing people, he’s busy healing them.”
A smile tugged at his wide, mobile lips. “That’s the devil of it. He’s both sides of a coin. All sides of a polyhedron. Were you to speak with him, I have no idea what he’d tell you.”
“Oh, that I should do whatever you wish, no doubt. What exactly do you expect of me?”
“I’m not altogether sure. Identify collectors of exotic antiquities, perhaps. Then we’ll pay them a call, display the replica, and see what happens. I haven’t worked out the details.”
“But I do business only with the best families. Why would they admit you into their homes? Allow you to examine their collections?”
“An introduction from you would turn the trick,” he said, brightening. “Or you could make the journey with us. That would be best.”
Her amusement fled, trailing fury in its wake. And sadness, although she could not have said why it came to be there.
“You’ve no idea, have you, what you are asking,” she said at length. “Let me be clear. It has required six years of study, of cultivating the favor of people I’d as soon avoid, of putting aside everything most women value, to achieve even the mild success I am beginning to enjoy. Within a year or two I hope to have paid off the last of my debts. That may seem a small thing to you, but it will mark, at last, the beginning of what I have always sought. True independence. The ability to live my life on my own terms, however circumscribed. And now that I am within reach of my goal, do you imagine I will permit you to interfere?”