by Lynn Kerstan
“It might. It ought to. You are how old, princess? Four-and-twenty. Five?”
“Seven.” Said aloud, it made her feel ancient. “What of it?”
“Then you have three years to find a husband who will meet with your family’s approval. And if you don’t wish to go looking for one, you can’t rule out the possibility that you’ll one day encounter someone that you’ll fancy, or develop a tendre for an old acquaintance. You could . . . you should . . . fall in love.”
“How uncommonly sentimental of you, Duran.”
“A misstep. I meant to be entirely practical.”
“In that case, allow me to remind you that we have an arrangement. A verbal contract, if you will. I expect you to honor it.”
“Then you will be disappointed. The marriage was undertaken to preserve your reputation while we traveled together, but I’m calling that off as well. And as for making yourself a wife, or better, a widow, to more easily carry on your antiquities business, that could easily backfire. Marrying the likes of me won’t enhance your reputation, Jessica.”
“It’s odd, but I recall you arguing the opposite viewpoint just before you proposed. Society would forgive my small lapse of taste, you said.”
“I was wrong. I was being selfish. I told you I was concerned about myself. That alone should send you running for cover. And you can do far better than me. With a trifling effort, you could have potential husbands queuing up to pay court to you.”
“But how could I be sure that any one of them would be so obliging as to disappear within a few weeks of the wedding and never return to plague me? And what about the plot to send Gerald into exile or prison? You underestimate the appeal of your offer.”
“Now you’re just being obstinate. I won’t renege on the plot against your brother-in-law, so you lose nothing there. As for the plaguey husband, there isn’t a man alive you couldn’t twist around your finger if you put your mind to it. And once you claim your mother’s legacy, you’ll have no need to earn your own living. You can collect antiquities for yourself, as a hobby.”
“Ah. How easily you transform my profession into a mere pastime. Apparently I have overlooked the advantages of spending the rest of my life as a wealthy widgeon.”
“That’s not what I meant.” His eyes looked fevered. “Do you imagine this is easy for me? But I have no choice. You are an impulsive creature, Jessica. You cannot deny that. And you’re proud as well, perhaps too proud to back away from an agreement that can only hurt you. But it all comes down to one obvious truth—a two-and-a- half-week marriage with me is not worth twenty pounds, let alone the twenty thousand you stand to lose by it.”
“And you imagine that I would consider marrying for money?”
“You were prepared to marry me for a good deal less. I understand how you feel at this moment, but you’ll soon get over it. And yes, perhaps you’ll never marry. But I want you to have the next three years to change your mind, or the chance to seize an opportunity that may arise. I’m only thinking of you.”
“No. You are only thinking for me. Spare me your high-sounding excuses, Duran. If you are inclined to call off the marriage, there is justification enough to be found in my character. I am, as you say, obstinate and impulsive and proud. But do not take it upon yourself to protect me from the consequences of my decisions or deprive me of the right to make those decisions for myself.”
“We all make mistakes, princess. If you saw me about to do something hopelessly foolish, would you not try to stop me?”
“I might. But you wouldn’t listen, any more than you are listening to me now. The money does not signify. I will never marry for it, nor will it stop me from marrying. And to prove that, I am going now to stand before the altar in company with the vicar and our witnesses, where I shall wait for five minutes. Unless I leave this church as your wife, I wish never to see you again.”
Cheeks burning, she turned on her heel and swept out the door, gathering the bewildered vicar on the way and towing him to the altar like a dinghy. Beckoned, Helena and Hart joined her there, Helena serene and Hart trying without much success to conceal his anger. One look at her face and he closed his mouth.
For several excruciating hours, or so it felt to her, the three of them stood facing the vicar, who clutched his prayer book between trembling hands and, from the movement of his lips, appeared to be praying for a miracle.
No miracle appeared, but the eleven o’clock wedding party did, boisterous and cheerful until, or so Jessica surmised, they became aware of the grim little company frozen in place before the altar. The laughter faded to whispers and shuffling, followed by silence.
Proud, impulsive, obstinate. She’d brought this humiliation on herself, dragging her friends and the hapless vicar into the soup as well. No wonder Duran considered her incapable of making a sane decision. If this was any sample of her judgment, she might as well consign herself to Bedlam and be done with it.
She thought about moving, resolved to do so, but nothing happened. Her feet seemed rooted to the marble floor. She looked down at them, wondering why they refused to obey her. Perhaps they didn’t trust her brain to give the proper directions. She could scarcely blame them.
She looked back to the vicar’s flushed, unhappy face. His eyes pleaded with her. Go, you unfortunate, demented creature. And she would have to walk past the people standing in the back of the church, the happy bride and groom and their friends. What if she was acquainted with someone there? What if one of them recognized her? Dear God. They’d almost certainly recognize Hart. He was the most famous peer in the kingdom. In another five minutes, the story of Lady Jessica’s jilting would be all over town.
But so far, they’d only seen her back. The encompassing bonnet with its wide ribbons concealed her face well enough, and while Hart was distinctive from any angle, he would never betray her identity. Duran must be long gone by now. Perhaps she could safely exit through the vestry. If only her feet would do her bidding.
She looked in that direction, at the portal that seemed a hundred miles away, and closed her eyes in a silent prayer for mobility. When she opened them again, Duran was coming through the door.
He was carrying, she saw through tear-blurred eyes, a small nosegay of flowers, which he put into her frozen hands.
“The stems are wet,” he said. “I took them from a vase in the—”
“You robbed a church?”
“Borrowed. We’ll put them back when we sign the register.”
“And the contract.”
“Sign that before you’re married,” said the duke. “I insist, Jessica. There’s nothing to compel him to sign it afterward. Miss Pryce and I will stand witness.”
So they all swooped into the vestry, inscribed their names on the marriage settlement, and swooped back out again. On the way to the altar, giddy with relief and a swarm of other feelings that had yet to identify themselves, Jessica noticed that about twenty people had ensconced themselves in the back pews, watching like an audience at a comedy.
“What took you so long?” she whispered to Duran as they took their places again.
“I was trying to escape,” he said. “But I couldn’t find a back way out of the church.”
It was the most inconsequential of remarks, designed to tease her past the last of her anger at him. Past the fear that had paralyzed her, although he couldn’t have known of that. He would have intended nothing by it. But something had happened to her between his last word and the moment she began to smile. And it was when she realized that she was smiling, simply because she was happy, that she understood why she was standing here, prepared to marry him. Against all reason, determined to marry him.
Her breath caught. Dear God, no. Please no.
Her turn to leave now. Her turn to run away. She could not bear this. Could not.
But again her feet refused to move. And her voice, detached from the rest of her, spoke vows that had no meaning. They would not be together for better or worse, richer or poor
er, sickness or health. They had no intention of being true until death did they part. By agreement, they were to part in three weeks. Not so many. Sixteen days. Fifteen and a half.
It was ridiculous. They were lying to God right here in His house. Lying to each other.
No. This one time, Duran had not deceived her. Not about their counterfeit marriage.
She was the one telling lies. The vows were, by agreement, intended to be smoke. She wasn’t supposed to mean what she said.
But she did.
Every rational part of her protested the madness of it. The unsuitability. The absolute futility. By the time his warm hand took her cold one to slide the small circle of gold onto her finger, she had recognized the brief flight of fancy for what it had to be, the product of exhaustion and near disaster. She clung to him only because, through her own fault, she had come so near to social disgrace. She felt relief. She was pleased by their temporary but useful contract. No more than that.
But all the while, as they made a mockery of a kiss, and signed the parish register, thanked the vicar and the clerk, walked with high heads and bright smiles past the curious wedding party soon to replace them at the altar—all that time, she knew.
She knew.
Chapter 20
Outside the church, passersby stopped to gawk at the carriage emblazoned with the Sothingdon crest, or rather, at the servants and their decidedly unusual livery. Duran took quick note of the driver and the man seated beside him on the bench, both of them light-skinned, hawk-nosed, turbaned fellows clad in khaki tunics over loose khaki trousers. Each wore a wide leather belt slung with a curved sheath for his kukri, the deadly Gurkha knife.
His first glimpse, Duran suspected, of the Others. Two of them at any rate. Shivaji was nowhere in sight, but he located Arjuna atop the coach next to a considerable pile of luggage. The bride, it seemed, did not travel light.
She did, however, travel without a maid. That surprised him, and he might have inquired about it, except that his bride was not speaking to him. Handed into the coach by yet another silent warrior masquerading as a servant, she slid across the burgundy leather squabs and pressed herself against the paneled enclosure, her face averted, her expression concealed by the brim of her bonnet.
Why the devil was she vexed with him now? She’d got what she wanted, hadn’t she? And he had done as well, except that he hadn’t wanted her on the terms he’d been forced to accept. Each minute she spent as his wife was costing her money, twenty thousand pounds of it, not to mention the accumulated interest. He ought to have walked away.
But the sight of her standing at the altar, stubborn and defiant and a little forlorn, had been more than he could bear. He could not bring himself, not again, to abandon her.
Was she having second thoughts now? Regretting what she’d done?
Well, he’d let her sulk for a while. Then he’d do his best to coax her into better humor and out of her clothes and into his arms. Meantime, he looked out the window at the city he would probably never see again. Too bad, that. He quite liked London and felt, for no good reason, that he belonged there.
They had left the city proper and driven a considerable way before his bride removed her bonnet and tossed it on the bench across from her. “Well,” she said, “I made a proper fool of myself, didn’t I?”
He could see where this was heading. “Is that one of those trick questions, princess, where I am wrong no matter how I answer it?”
“It was a rhetorical question. I’ve no intention of taking out my anger at myself on you.”
“Good. It isn’t that I’d mind, but there are so many better ways to pass the time. Now, let me see. What could we possibly do, being newly married and lusty creatures into the bargain? Something will come to me. Why don’t you come to me?”
“Duran!” She’d gone red. “Not in the carriage.”
“Why not in the carriage? There’s plenty of room, not that we’ll require much of it once we’re joined. Unless you mean to flap around a good deal. I’d enjoy that, actually.”
“I am not flapping in this coach, or doing anything that could be mistaken for flapping. We have no privacy here. There are three men directly overhead, and Shivaji is riding alongside. They’d all . . . know.”
“Of course they would. They no doubt assume we’re already flapping. It’s what brides and grooms do, first chance they get. Besides, they can’t hear us above the rattle of the wheels and the traffic noises. Unless you think you might scream. They would probably notice that.”
“No screaming. No flapping. It would be embarrassing.”
“It’s true, then,” he said mournfully. “Once a female has got a man leg-shackled, she parcels out her favors like a miser. Will you be as reluctant in our bed at night, knowing that Shivaji is somewhere in the same posthouse? He has eight children, you know, and he didn’t find them floating on lotus pads.”
She turned, brows arched with astonishment. “He does? My heavens. It’s a little difficult to imagine that. I mean, he’s always so dispassionate. So—”
“Unflappable?”
Laughing, she slid across the bench and settled herself in the curl of his arm. “He told me a story once, about a princess who begs for the life of her prince from the Lord of Death. Her request is denied, she returns to her father’s kingdom, and that is that. It disturbed me, because of what you have told me about Shivaji. And, I suppose, because you sometimes call me princess.”
“Yes, well, I have always done so, since long before I had the misfortune to make his acquaintance. I know the story, though, as it’s told in the Mahabharata, and you are very like Savitri. She was famous throughout the world for her beauty and intelligence.”
“You won’t win my favors with flattery, Duran.”
“It was worth a try. But there is more to the tale than you appear to have heard. Savitri persuaded the king to let her choose her own husband, unheard of in those times, and wouldn’t you know she lit on Satyavan, who was not a prince at all. Merely a poor but virtuous sod with only a year to live. Which makes one question her intelligence, come to think of it. Anyway, when time was up and Yamaraj took Satyavan away in spite of her pleas, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Instead, she tagged after the Lord of Death, nagging his ears off.”
“Shivaji didn’t tell me this part.”
“He wouldn’t, would he? It might inspire you to start tagging and nagging. Anyway, the unfortunate Yama finally granted her one boon, so long as she consented to go away and let him get on with his business. And she must not ask for Prince Satyavan’s life, which he was not permitted to give her. That’s how she secured long life and prosperity for the king, her father.”
“It wasn’t what she wanted, though.”
“No.” He ought not have started this. And he’d said too much. His own story was not going to end as Satyavan’s had done. “But she got something for her trouble, which is often the best a mere mortal can do. I don’t suppose, if I did a bit of nagging, I might get a little something from you?”
She threw him an annoyed glance. “I might have known you would twist the story for your own purposes.”
“Everyone does.” He pulled down the window shade. “One paltry kiss, then, in exchange for my cleverness? It’s not what I want, of course, but surely you can be at least as gracious as the Lord of Death.”
“Oh, very well, if it means you will cease badgering me. One kiss.”
“Excellent.” He pulled down the other shade. “A boon indeed. It will give me the opportunity to show you, princess, how to make a kiss last for an hour.”
Two hours later, as Jessica slept in his arms, Duran saw through the window that they were passing through Colchester and nearing the estate of General Sir Grant Calhoon, retired from the East India Company army several years before Hugo Duran had become its least favorite ex-officer. Although they had never met and there was no reason to anticipate trouble, he was not looking forward to the first call on one of Jessica’s collect
ors.
He hadn’t exactly been raised by wolves, but he’d spent precious little time in aristocratic British company and wasn’t at all sure what she expected of him. Probably to keep his mouth shut and look wisely ornamental, so that she needn’t be ashamed to present him as her husband. Things would be easier, he trusted, once he’d had the opportunity to watch her in action, after which she would no doubt acquaint him with his inadequacies in blistering detail.
In one respect, at least, he’d arranged matters to his liking. Their route, which began with stops in the east and north of England, would place him during the last week of the journey within reach of Liverpool, Bristol, Plymouth, and several other ports.
Jessica’s secretary, who had made the arrangements for horses and lodging, had become an unexpected ally. In addition to keeping track of Sir Gerald Talbot, she was to act as intermediary between Duran and John Pageter, still at High Tor, sending coded messages in her letters to Jessica, who knew nothing of their scheming. That made it something of a challenge to get his hands on her letters, but any communication sent him directly would be intercepted by Shivaji.
Miss Pryce had also become quite the expert on shipping schedules, which was going to prove useful to Duran. It had already done so for Shivaji, when she discovered, in the records and registers of the East India Company, an indication that the leopard might indeed have been destined for a trip to London.
The name of the thief, they had always known, was Thomas Bickford, although the other members of the hunting party hosted by the nizam could provide little information about him. A lieutenant in the Company army on leave after taking a wound, he had ingratiated himself with Lord Clery, the nizam’s principle guest, and because he was a good sportsman and ostensibly well bred, he had been added to the party without question.
Following the theft, Shivaji tracked him to Madras and located him in a rooming house not far from the docks. He was dead, most likely of a fever infesting the area. About sixty pounds in English banknotes and nearly the same amount in rupees were discovered in his saddle pack, but of the leopard, there was no sign.