“George, I believe we are all overwrought.” Lady Pilkington’s voice was thin. She moved to her husband’s side and firmly took hold of his arm. “We are beside ourselves with worry for our son. I am certain you all understand.”
“Of course.” Sophia nodded. “We join you in that concern, my lady.”
Himmat appeared at the door and cleared his throat. “Mr. Taj Darzi, my lord.”
“Sir, I have heard the news of your son.” Mr. Darzi entered the room and clasped Pilkington’s hand. “I am happy to provide whatever service you may need in locating him. Please, Lord Pilkington, allow me to help you. I have heard whisperings of recent trouble here in your home. I would not have you face such things alone, without your ally.”
The significance—likely unintended—was not lost on Sophia: that the “trouble” Mr. Darzi spoke of had begun in this very study. She looked at the spot on the floor where copious amounts of blood had once pooled; it was now covered with a new rug. Also significant, she mused, was the fact that many of those who had been in attendance the night of the costume ball were present in this room, or would soon arrive at the mansion to help look for the missing child.
Pilkington cleared his throat. “Major Stuart and Lord Wilshire are investigating the matter, Mr. Darzi. I suppose they could provide details.”
Anthony stepped forward and shook Mr. Darzi’s hand. “Our first matter of business, of course, is to find the child. Any help the palace can provide would be most appreciated.”
“Yes, of course. Whatever you need is yours.”
“Right now, we are gathering people to search the grounds and surrounding areas while the domestic staff continues to monitor the home itself.”
Mr. Darzi nodded definitively. “I shall have several of the palace guard dispatched immediately here for instruction.”
“Thank you.” Anthony managed a smile, put his palms together and bowed, touching his thumbs to his forehead.
Mr. Darzi did the same, then left the room and spoke softly to the two men who stood sentry for him in the hallway.
Anthony released a sigh. “Extra hands will help,” he said.
“Seems foolhardy to risk so many in the dark of the jungle. We’d be better served to wait for daylight.” Clergyman Denney’s pronouncement hung thick in the air.
Lady Pilkington found her voice first. “My son is out in that jungle, sir, and I will take advantage of as many willing hands as I can.” She glared at him. “Truly Christian gestures, and from those who are not even Christian! George, I shall be in the library.” She turned and left the room.
Denney’s jaw clenched visibly, but he refrained from further comment.
Sophia figured the man owed Lord Pilkington an apology at the very least. His callous dismissal of the Resident’s son was in poor taste.
Denney left the study, followed by Gerald and Lord Pilkington.
As Anthony and Sophia headed for the door, he dipped his head toward the mantel. His jaw was tight as he glanced at her. “Yes. I could definitely kill someone with one of those statues.”
Chapter 22
As dawn approached, the mansion’s inhabitants were either fit to be tied with anxiety or exhausted. Sophia was jittery enough to have consumed a dozen cups of coffee. Anthony watched her pace the length of the library for what must have been the hundredth time and, in truth, had he not had years of experience pretending to be calm when he was far from it, he might have joined her.
Servants and guests had split into teams and combed every inch of the house, but to no avail. The front hall, atrium, and library were teeming with people who speculated endlessly on the fate of the boy and tried to share opinions that were positive for the sake of Lady Pilkington, who sat next to Amala Ayah on a sofa at the hearth. They spoke rarely, and when they did, it was to utter a word or two, or answer a question posed by Dylan. For all that Sophia was a bundle of raw energy, Charlie’s mother and nanny were drained.
The two Denney sisters had joined in the search, and Charity had worn a track in the flooring behind Sophia as she paced. They collided twice, and Anthony nearly laughed out loud at Sophia’s thunderous expression. Beatrice stood near the window and looked out, wringing her hands, her face strained. At one point in the evening, one of Mr. Darzi’s aids found her and handed her a letter, which she opened as soon as the young man left. Whatever the contents of the letter said, her expression softened, and the ghost of a smile played around her mouth.
What business did Mr. Darzi’s aide have with Miss Denney? Anthony turned the puzzle over in his mind as he approached Sophia and attempted to distract her. He halted her midstride. “Did you note that exchange?” he asked.
“What exchange?”
He gestured toward the elder Miss Denney with his shoulder.
“Oh.” Sophia nodded. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I forgot to tell you. Mr. Darzi has a tendre for Beatrice. She is receptive, but uneasy.”
“Uneasy, why?”
“She is concerned about Charity’s feelings and worries, potential social situations, and her parents’ reactions, although her father seems to support the idea.”
He frowned. That did not align with Anthony’s understanding of the man’s behavior. Of course, the marriage of his daughter to a prince may coincide nicely with Denney’s apparent dreams of grandeur. He had dressed as a cardinal for the costume ball, after all.
“Does that not strike you as odd?”
Sophia nodded. “Perhaps he has abandoned all hope of the girls finding husbands in England.”
“Lord Wilshire!” Private Thomas, one of Corporal Mailor’s aides, ran to Anthony’s side and thrust a paper at him, his face all smiles.
Anthony scanned the contents and found his heart pounding, this time with joy. “Charlie has been found near Prince Ekinar’s palace. He is well, aside from hunger and fatigue,” he announced to the room, which erupted in a cheer.
Sophia put one hand to her abdomen and grasped the back of the nearest chair with her other. She closed her eyes.
Anthony felt a surge of relief, and he released it on a sigh. What the boy was doing near the palace—two miles away—and why he had run away were questions that remained unanswered, but he went to Lady Pilkington and the nanny and clasped their hands with murmured good wishes.
The women on the sofa shared tears and embraces. Lady Pilkington peppered him with questions for which he had no answers, but he promised to tell her as soon as the child and his rescuers returned.
Himmat left the library to spread the news, a relieved smile on his weathered face.
Anthony crossed the room to Sophia and placed a hand solicitously at her elbow when what he desired to do was haul her into his arms and kiss her soundly.
She smiled, but it was strained and he knew the reason. As relieved as she was for Charlie’s safety, her speculation about the statues in the study had been in the back of his mind ever since, and was clearly still on hers. Anthony wondered if Pilkington’s awareness of his missing statue as Miller’s likely murder weapon fed an irrational fear of his son being harmed.
“You are well?” he asked Sophia quietly.
She nodded, but swayed on her feet.
“Shall I carry you to your bedchamber?” His lips twitched, and she smiled.
“Yes, please, my lord. Perhaps if I should faint, you would be obliged.”
He leaned close to her ear, taking advantage of the distraction now spilling through the house. “And then I should be obliged to loosen your stays so you might regain your breath. Strictly for your well-being, of course.”
She choked on a horrified laugh and blushed, laying a light smack on his arm, though had it been anyone else, she would have aimed for his face. He grinned in spite of the tension and worry and mysteries still unsolved and gave her elbow a gentle squeeze before releasing her arm and threading through t
he library to the front hall.
Guests and servants alike passed around smiles, and Mr. Griffen, the indigo plantation owner, produced a bottle of champagne which he shared liberally. Anthony smiled, but held up his hand when someone offered him a glass and instead made his way to the study.
The small room was empty and still unlocked—an anomaly since his arrival—and he entered. Light from a lamp on the mantel illuminated the space in a soft glow, but it wasn’t nearly bright enough for what he hoped to see. He picked up the lamp and brought it closer to the statues. Sophia had assumed they were sandstone or limestone, and he couldn’t be certain, but it seemed likely. Marble or granite would have been much heavier, and closer examination showed no telltale seam from a mold.
He glanced at the open door and closed it, then crossed the room to the edge of the large new area rug. Part of Pilkington’s desk anchored the rug in place, and opposite that, a chair, which Anthony slid out of the way. He lifted a corner of the rug and rolled it toward the center of the room.
Light from the lamp pooled ahead of him, and as he reached the desk, he noted a dark stain on the hardwood. He shoved the desk back and rolled the carpet to the end of the stain. He then rolled the rug back toward the hearth, glancing up at the statues and down again at the floor. If they were made of something less substantial than granite or marble, they might break if used as a weapon. Holding the lamp close to the floor, he looked carefully at the flooring slats between the hearth and desk. As he made a second pass, he noticed a gold item approximately one inch in length that had fallen in a crack between the hearthstone and flooring. He tried to pick it up but found it wedged in place.
He retrieved a quill from the desk drawer and used it to pry the thing from its spot on the floor, and then held the light close to where it lay in his palm. Painted in gold, one end cleanly broken off . . . he held it up to the other statues and rubbed his forefinger along each one, and then the shard.
A loud ruckus sounded from the front of the house. Stuart must have returned with Charlie. He quickly pocketed the shard and shoved the furniture back into place on the rug. Giving the room one last glance to assure everything had been properly returned, he set the lamp on the mantel and left the room as he’d found it, door open.
His cravat was too tight, and the starch on his shirt collars irritated his neck. Surely there must be a contingency rule somewhere about being allowed to shed outer layers of clothing when one had been awake for twenty-four hours and dealing with a missing child. He scratched at his neck and ran a hand over his face. He was scruffy and wanted a shave, a quick bath, and then a long nap.
Major Stuart stood just inside the front door, looking down at Lady Pilkington crouched down and clutching her son. Amala Ayah stood behind her, arms folded and teary eyed, and Anthony felt a stab of sympathy for her. She was not the child’s blood mother, but a nanny in a British household usually spent more time with her charges than the mother ever did. Amala clearly adored the boy but was forced to wait for her own tender reunion.
Lord Pilkington spoke briefly to Dylan and then crouched down by his wife. He patted Charlie awkwardly on the shoulder and murmured a few words, and Anthony’s eyes narrowed. The man had been distraught, certainly. But his lack of emotion and his unwillingness to bend the dictates of manliness even just a little reminded Anthony of his own father, and the distaste sat uncomfortable and unwelcome in his gut.
Sophia stood near Amala and whispered something to her. Anthony suspected it was a word of comfort. Amala smiled weakly at Sophia and nodded. He wanted to go to Sophia, but Dylan called his name and motioned, pulling him aside from the group.
“What did you learn?” Anthony asked him.
“He was with a young girl, twelve years of age, whose mother works in the kitchens. She was distraught, babbling. I couldn’t make out everything, but between my understanding of the language and her broken English, I pieced a few things together. Wilshire, someone paid her to lose the boy in the jungle.”
Sophia looked blearily at her reflection in her vanity mirror as Briggs wound a strand of pearls through a long clump of hair and then wove it all together in an elaborate configuration that Sophia would never have been able to manage during her days as a lady’s maid.
“That is amazing, Briggs, and most impressive.” Sophia turned her head from one side to the other and admired the young woman’s handiwork.
Briggs beamed. “Thank you, Miss Elliot.”
Sophia narrowed her eyes. “And how is it that you are so chipper this evening? We were both up all night and, to my knowledge, I had more of a nap than you did.”
“Bah. I do not need much sleep, miss. Never have!” Briggs smiled brightly and tidied up the vanity while Sophia stood and stretched.
“I am green with envy.” And she was. She was quite useless without sleep, and during her years of servitude, there had been many an early morning she had gone about her duties with a scowl and her eyes half closed. Now it was evening and she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed. Charlie was safe, but Sophia had spent nearly two hours by herself in her chamber that morning crying and crying until she finally fell into a puddle of exhausted sleep. Her eyelids were still puffy even after Brigg’s application of a cold spoon, and her face was pale.
She pinched her cheeks and smoothed her hands over her dress. It was the color of honey, and it matched her hair and eyes to perfection. A beautiful dress couldn’t disguise a pallid complexion, but it did much to raise her spirits.
Since all the details for the midnight picnic at the ruins had been arranged weeks in advance, Lady Pilkington had insisted the party remain on the evening schedule. Sophia did learn that “midnight” was a rough estimate; it was already dark outside, nearing the ten o’clock hour, and the procession would soon be underway.
Sophia bid Briggs a good evening and followed a general hum of noise down to the front foyer and atrium, where lovely dresses blended with crisp suits and army uniforms of gray and white. The Seadon women were present, and Sophia dearly wished to ask where they had been the night before when the entire household was turned on its ear looking for a missing child. When word of Charlie’s disappearance had circulated, Lissa had bustled her mother and cousin up to their rooms, claiming her mother had a “bear of a headache.”
Sophia searched through the small groupings of people, circled through the atrium, and finally spied Lady Pilkington and Anthony near the front door, speaking with a gentleman Sophia did not recognize. He was of middle age, his blond hair turning to gray at the temples, his physique fit, his smile warm.
“Lord Braxton, of course! And how is Lady Braxton?” Lady Pilkington smiled at the gentleman as Sophia approached.
“Ill, I am afraid. London air is always difficult for her, so she recuperates at Bath.”
Lady Pilkington’s expression was appropriately sympathetic. “And your daughter?”
Braxton smiled at the woman, his eyes seeming to twinkle. “She has her first Season in a year. I can hardly believe it.”
Lord Braxton’s eyes landed on Sophia as she shifted closer to Anthony. His attention returned to Lady Pilkington, a brow expectantly raised.
“Yes,” Lady Pilkington said and put her hand on Sophia’s back. “Lord Braxton, Miss Sophia Elliot. I am her sponsor.”
Sophia curtseyed and allowed Braxton to lift her fingers and bow very nicely over her hand. He kissed her gloved fingers and regarded her with rich brown eyes. “I know your brother, Earl Stansworth, of course. Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” she murmured. Handsome, charming—possibly too much charm. She had seen his kind in spades from afar as they wandered through her former employers’ balls and soirees. She and the other maids had often labeled such men as “Don Juan,” from the old Spanish tales, and the majority of the time, the moniker held true.
She felt a brush against her back
and realized Anthony had stepped close to her. Too close, really, but when she tried to subtly shift, she felt his hand grasp the fabric at the small of her back.
“Lord Braxton is here for business, unfortunately, not as a sightseeing traveler.” Anthony’s voice sounded just behind her, and she strove to keep her face blandly polite.
What on earth? Tension vibrated from Anthony’s frame, and she imagined it traveling from his hand up her spine. He was on edge, and it made her restless.
“I do hope you find the time to see some of Bombay.” Sophia smiled. “Is this your first visit to India, my lord?”
Braxton’s eyes flickered from Anthony and back to her. He smiled, and the nickname solidified in her head. He was most assuredly a Don Juan. “I have been to Calcutta twice, but, as I mentioned to Lady Pilkington, I am here for diplomatic training with the Bombay Presidency. I am a guest of the Governor General and had business to conduct through the day.”
“When did you arrive in Bombay?” Sophia asked.
“Only this morning. When I received word of Lady Pilkington’s famed midnight picnic, I knew I couldn’t miss a moment of the fun. Perhaps we shall commandeer a coach and ride together?” He smiled at Sophia as if they were alone, and then made an examination of the room. “Ah, I see Major Stuart is here as well.”
Braxton motioned to Major Stuart, who had been waylaid by Mr. Denney. The Denney sisters had abandoned their parents in favor of Rachael Scarsdale’s company, who had again captured the notice of Professor Gerald. Sophia wanted to ask Beatrice and Charity about any new developments concerning Prince Ekavir and Taj Darzi before they arrived at the picnic because Mr. Darzi and retinue were also supposed to be in attendance at the ruins.
It would have to wait, she supposed, as Anthony threaded her hand through his arm and the assembled guests funneled out the front doors. As promised, Lord Braxton secured the largest vehicle available, a spacious coach, and he, Major Stuart, and Anthony sat facing Sophia and Rachael. Sophia was directly across from Braxton, and Anthony’s face might have been hewn from granite for all the expression—or lack thereof—upon it. She wondered what had made him so tense.
The Secret of the India Orchid Page 19