She made her escape, determined to avoid the man.
~ ~ ~
Mrs. Elliot opened her mouth to respond to Zambak’s outrageous behavior, but the girl was gone before she could speak. The older woman’s smile wavered when she took Charles’s arm while Higgins followed looking mournful.
Charles clamped down his disappointment and prepared to play the ducal fool. Hoist with my own petard. I’ll have to endure another hour of insipid conversation. It would be a few hours before the house settled down so that he could dig into Elliot’s dispatches in any case. He resigned himself to his fate.
His frustrations had multiplied as soon as dinner got underway. The conversation yielded nothing of use, and Zambak acted the part of shy maiden so shamelessly he couldn’t resist baiting her with that question about how she spent her time. The scamp. Sketching churches indeed! Not one word was said about the women of Macao or the tyranny of men. An imp prodded him to mention it in front of Clara Elliot, but he decided not to. She obviously had the woman bamboozled. He’d uncover the hoyden’s mischief soon enough.
Now he teetered on the edge of an ebony chair, designed for European use but decorated a la chinoise, and searched for a way to avoid more tiresome chatter. Higgins glared into his tea, obviously piqued that he’d had to forgo port. Charles wondered idly if the household supplied the junior secretary with port when there were no male guests. He guessed not.
Mrs. Elliot fidgeted about as though trying to come to a point. Something about her manner put him on guard. He had assumed upon arrival he would receive an invitation to lodge with Elliot as Her Majesty’s highest-ranking official in Macao. That would allow him to assess the man’s performance, keep watch over Sudbury’s wayward daughter, and find a way into the dispatch boxes.
When he thanked her for her hospitality, however, Mrs. Elliot had been less enamored of that idea. Putting her cup down, she made a pointed observation about a single man in a home with unprotected women, one an innocent girl. What Zambak would make of “‘innocent girl”‘ almost made him laugh out loud, but he hid his amusement under a sympathetic façade.
“I would assuredly not want to provide scandal or offend the young lady’s sensibilities,” he said. As if the contrary chit’s foolish starts aren’t scandalous enough. He paused searching for an argument that would allow him to stay.
Desire to outdo her neighbors might turn her in my favor. “Perhaps there is another family willing to host a peripatetic duke,” he suggested. He peered at Mrs. Elliot over the exquisite porcelain teacup and forced a haughty and entirely ducal expression to his face.
Clara Elliot didn’t bend that easily. His hopes died with her reply. “Most of the single men stay in the factories in Canton during tea season, of course, although some stay year round in the offices here. Mrs. Josie would be happy to accommodate you, I believe.”
“Mrs. Josie?” he gulped. “I’m hardly just any single man. This woman—”
She appeared not to notice his dissatisfaction. “A widow of the captain of a China clipper,” she went on. “Mrs. Josie opens her lovely—and entirely respectable—home to single men far from home. The meals, I’m given to understand, are first rate and the company excellent.” For a fee, no doubt.” Clara Elliot knows how to hold her ground. He almost admired her.
“Give me this estimable lady’s direction. I’ll seek her out in the morning,” he said, bowing to the inevitable.
“Why, our Mr. Higgins can show you. He is quite content there.”
Charles ground his teeth and glared at Higgins. If the mushroom lives so contentedly with Mrs. Josie, why doesn’t he make use of the first-rate meals and leave me in peace? Seeing no way out, he beat a strategic retreat. He would not get to the dispatch boxes tonight.
Chapter 7
Unlike Canton, the Portuguese colony of Macao had no defined foreign quarter, but the various nationals tended to make their homes in clusters, avoiding the luxurious houses of the wealthy Chinese like so many grand dames lifting their skirts to avoid contact with street urchins. When Zambak left the following morning, she quickly walked well past the cluster of mansions belonging to English merchants that surrounded Clara Elliot’s home.
Her satisfaction at having routed her father’s spy the previous evening dissipated as soon as she turned off the quiet street in the direction of The Macao Ladies’ Seminary and heard booted footsteps several paces behind her.
“He follows, Lady Zam,” Filipe informed her. “The dook.”
“Ignore him,” she hissed, lengthening her stride.
Filipe had to run to keep up; the footsteps went faster. Zambak shook under the force of a frustrated sigh. The sneak would not give up, and she may as well face him. She stopped so abruptly the ever-present parasol dipped sideways, knocking her bonnet askew, and Filipe barely avoided running into her.
Charles had no such difficulty. He slid smoothly to her side and tipped his hat. “Why Lady Zambak, what a surprise.”
“A delight, I vow,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “I had no idea you had an interest in the merchant’s quarter.” The damned man lay in wait for me!
“All Macao interests me,” he retorted. “Shall we explore it together?” He winged one arm.
She glared at it. “Do you plan to dog my every footstep?”
“I offer the protection of my presence, as a gentleman should.”
“Gentleman or overbearing tale bearer?”
“As you wish.” The tattler’s eyes danced. His arm remained unwavering, awaiting her cooperation.
She took it with ill grace and continued her swift pace, pretending not to notice that Filipe’s determined efforts to keep her shaded sent fringe flying into her unwanted escort’s face until he spun around and spoke to Filipe. A coin passed between hands; Filipe and the parasol disappeared.
“You just bribed my servant,” she snapped, walking on.
“I have no idea what you mean,” he replied, easily keeping pace.
She rolled her eyes. I’ll have to increase the size of my bribes. “It isn’t proper for you to escort me without my servant to lend consequence,” she said, glancing sideways.
“In Macao, the coolie takes the place of a maid?”
She nodded solemnly without breaking stride.
“Then it is well that he hasn’t abandoned his post.” He turned and gestured toward Filipe, now well out of earshot but gamely following. The boy grinned and waved. They had come to a road that wound down toward the docks. Charles seemed poised to turn that way and gazed at her thoughtfully when she led him in the other direction.
“You were at the docks two days ago.”
How on earth— ”My business is not your concern,” she spat.
“I take it you have another destination in mind?” he asked. “Sketching churches, perhaps?”
They came upon one of Macao’s many churches, the legacy of the Portuguese, and it tempted her sorely. She could sketch until she bored him silly, but the Knighton woman and the school expected her.
It could be interesting to see what he makes of Temperance Knighton.
She gave him a mysterious smile, declined to answer his question, and paraded him past shabbier stores and plainer buildings until they stopped in front of the simple whitewashed structure, a former warehouse that served as the school. A faded sign indicated its purpose. Her tormentor’s obvious puzzlement gave her great satisfaction. She didn’t hide her smirk.
“Thank you for your escort, Your Grace. This is where I leave you. I am expected.”
Her gracious nod would have put any social climber in their place when she raised a languid hand to the knocker. Her performance quite pleased her until the door flew open and spoiled the effect before she could knock.
“Zambak, thee are a welcome sight. Maud has taken ill,
and I must teach the ciphering as well as reading with the little ones under foot.” Temperance rushed out but came to a halt when she realized Zambak had not come alone.
Charles raised one eyebrow, lips twitching. The dastard obviously expected an introduction.
“Forgive me. Thee brought a friend.” Temperance looked from one to the other.
Zambak took a fortifying breath. “Mrs. Knighton, may I present His Grace, the Duke of Murnane,” she pronounced.
Charles raised a hand to his hat brim to acknowledge the response he expected. It did not come. Temperance frowned at Zambak.
“Does thy friend have a name, Zambak? Thee knows . . . ”
“Mrs. Knighton is of the Quaker faith, Charles. They don’t believe in titles.” She held her breath and her laughter in.
“I am pleased to make thy acquaintance, Charles. Thee may call me Temperance.” The teacher stood so tall she looked down to meet the duke’s eyes.
A smile, one full of the warmth he’d withheld from Zambak in his two days in Macao, stretched across his face. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Temperance,” he said. “You may call me Charles. Zambak has spoken to me about your school.” He flashed Zambak a smug look that wasn’t lost on Temperance.
The lout isn’t discomfited in the slightest!
“What has she told thee?” Temperance asked.
“That you teach women they need not bow to the tyranny of man,” he answered.
Temperance’s eyes widened, and Zambak feared her teasing had caused offence. That would not do. “How did you word it?” Zambak asked. “They are precious and no man’s possession?”
“All of us are valuable in God’s eyes,” Temperance agreed with a nod, somewhat mollified but still studying Charles warily.
“That is so,” he said, “and much better worded than my clumsy phrasing, Temperance. Pardon me, if I offended.” He kept his face averted from Zambak and focused on the teacher, which was just as well. Zambak could feel heat burn up her neck to her cheeks.
“Thee are very kind, Charles. Now if thee will excuse us, Zambak and I have work to do.”
Charles didn’t move. “Did I understand you to say you are short-handed today?”
Zambak stiffened, terrified he would offer to help.
“I am.” Temperance examined him with frank interest.
“Then I must not keep you. I would like to learn more about your work, however, and see your school. Perhaps tomorrow?”
Zambak feared Temperance would agree. Charles can be damned charming. If he inserts himself into my efforts, he’ll ruin everything.
The invitation, when it came, was worse. “Would thee like to meet our supporters, Charles? Daniel Oliver has returned to Macao. I would invite thee to dine at our table so thee might meet him.” Temperance smiled at Zambak and went on. “Thee wished to meet Daniel, Zambak. I hope it will please thee to dine with us and bring thy friend.”
“I would be honored,” Charles said. He and Temperance waited for Zambak’s reply.
Great piles of cow slop. I finally get an introduction to meet Daniel Oliver, and Father’s blasted spy plans to watch over my shoulder. Damn and double damn.
“I would be delighted,” she told Temperance, wishing Charles to the devil all the while.
~ ~ ~
Mrs. Josie proved to be an excellent innkeeper—or hostess, as she preferred to pretend—and he quickly discovered she missed nothing and thrived on gossip. He spent thirty minutes over tea after he left Sudbury’s willful daughter in Temperance’s orbit. Mrs. Josie regaled him with every juicy tidbit she possessed about Macao society, but not one word about his wife.
He had expected to hear of Julia as soon as he landed, but had not. Where Julia goes there will be gossip. If there isn’t any, she can’t be in Macao. If she diverted elsewhere, I need information. He thought of the dispatches. She sailed with Maitland, and she would be giving the navy grief. Elliot would know.
Higgins had Elliot’s dispatch case in hand for two days. Charles couldn’t put off an inspection of the papers any longer, or the clerk, indolent though he may be, would begin to file and forward them. The dispatches should provide needed insight into Elliot’s thinking and the state of Chinese response. He hoped word about his wife might speed up his other goal. Since Higgins guarded the dispatch case jealously, his inspection would have to wait until the respectable population of Macao slept.
After an hour spent tallying ships, guessing tonnage, and recording his statistics from a hill overlooking the port, he returned to the boarding house where he had to sidestep Higgins’ efforts to draw him into billiards with another clerk. After dinner, he endured another hour of inane gossip from Mrs. Josie and made certain she saw him retire to his room at an early hour, taking particular care she witnessed him firmly close the door. The wait drove him mad; he coped by rewriting his notes.
When the house finally went dark after midnight, he dressed in unrelenting black, descended the stairs wearing dancing slippers to muffle sound, and escaped through a side door. The walk to the Elliots’ took minutes; locating an unsecured window took only a few more. He passed an unlit lantern—one that could be lit but hooded—through the opening, lifted one leg over the sill, and climbed in after it.
Poorly done Hua. Any miscreant can just walk in. He would have to investigate security and see it improved as long as Zambak was in residence.
No servant stirred; no denizen of the house met him when he made his way out of what appeared to be a withdrawing room. He avoided the foyer and the marble staircase at the front of the house full of reflected moonlight from windows onto the landings and down into the entrance. Relying on instinct in the dark, he padded past the night porter asleep in his chair, sidestepped even more moonbeams pouring in a side window, and found his way to the study where he paused, every sense alert.
No sound emerged from the room, and the door remained firmly closed, yet he couldn’t shake the instinct that something felt off. Did Higgins return to get something done? Unlikely. An intruder? In the office? He weighed his options.
Logic dictated that there was no one in the office, but Charles had long respected instinct over logic. If someone broke in, he needed to know why. If caught, he would have to claim he saw a break-in while passing by and came to investigate.
But if someone has legitimate reason to be there, I’ll have to brazen it out. He lay a hand on the door and gently pushed; silent hinges gave.
Dim light across the floor confirmed instinct; someone else brought a hooded lantern. No lawful presence then. He pushed further, and a gray figure withdrew deep into the shadows on a hush of fabric and a hint of exotic fragrance, dousing the light. His whole body relaxed; he pulled the door behind him.
“A dark bandana. Brilliant touch. That hair of yours is a beacon,” he whispered. “What the hell are you up to now?” He lit his lantern and hooded it before he held it high. Elliot’s dispatch box lay open, and papers littered his desk, as they had not when he was there before. Wrapped to the chin in a dark dressing gown, Zambak glared from deep in the shadows. He reached for one of the papers; he could deal with her later.
“Wait!” she hissed. “I have them in order. Higgins will notice if you rearrange. You’ll ruin everything.”
How does she know how Higgins arranges the papers? Unless she does this regularly.
She stepped closer to papers filled with notes in some sort of cypher that lay flat on the table, held the dispatch case open with one hand, and pointed with the other. “See here? He arranges them by date before document type.”
He followed where she pointed, acutely aware of her obvious familiarity with Elliot’s files and even more aware of her smooth cheek next to his where she leaned over the table, and the exotic scent that moved with her—not sandalwood but some oriental mix: jasmine a
nd a hint of cloves.
She turned to see if he followed, and her face came into focus in the lantern light. He remembered her as a child. When did her face mature, her neck take on that graceful curve, and her lips . . .
“Charles? Do you see?” she whispered, irritation sharpening the sound.
“Of course I see! Do you take me for an idiot?” He did see. Maintaining a neat organization made Elliot’s papers easier to search without getting caught. Her efficiency irritated him almost as much as his own reactions. The last thing he needed was an entirely inappropriate attraction to his mentor’s daughter twelve years his junior, even if she didn’t have better sense than to be caught alone at night with a man clad in nothing but her dressing gown. “What I don’t see is what you’re doing with them. Get yourself to bed before I—”
“Before you what?” The question hung in the air for a moment before she went on. “And what are you doing here?”
“Apparently the same thing you are, spying on Her Majesty’s Superintendent of Trade.”
“Only Elliot? What about the so-called China traders, smugglers to a man, and the East India Company?”
“Not to mention the mysterious Chinese?” he retorted.
A faint smile played at her mouth. “Of course.”
Laughter began deep in his soul and bubbled up until it threatened to overcome his ability to silence it. Sudbury and the queen don’t need an agent in China. They already have one, if only they paid attention.
A dainty hand planted itself firmly across his lips, and eyes, pale blue but heated with a passion Sudbury’s icy ones never held, met his. She moved her hand away slowly, her eyes still on his. They stood for a moment, so close they breathed the same air, watchful.
The Unexpected Wife Page 5