Talk of the Ton

by Eloisa James

  “A pity.” India glanced down at Mustafa and sighed. “For I think I might enjoy hitting something.”

  “I see no reason why you shouldn’t . . . enjoy it . . .” he told her, “so long there’s no harm done. . . .”

  India waited until Lord Barclay finished tying Mustafa, then motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen. She set the lamp in the center of the table and gestured toward a kitchen chair. “Sit down,” she instructed. “You’re bleeding.”

  Jonathan gave her an odd look. “Yes,” he managed finally. “When one spends several minutes with an angry giant holding a knife to one’s throat, bleeding usually plays a part in the outcome.”

  India scanned the tidy kitchen. “There must be something here that you can use to attend to your wounds.”

  “Thank you,” he said. Jonathan had expected her to offer to tend to his wounds. He had expected her to produce a basin of water, a salve or an ointment of some sort, and fresh linen to wash away the blood, but Lady India Burton surprised him once again by standing in the center of the kitchen, staring at him.

  She held up her hands in a helpless gesture. “I’m not sure what you require. Or where to find it.”

  Jonathan winced, hissing through clenched teeth, as he reached up to untie his cravat. “A mirror would be nice,” he told her. “A basin of water. Fresh linen and . . .” He looked up to find her still frozen in place. “I’ve everything except a basin of water in my saddle pouch. On the floor,” he said. “In there.” He unwrapped the length of his cravat from around his neck and frowned at the amount of blood staining it, then unfastened his collar and nodded toward the back door. “I dropped it when your knife-wielding giant accosted me.”

  The mention of Mustafa spurred her into action. India left the kitchen and returned moments later with Jonathan’s leather saddle pouch. She set it on the table within his reach, then retreated a few steps.

  “More light,” he suggested, shrugging out of his coat before unbuttoning his waistcoat and opening the front of his shirt in order to reach the blood trickling down his col larbone.

  “Oh.” India leaned across the table, stretching to turn the wick of the lamp up higher.

  Jonathan sucked in a breath, and the lower part of his anatomy tightened in response when he realized that she did, indeed, have a precious gem affixed in her navel. A blue sapphire. Jonathan stared in fascination at the perfectly faceted blue sapphire adorning Lady India Burton’s smooth, flat stomach. Lowering his gaze, Jonathan surreptitiously studied the sapphire’s unique setting and did his best to solve the riddle of what kept it in place.

  “Water,” Jonathan requested suddenly, swallowing the lump in his throat and shifting his position on the chair in an effort to relieve the unwanted and increasingly insistent ache in his groin.

  “Of course.” India turned away and began to bustle around the cottage.

  After what seemed an extraordinarily long time, she produced a blue basin filled with water. Her hands shook as she set it on the table, and Jonathan reached up and caught hold of her arm, gently wrapping his fingers around the delicate bones of her wrist.

  She froze, inhaling sharply, as his thumb brushed the place where the blue lines of her veins beneath the pale skin of her inner wrist exposed the beat of her heart.

  The feel of his hand on her arm, the feel of his fingers on her wrist, the feel of his thumb pressed against her pulse sent shivers up and down India’s spine.

  Jonathan felt it, too, and quickly let go of her, more disturbed than he’d like to admit. “I’m not quite sure what you said to Mustafa,” he remarked, attempting normal conversation as he opened his bag and removed his shaving mirror, a bar of bay-scented soap, a length of toweling, a carefully folded shirt, and fresh cravat. “But it did nothing to improve his mood.” He set his shaving mirror on the table, angling it so he could see the assortment of cuts Mustafa had inflicted, then dipped a corner of the towel into the basin of water before rubbing it across the bar of soap and diligently applying it to the cut behind his ear, along the line of his jaw, and on his neck.

  “I told him that he couldn’t kill you.”

  Jonathan blew out a breath, whistling through his teeth as the soap stung badly enough to bring a sheen of tears to his eyes. “I’m delighted to hear it,” he managed through clenched teeth. “May I ask what you said that changed his mind?”

  “I told him that you weren’t a thief or assassin, but the personal emissary of the English king.” India hoped Lord Davies wouldn’t mind being replaced by the king, but invoking her savior’s name didn’t sound nearly as powerful or as impressive as invoking the sovereign’s name—despite the fact that Lord Davies, the extremely wealthy owner of a fleet of merchant ships, had recently been elevated to the ranks of the aristocracy. “Sent by the king and my grandfather to escort me to London and that if any harm came to you, the king, like the sultan, would consider it a grievous insult and hold Mustafa personally responsible.”

  “That might be hard for His Majesty to do, since His Majesty’s madness has him currently confined to a house in Queen’s Square under his doctors’ care.”

  That bit of information gave India momentary pause. When Lord Barclay released him, Mustafa would return to the sultan with the complete description of everything that had taken place since they’d left the Topkapi, and India wanted to be certain Mustafa understood her grandfather’s influence and Lord Barclay’s enormous power. She wanted the handsome lord to figure so prominently in Mustafa’s tale that he became a legend in the seraglio. And she wanted Sultan Hamid, the dey of Algiers, and the Barbary pirates who had taken her from the HMS Portsmouth to know that her champion—Lord Barclay—was not a man with which to trifle—that he had the power of the English Crown behind him. “The king is mad?”

  “Quite.” Jonathan dipped another corner of the towel into the basin of water and rinsed the soap from the cuts, more than a bit dismayed to discover the water had taken on a distinctly rust-colored tinge.

  India winced involuntarily and bit her bottom lip. “When did that happen?”

  “He’s always had bouts of madness,” Jonathan said. “Everyone knows that.” Gritting his teeth, Jonathan scraped the end of the towel over the soap once again, washing and rinsing his wounds a second time.

  “I didn’t.”

  She sounded personally affronted, and Jonathan couldn’t help but smile. “Perhaps, you were too young to notice.” Or too busy surviving.

  “You missed one,” India told him. “There’s blood.”

  “Where?” He craned his neck, trying to locate the cut in the mirror.

  She took a step forward and touched the small cut below his earlobe. “There.”

  Her fingertip was cool against his warm skin, and Jonathan discovered he liked the feel of it. And the scent of her perfume surrounding him.

  A drop of his crimson blood marked her fingertip. India paled as she stared at it.

  Jonathan noted her pallor and quickly swabbed his blood from the tip of her finger with the end of the towel. “There,” he pronounced. “As good as new.” He refolded the cloth and pressed the dry portion against his neck to stop the fresh flow of blood.

  India took a deep breath. “Is the king’s madness common knowledge?”

  Removing the towel, Jonathan lifted his chin and turned his head so he could view the results of his ministrations in the mirror. Satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, Jonathan laid the towel aside. “The exact nature of his illness isn’t common knowledge,” he answered, “because no one knows the exact cause, but the fact that he’s ill is known to almost everyone since the Prince of Wales was named regent two years ago.”

  “Oh.” India thought for a moment. “The regent usurped his father’s power?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Jonathan agreed. “Parliament endowed him with a great many of the monarch’s powers. But unlike your sultan, the prince regent does not have the absolute power of life and death over his subjects.” />
  “The sultan considers the English form of government weak,” India said. “He cares nothing about the workings of Parliament. But he understands a son’s willingness and ability to usurp his father’s powers. Sultans live in mortal fear of having their power usurped by sons, brothers, and nephews.”

  “No doubt the Prince of Wales does, too,” Jonathan quipped.

  “The fact that you’re an emissary of the usurper will make you more powerful than the emissary of an older, weaker ruler,” India continued. “We shall have to inform Mustafa of that in the morning so he can relay the information to the sultan. He understands strength, and he relishes court intrigues.”

  “Unfortunately, this isn’t one of them,” Jonathan replied. “And I doubt your bodyguard is going to be impressed to learn that I’m an emissary from the prince regent or the king,” Jonathan warned her, reaching up to trace the first painful souvenirs of Mustafa’s distrust.

  “He’ll be impressed,” she replied. “And he’ll carry the tales back to Istanbul because he knows it’s the truth.”

  Jonathan would have liked to have Mustafa impressed in a very different manner. Hard labor on a British naval vessel might do the man a world of good, but Jonathan also knew that impressing him would raise all sorts of questions better left alone, so he was willing to settle for having Mustafa placed on one of Lord Davies’s merchant ships and sent back to his lord and master in Istanbul.

  “The truth is that I’m not an emissary for anyone,” Jonathan said. “Certainly not His Majesty or the prince regent. Lord Davies asked his son-in-law to retrieve a parcel from his cottage. Since I was coming this way on business, I offered to do it for him.” Jonathan realized the truth the minute the words left his mouth. “Good lord! You’re the . . .”

  “Parcel,” India replied.

  Chapter Five

  “I had no idea,” Jonathan admitted. “I was expecting a crate of books or a bolt of cloth or a bottle of vintage wine. A parcel wrapped in oilcloth. Nothing like this . . .” He looked at India dressed in her incredibly tempting costume.

  India returned his speculative gaze. “And I was expecting Lord Davies or at the very least, a serious man of business.”

  “Lord Davies’s wife tripped over one of their dogs and broke her hip,” Jonathan told her. “She’s confined to bed and Lord Davies was reluctant to leave her, so he asked Colin to retrieve a parcel from Plum Cottage.” He looked at India. “I knew I’d be coming within a few feet of the cottage on my way home, and I insisted that Colin stay home with his wife and in-laws while I retrieved Lord Davies’s parcel for him. So you got me instead.” He frowned. “What makes you think I’m not a serious man of business?”

  “Because you have adventurer written all over you.”

  Jonathan laughed. He might have adventurer written all over him but only because he was a serious man of business. He’d wanted to be a member of the Free Fellows League since Griffin, Colin, and Jarrod had formed it while they were all schoolboys at the Knightsguild School for Gentlemen. He believed in the Free Fellows League. And he was proud to be a member. He took the work they did very seriously, perhaps more than any other member, for Jonathan had been too young and too small to be a founding member. He’d had to wait over twenty years to be invited to join.

  “I hate to disappoint you, my lady, but my life has been anything but adventurous. Compared to yours, it’s been quite mundane.”

  “I’m not at all disappointed,” she said softly. “I knew you were the one the moment I saw the key.” She glanced up at him from beneath her eyelashes. The look was coy, but her words were anything but. “I may have been unfortunate in other areas of my adventurous life, Lord Barclay, but I think I’ve been most fortunate to have you as my rescuer.”

  “Anyone could have produced a key.”

  India shook her head. “The captain of the ship that brought me here assured Mustafa and me that the house was private and safe. When he relinquished the key, he swore that there were only two, both marked with a tiny brass plum. Lord Davies had given one key to Captain Marks to give to me and kept the other. When you produced the key, I knew that you were Lord Davies or that Lord Davies had sent you.”

  “Except that Lord Davies didn’t send me,” Jonathan replied. “His son-in-law, Colin, gave me a key to the cottage.”

  “Then it’s fate that you should rescue me.”

  “I thought I’d be collecting a shipment of merchandise, and I’ll wager Colin thought the same, or he would never have allowed me to do him this favor.” Still, Colin hadn’t put up much of an argument. Jonathan thought it was because he’d wanted to stay with Gillian and her parents, but now he wasn’t so sure. Because Colin had worn an oddly pained expression on his face when he’d given him the key—almost as if he’d wanted to reveal a secret, but couldn’t.

  “No matter.” She shrugged her shoulders in an unconsciously elegant gesture. “Your being here isn’t an accident or a coincidence.”

  No, it wasn’t. His stop to retrieve the parcel from Plum Cottage had been planned. The only part of this mission that hadn’t been planned was the lost horseshoe and the nature of the parcel he was supposed to collect. What concerned Jonathan most was that there were at least two people outside the Free Fellows League involved in the planning.

  India continued. “The fact that you are the emissary, even if you were unaware of it, saved your life. If you had been anything else—a thief, an assassin, or an innocent traveler whose horse went lame on his way home—Mustafa would have been duty bound to kill you.”

  “Because I’ve seen your face?”

  She shook her head. “Because you are a man, and your presence in my quarters is an insult to Mustafa and to the sultan. He only spared you because you possess a key to this house, because he realizes that even though your presence here is an insult to him and to the sultan, you’re the instrument of his return to the Topkapi.” She sighed. “Otherwise, he would have assumed that you were a robber or an assassin or that you had come to my quarters to . . .” She blushed and glanced down at her feet. “Share my bed.”

  India expected him to take offense at being accused of the intent to rape, murder, and pillage, but Lord Barclay surprised her.

  “I can’t fault the man’s reasoning.”

  “I can,” India said. “For Mustafa could kill us to defend the sultan’s honor—”

  “Hang the sultan’s honor!” Jonathan exclaimed. “What about yours?”

  “I am a woman,” she said simply. “In Mustafa’s world, women have no honor, and until I’m safely delivered into my grandfather’s or his emissary’s keeping, Mustafa is duty bound to remain by my side and to treat me as if I were still the sultan’s property. Once my grandfather or his emissary takes possession of me, Mustafa will be free to return to Istanbul.”

  “Where is your grandfather?” Jonathan asked. “Why isn’t he here to meet you?”

  “My grandfather is a vice admiral in His Majesty’s Navy. According to Captain Marks, Grandfather arranged for me to travel on Lord Davies’s ship to avoid conflict with the Admiralty and the Foreign Office because the sultan, allied with Bonaparte, refused to allow a British naval vessel to dock in Istanbul. My grandfather planned to rendezvous with my ship en route and accompany me here, but his vessel was badly damaged in a storm around the Cape, and he was forced to put into port for repairs. Captain Marks brought me here and gave me the key to Plum Cottage. We assumed Mustafa would return to Istanbul on the next tide and that I’d be here alone until Grandfather arrived, but Mustafa received his instructions from the sultan, and he refuses to leave until my grandfather or his emissary relieves him of his duty.”

  “Captain Marks had a key to the cottage,” Jonathan pointed out. “Why didn’t he relieve Mustafa of his duty?”

  “He tried,” India told him. “But Mustafa refused to accept it. There was nothing Captain Marks could do except report to Lord Davies and sail back to collect Grandfather.”

  “He co
uld have sailed up the Thames and taken you to London.”

  “Not like this.” India glanced down at her Turkish garments and shook her head. “I refused to return to London dressed in clothing I’ve been forced to wear since I entered the seraglio or with Mustafa trailing in my wake.” She fixed her gaze on Jonathan, pleading with him to understand. “I left London as an English lady,” she said. “And I intend to return the same way, not shrouded in heavy black veils and watched by the sultan’s minion.”

  Jonathan heard the note of steely determination in her voice and recognized it for what it was, but he was compelled to challenge it, to test the iron will that had enabled her to survive an ordeal that should have destroyed her. “What difference does it make how you return to London, so long as you return alive?”

  India glared at him, and Jonathan felt the heat of her gaze all the way to his toes. “It makes a difference to me, Lord Barclay,” she said fiercely. “I did not lose everything and everyone I’ve ever loved and endure years as a slave in a harem in order to return home in the same manner. I know my presence here has come as something of a surprise to you, Lord Barclay, but I hope it hasn’t been an entirely unpleasant one. . . .”

  “Not entirely,” he admitted.

  “Then won’t you please relieve Mustafa of his duty so that he might return to his home and so that I might return to mine?”

  “I’ve responsibilities of my own,” Jonathan explained. “And people depending upon me.”

  “Like Lord Davies.”

  “Like Lord Davies’s son-in-law,” Jonathan corrected. “And he’s depending upon my prompt return for reasons that have nothing to do with retrieving the parcel from Plum Cottage.”

  “I see,” Lady India said softly. “You don’t wish to assume responsibility for delivering me to London because I’m the parcel.”

  “I had already assumed responsibility for delivering a parcel to London,” Jonathan replied. “But, Lady India, you are not a simple parcel, and if it becomes known that I accompanied you to London without benefit of a chaperone, you’ll be ruined in London society.”