Laura dropped into her deepest curtsy. As she straightened, she searched her mind desperately for the correct etiquette for dealing with royalty. If she made a mistake, would she and Ian be tossed into the nearest dungeon and forgotten? Asiatic rulers could be an arbitrary lot. Deciding that basic courtesy was a good start, she joined her hands and bowed her head. "Namaste."
With a delighted smile, the woman in white returned the greeting, then said in painstaking English, "I am Maharani Kamala. I am wanting to welcome you to Manpur, Lady Falkirk."
"Thank you, Your Highness." Laura wondered if she should say more. It was royalty's right to lead the conversation.
Kamala tilted her head to one side, her torrent of ebony hair shimmering beneath her transparent veil. "You are most lovely, Lady Falkirk, but not in the usual way of Britishers. More, more..." With a twinkling of gold bangle bracelets, she waved her hand as she searched for a word.
Switching to Persian, Laura said, "In fact I am not British but of Russian blood. Your Highness, with some Tartar ancestry."
The maharani's face brightened. "Ah, you speak my language beautifully, Lady Falkirk," she said in Persian. "My husband wishes me to learn English and I have been studying it for some time, but I have much to learn."
Gracefully she indicated a cushioned footstool. "Pray take a seat. Another day we might converse in English so that I can practice, but now it is a pleasure to speak freely. Though I have longed to make the acquaintance of a lady of your nation, few of your countrywomen come to Dharjistan, and I've never met one who spoke Persian well."
"It will be my pleasure to answer your questions, Your Highness." Laura soundlessly crossed the thick carpet, then seated herself. "But pray forgive me if I make an error in court etiquette, for I am unfamiliar with the ways of royalty."
The maharani gave a delightful laugh. "I shall take that into account, but you need not worry. I am not easily offended." She was even lovelier close up, with delicate features like a Michelangelo Madonna. "What brings you to Dharjistan?"
Remembering that the exchange in the durbar room had been in English, Laura said, "My uncle, a Russian colonel called Pyotr Andreyovich Kushutkin, left his personal effects in the keeping of your husband. Since he is dead, I am here in his place."
The maharani's expressive face clouded. "What a pity. The colonel was a delightful man. I enjoyed his visit enormously."
"You met him face to face?" Laura asked, surprised.
"Though I maintain purdah for public occasions, I usually go unveiled around the palace and in front of friends, as now." Kamala grinned with a mischievousness that made her look very young. "Of all the castes of India, we Rajputs are the most independent. Some say brazen. Did you know that Rajput princesses often choose their own husbands?"
"No, I didn't," Laura said, intrigued. "Did you choose Rajiv Singh?"
Kamala gave a reminiscent chuckle. "There was no real choice. My father, the Rajah of Sanpore, invited a dozen princes of suitable rank, but Rajiv Singh surpassed the others like the sun surpasses the stars. Perhaps you know that 'singh' means lion. Usually it is no more than a name, and a common one at that. But as soon as I saw my Rajiv, I knew he was a lion in truth, and that we were destined to be together."
The expression of shining love on the other woman's face gave Laura a sharp, unworthy pang of envy. "How old were you then, Your Highness?"
"Fifteen. Rather a great age to become a bride, but my father was reluctant to let me go." The maharani tilted her head again. "It shall become very tedious if you are always calling me 'Your Highness.' In private, you must call me Kamala."
"I am honored. In return, please call me Laura."
Sadness showed in the maharani's dark eyes. "I have not been blessed with children. Do you have any, Laura?"
Laura found herself blushing. "My husband and I have been married only a few weeks, Kamala. Even among my people, I was not a very young bride."
Making a quick recovery, Kamala said reassuringly, "It was worth waiting for your husband. A pity about his eye, but still a very striking man. Such an air about him! Like a soaring falcon, a prince of the air. Have you had your horoscopes cast?"
When Laura admitted that they hadn't, the maharani said, "If you give me the place and time of birth for you and your husband, I'll have a priest calculate your horoscopes—the karmic bonds, areas of compatibility, the areas of discord."
She laughed again. "By this time you have doubtless discovered those yourself! But it is interesting to hear what horoscopes say." With a quick change of direction, she asked, "You must live in India to speak Persian so well. Where is your home?"
Since even such simple questions required complicated answers, there was no danger that the two women would run out of conversation. Kamala was a stimulating companion, and by the time she dismissed her visitor, they were well on their way to being friends.
Yet as Laura was escorted through the palace labyrinth, the thought that occupied her mind most was a curiosity about horoscopes, and whether they could really tell her something useful about her marriage. She rather hoped so.
* * *
After being dismissed by the maharajah, Ian returned to the apartment and went onto the balcony for some fresh air. The sun was setting, and he found it relaxing to watch the shifting shadows In the courtyard while he pondered the day's events.
It was almost dark when Laura returned. Seeing Ian on the balcony, she came out and joined him, leaning crossed arms on the railing a careful distance away. "Did you and Rajiv Singh come to any conclusions about artillery?"
"Apart from the fact that it's better to hit your target than just make noise, not really," Ian replied. "But his knowledge of the subject is substantial. I'm looking forward to seeing the military review next week."
"The maharajah is an impressive man," she said. "Forceful and magnetic. One can see why he's such an effective ruler."
"I agree." Though the courtyard was deserted, Ian automatically dropped his voice. "Let's hope that he's as solid a supporter of the British as is generally supposed."
Voice equally low, Laura said, "Do you think he might be plotting against the Sirkar?"
"I hope not. As an opponent, he would be formidable." Ian frowned as he thought. "We both need to listen carefully to the people around us. I think I'll also ask Zafir to strike up the acquaintance of some Dharjistani soldiers. They might provide useful information. I never cease to be amazed at how much common soldiers know about what is going on among their superiors."
Laura nodded, then turned and leaned against the railing, her face sober. As she moved, the rippling folds of her gown released a faint, rich perfume that reminded Ian of marzipan and lilacs. It wasn't surprising that he often thought of his wife in edible images, since she was the most appetizing female he'd ever known.
He glanced at her delicate profile and found himself wondering how many pins secured that great coil of tawny hair, and how it would look cascading around her. Realizing that his body was tightening, he deliberately returned his gaze to the fountain below. He was making admirable progress in self-control; he hadn't even come close to pouncing on her.
Though Laura seemed to have forgiven him for what had happened at Habibur's, Ian could not forgive himself. He had known it would take time to overcome her fear of physical intimacy, yet he had rashly allowed passion to cloud his judgment and had hurt her deeply.
Yet he found it impossible to believe that the damage could not be undone, for no woman who responded to lovemaking with such sweet ardor would want to forswear it forever. Though Laura's despair and confusion later that night had vividly demonstrated how deeply rooted her problem was, he was sure that time, patience, and understanding would overcome her terror. The key to a happy future was patience on his part.
He sighed. What a pity that patience had never been his strong point. "What is the maharani like? I assume that it was she who summoned you behind the purdah curtain."
"Kamala really is the most b
eautiful woman in India, and quite possibly the most charming. Though she must be about my age, she reminds me of my mother." Laura considered. "It must be her quality of wise, womanly warmth. My mother had that."
"Kamala and Rajiv Singh are one of the great Indian love stories. The common people say they're the reincarnations of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal." When Laura looked blank, he explained, "Shah Jahan was the ruler who built the Taj Mahal as a memorial to his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal."
Laura smiled. "And Kamala and her husband are their reincarnations? That's a romantic thought. Perhaps this time around they'll be luckier and have more years together."
Ian heard wistfulness in her voice. He understood, for he felt the same way. Being part of a legendary romance must be a good deal more enjoyable than inhabiting a marriage that was cursed by too much desire and too many intractable problems.
He heard the soft sound of footsteps in the reception room and looked indoors to see two servants entering with trays of food. Since high-caste Hindus wouldn't share a table with those not of their own rank, Ian and Laura would probably be eating all of their meals in their rooms.
After washing their hands, they took seats by the low, round table. As a servant placed a dish of curried lamb on the table, Laura said, "I'm surprised meat is being served. I thought all upper-caste Hindus were vegetarian."
"Some, like the Rajputs, are meat-eaters. Also, this is a vast and complex household, with people of many religions and ranks, and they must ail be fed." Ian nodded toward the servant. "This chap is a Muslim, so he won't be defiled by contact with our food unless pork were to be served, which I'm sure it won't be, any more than beef would be on the menu since it would offend all good Hindus.
"It's part of Rajiv Singh's skill that he can effectively lead men of all different backgrounds. His army has regiments of Hindus, Muslims, even Sikhs. They share quarters only with their own kind, yet all will fight and die for the maharajah."
Laura swallowed a bite of rice pilaf. "Isn't that what the British Indian Army does?"
"Exactly, which is one reason it's the most powerful army India has ever seen." Ian used a piece of nan bread to mop up his lamb sauce. "As you know, the vast majority of the Company's soldiers are natives. What makes them superior to the armies of most Indian rulers is training, weapons, and leadership. Rajiv Singh is clever enough to take the best of modem European military theory and blend it with native warrior traditions."
They had just finished eating when a royal chamberlain entered with two palace guards. The chamberlain set down the box he carried and bowed to Laura. "With the compliments of Rajiv Singh, here is the property of your uncle, which is now yours." He and the guards withdrew.
Intrigued, Laura examined Pyotr's legacy. The humpbacked, leather-bound chest was European, about two feet long and roughly eighteen inches deep and high. In spite of its battered appearance, the lock was still sound. She frowned as she examined it. "Do you have a key that might work on this? I'd rather not break the lock if possible."
Ian set the chest on a table and studied the lock, then went to his room and located two pieces of stiff wire in his collection of useful oddments. After a few minutes of carefully probing inside the keyhole, the lock sprang open.
"You have some interesting talents," Laura said, impressed.
"An officer and a gentleman should be prepared for anything," Ian said blandly.
Her brows arched. "Surely you didn't learn how to do that as a cadet at Addiscombe."
He grinned. "One boring winter on the frontier, when there was nothing better to do, a sergeant with a colorful past taught me how to pick locks. It was mostly a way to pass the time, but occasionally the knowledge has been useful."
Smiling appreciatively, Laura lifted the casket's lid. The box was full to the brim with papers and journals. "Uncle Pyotr did say that there was nothing here to tempt a prince," she said with a trace of disappointment. "But I guess I was hoping for something a bit more exotic than journals."
"Why not take the papers out?" Ian suggested. "There might be more interesting items farther down."
Laura began lifting the papers and piling them on the table, careful to keep them in order. As she neared the bottom, she said, "You were right. Here are several objects wrapped in cotton."
She removed the padding from the first item, revealing a fine gold pocket watch. "I remember this!" she said with delight.
She wound the stem and opened the case. Several notes chimed a musical phrase. "The watch originally belonged to my grandfather Kushutkin. Family tradition said that it was made by a man who was watchmaker to the kings of France."
"Pyotr must have left it here so it wouldn't identify him as a European when he went to Central Asia."
Laura studied the inside of the case, where an inscription was carved in Cyrillic characters. "I remember my uncle dangling this in front of me, swinging it back and forth to catch the light while the notes played. I was very small and was probably being perfectly dreadful, and he thought this would distract me."
She closed the case and weighed it in her hand, her expression nostalgic. Then she handed the watch to Ian. "Here. I think he would have liked for you to have it."
Startled, Ian said. "You're giving it to me?"
"In his prison journal. Uncle Pyotr once said that you were like the son he had never had, so the watch should be yours." She smiled mischievously. "And giving it to my husband means I can see it whenever I like."
"Thank you." Ian stroked the burnished gold. "I don't think I have to tell you what this means to me."
"No, you don't." Laura gave him a sweet, satisfied smile. It was one of the moments of perfect understanding that made Ian hunger for a physical closeness that was equally strong.
Sensing his yearning, she dropped her gaze and began unwrapping the other objects in the chest. There was an antique enameled snuffbox, probably of French origin; a Chinese jade carving of a graceful female figure; a flat silver case that still held several small, desiccated cigars; a penknife whose handle was inlaid with gold wire patterns. Perhaps oddest of all, there was a deformed lead rifle ball.
Laura looked down at the collection wistfully. "I don't recognize any of these things. I suppose I'll never know just where they came from, or what they meant to Uncle Pyotr."
Ian fingered the rifle ball. "There's a good chance that this was dug out of Pyotr Andreyovich at some point in his career. Men tend to have oddly sentimental feelings about the bullets that don't quite kill them. I have a couple like these in the trunks that are being shipped from Cambay to Scotland."
She made a face. "So this is one of those famous bullets that had a man's name on it?"
"The bullets I worried about were the ones that said 'to whom it may concern,' " Ian said dryly. "There are a lot more of them, and they'll kill you just as dead."
As Pyotr had said, there was nothing especially valuable in the assortment; at most, the market value would be a few hundred pounds. The colonel's papers, however, might be very interesting indeed.
Ian eyed the stacks. "I wish I read Russian. Any information about Pyotr's 'fire across India,' is probably somewhere in there. How long do you think it will take you to skim through the lot?"
"It will take quite some time." Laura lifted a journal from the top of a pile and looked inside. "At least he had the paper, ink, and light he needed so that the text is easier to read than his prison journal." Closing the volume, she said, "It has just occurred to me that he must have been in India at the same time I was, but he didn't come to see me."
"It's a long way from Dharjistan to Baipur," Ian said. "Even if he had time, visiting you might have endangered him."
"I have trouble remembering that he was England's enemy even though he was my uncle. Papa and I would both have loved seeing him." She sighed. "No point in brooding about it."
As she moved a tilting stack of papers, the top section slid to one side, revealing a packet of letters tied with a faded ribbon. "Love let
ters do you think?" She picked the packet up, then said with surprise, "Good heavens, these are letters I wrote to him. To think that Uncle Pyotr kept them all these years." She thumbed through the stack. "Some are from my mother, too. Lord, reading these will turn me into a watering pot."
Remembering that Pyotr had emphasized that Laura should study his legacy carefully, Ian said, "There's a couple of inches of disparity between the inside and the outside of the casket, so there could be secret papers concealed beneath a false bottom. Mind if I investigate?"
Without looking up, Laura said absently, "Be my guest."
The interior had been rather clumsily lined with a patterned Indian fabric that was much newer than the chest itself. Ian opened the penknife and carefully cut around the inside bottom, then tried to loosen the base. After several minutes of cautious prying, the bottom panel suddenly popped up, revealing a cavity packed with raw cotton wool.
Ian felt a twinge of disappointment at the lack of secret plans. He probed the fluffy white material with his fingertips and immediately located two small objects swathed in blue silk. He opened the first and gave a stunned whistle. In the center of his palm lay a ruby as large as a walnut and as crimson as heart's blood.
Impatiently he unwrapped the second object. This time he found a diamond as large as the ruby, with icy brilliance coruscating in its depths. "Laura, my dear," he said when he had caught his breath, "Pyotr did include something more exotic than papers."
She glanced up, her mind still in the letters, then gave a startled gasp. "Merciful heaven, are these what I think?"
"If you're thinking gemstones, the answer is yes," Ian replied. "Shall we see what else is tucked in here?"
After ten minutes of scrabbling through the cotton wool, an emperor's ransom in jewels lay glittering on the table. All of the stones were large and unmounted, and at least to Ian's untrained eye, they looked flawless. "How do you suppose Pyotr got these?" Laura asked in a hushed voice.
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