The Sandalwood Princess

by Loretta Chase

  His decision made, Philip dressed quickly but carefully, discarding any garments that still bore traces of agarwood. The expensive incense was too distinctive. He would have to adjust his posture and stride. He’d imitate Monty Larchmere’s stiff and graceless valet.

  That left one’s countenance, but it was too late for cosmetic adjustments. Virtually everyone on board had already seen him. In any case, Padji could not have seen the robber’s face in the unlit passage. Even the rani— who was aware the merchant was the Falcon or the Falcon’s accomplice-would recognise the eyes only. Padji hadn’t her opportunity to study the ersatz merchant at close hand. Had they ever seen Jessup, though? Philip swore under his breath. Never mind. The Indian might make the connexion. He might not. Half a chance, then.

  Philip headed for the upper deck and turned towards the forecastle, hoping to find the cook there. A confrontation in plain view of others was vastly preferable to a private one in the galley’s hot confines.

  Philip had scarcely taken five steps before something struck the back of his head. Instinctively, the Falcon’s hand went for the knife under his coat, and he whirled round. His glance darted about, seeking his attacker... and lit on a woman. Miss Cavencourt. He drew his hand, empty, from the coat. She hurried towards him, her face flushed, and her coffee-coloured hair whipping in the stiff sea breeze.

  Something tapped at his leg. He glanced down and saw a bonnet, which the wind knocked against his leg. He’d stepped on one of the ribbons. He snatched up the hat and held it out to her.

  “I take it the missile is yours, miss?” he said, then cursed himself. Servants didn’t make facetious remarks to their betters.

  The colour rose higher in her cheeks. Dusky rose on mellow ivory.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Gingerly she took it.

  “I’m afraid I accidentally trod on the ribbon,” Philip said with great deference while his brain clawed and scratched, trying to place her voice. It wasn’t enough. He needed another few words, and he’d already said more than he ought. Ladies didn’t speak to strange gentlemen, and he wasn’t even supposed to be a gentleman. Drat that idiot, Randall.

  She’d turned away slightly to examine the bonnet. Now her gaze slid slowly up to meet his. Her eyes were very unusual, large and amber-coloured.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m—I’m sorry it hit you. I’d taken it off, you see, because the wind was knocking it about, and then I forgot I had it... Oh, well. At least it didn’t fly into the sea.” She flashed a nervous smile. “Thank you.” She turned and made quickly for the forecastle.

  No.

  Not possible.

  Not the same woman.

  But he was already following, calling out, “Miss? I say, Miss Cavencourt!”

  She halted and turned around.

  “I beg your pardon, miss, but you can’t go there,” Philip said, his brain working rapidly while he schooled his features to a proper servantlike blank.

  Her surprise stiffened into chilly hauteur. “Indeed,” she said coldly. “Are you a sentry?”

  “No, miss, certainly not,” he answered, his tones humbler soil. “I only guessed you might not be aware the forecastle is no place for ladies.”

  Though her expression remained chilly, he discerned a shade of indecision in the glance she threw behind her.

  “That’s where the off-duty crew customarily take their leisure,” Philip explained. “They may be about soon, and you’ll find the company a bit rough, miss, especially without an escort. I rather think the commander would prefer you kept away, escort or no.”

  She stared at him as though he were foaming at the mouth.

  “That is quite absurd,” she said. “That is, I realise it was kindly meant, but I assure you I have nothing to fear.”

  Definitely the same woman. The same height, the same form, the same voice, with its husky overtones.

  At that moment, Padji emerged from the galley. His gaze swept the deck and flitted past Philip without a glimmer of interest before lighting upon Miss Cavencourt.

  She turned to Philip. “That man is my servant. As you see, I can have nothing to fear, on the forecastle, or anywhere upon this vessel.’’ Again she began to walk away.

  Crushing the wild urge to heave her arrogant person over the rail, he followed. Jessup first, he reminded himself. The woman could provide a less risky way to get what Jessup needed, if Philip could but control his temper.

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” he managed to choke out. “I meant no offence.”

  “None taken,” she said dismissively, still walking.

  “I didn’t realise the cook was your servant,” he said hurriedly, as the immense form loomed nearer. Philip kept his eyes downcast. “I was about to speak with him myself. You see, I need his help.”

  Miss Cavencourt paused.

  Philip didn’t grovel, precisely, but near enough, while he explained Mr. Wringle’s condition and the surgeon’s estimation of the invalid’s prospects.

  “Mr. Lambeth sounds monstrous disobliging,” she said when he was done. “He should have spoken to Padji directly.”

  “I am in no position to make demands of anybody, miss. I regret to say we caused considerable inconvenience to several people, and I understand Mr. Groves handled the emergency less diplomatically than one could wish.”

  Imbecilely was more like it. Had Groves allotted Philip the role of master, he’d not be in this humiliating position. He’d have had them all running briskly at his beck and call. He’d learned that, if nothing else, from his overbearing sire. Small good it did him now. Leave it to Randall to behave like a blithering idiot at the first hint of difficulty.

  Aye, but you left it to Randall, didn’t you? nagged a sardonic voice in his head. Had to dash off like an adolescent hothead, didn’t you, wild for revenge!

  Miss Cavencourt’s low, crisp tones broke through the red fury in his brain.

  “I shall speak to Padji, of course,” she said, “but it would be best if he examined your master himself.”

  “There’s no need to put him to the trouble,” Philip said smoothly, “though you’re most kind to offer. I’ve told you exactly what the surgeon told me. I listened very carefully, you may be sure. My master does need to eat something and—and I can scarcely get him to swallow water.”

  He felt her studying gaze upon him then, even as he watched the Indian out of the corner of his eye.

  “I see,” she said, her tones less frosty. “You are very anxious, Mr.—Brentick, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I shall ask Padji to prepare something as quickly as possible, and he’ll send for you when it’s ready.”

  ***

  Except for the sentry, the forecastle was deserted. Nonetheless, Amanda took no chances. In Hindustani she repeated Mrs. Gales’s revelations and voiced her own suspicions.

  Padji shrugged. “What did the servant want of you?” he asked.

  “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Mr. Wringle, who was hurried on board in the dead of night—the night I was robbed—works for the Marquess of Hedgrave, who happens to be Richard Whttestone.”

  “What did the servant want of you?”

  “Gruel—broth—I don’t know. Something for that wretched, thieving master of his. Did you poison him, too?”

  “A healing broth. I see. I shall make it now.” Oblivious to Amanda’s look of outrage, Padji turned and descended into the galley. She followed.

  The brick-lined space was as hot as Hades. Padji promptly began crushing herbs. Amanda perched on a cask and glared at him.

  “You can’t poison him, you know,” she said. “I’m not saying I’d object if you did, but you can’t. You’d be the first suspect, and you’ve nowhere to hide.”

  “Why should I poison this man? He has done me no ill.”

  “It’s obvious what happened. The Falcon turned the statue over to Mr. Wringle, who hastened aboard the first ship bound for England.”

  Padj
i shrugged.

  “There’s no need to get inscrutable with me,” Amanda said irritably. “You said yourself the Falcon stole my statue, and the more I’ve considered your explanation, the less sense it makes. He always steals for someone else.”

  “May you cut out my tongue for contradicting, mistress, but I know nothing of that. He’s a thief.”

  “He’s a professional—or one of a group of professionals—and you know as well as I that the services are hired out.”

  “I am but an ignorant servant, O adored one. I know nothing,” Padji said imperturbably as he mixed the herbs into hot liquid.

  This approach, obviously, would lead nowhere. Amanda considered. “I see,” she said after a moment. “You know nothing, ask no questions, merely follow orders. Is that correct?”

  “Such is my lowly ability, O daughter of the moon.”

  “Then who ordered you to poison the cook, you deceitful creature? I know you poisoned him, so you needn’t waste breath denying it. I know, in fact, precisely the mixture you used. Did your mistress not tell me of her old family recipe? A fungus, is it not, which grows on—”

  “It is unseemly for the mistress to speak of these matters,” Padji cut in reprovingly. “They are the concern of the lowly slave.”

  “Is it seemly to tease and mock your mistress?” Amanda retorted. “Is it honourable to keep secrets from me, when I risked my honour and that of my family, to save you? Did I not tell monstrous falsehoods on your behalf?” She drew out her handkerchief and wiped her perspiring forehead. Then, recollecting her irritating sister-in-law’s methods, she dabbed at her eyes. “This is my thanks for taking pity on you,” she said in a choked voice.

  “Aiyeeee,” Padji wailed softly, pushing the bowl aside and gazing at her in anguish. “She is the true daughter of my mistress. With a word she stabs at my heart.”

  “Your own mistress would have cut out your heart by now, if you so vexed her,” Amanda answered. “But you know I am soft-hearted and sentimental, and so you take advantage of my weakness and mock me.”

  Instantly, Padji dropped to his knees. “No, beloved, no mockery. It is not so. Ah, I am a man torn between two lionesses. ‘Protect her from all danger,’ my princess orders me, and so I do my lowly best. Yet her too-wise daughter sniffs trouble and wishes to throw herself into it. What is to be done with such women?”

  Amanda withdrew the handkerchief from her eyes. Trouble, he’d said. Then she was right.

  “For a start,” she said briskly, “you might tell me the truth. The rani left something out of the story, did she not? The value of the statue, for instance. Why should the Falcon steal a piece of carved sandalwood? And will you get up?”

  Heaving a great sigh, Padji rose. He would tell her, he said, and she would not believe him, but he was a man beset on all sides.

  Miss Cavencourt expressing impatience with a brisk tapping of fingers upon the cask, Padji hurried on to offer what he called his humble theory. He was unaware of any great monetary value to the statue. Still, he knew someone wanted it. Offers had been made, thefts had been attempted. These were all quashed, of course, for Anumati’s wishes must be consulted, and the goddess had not at that point named the heir.

  “Never mind that,” Amanda said, disregarding dreams and visions and settling to facts. “Who wanted it?”

  “What other but the man she told you of?” Padji asked sadly. He shook his head. “Why will they not leave each other in peace? He abandoned her. I might have killed him and put an end to it, but she will not have an end to it. She puts a curse upon him and writes the curse down in a letter, that he will know who has done it. He took her heart, she writes in this letter, and so she takes in return the new life from his loins. He shall sire no sons, and his name will be forgotten, as he’s forgotten her.”

  While this threw an interesting light on the rani’s response to seduction and abandonment, it hardly answered the question.

  “That was a suitable curse, I admit,” Amanda said, “but what has it to do with the statue?”

  “He has no sons, and his wife has been dead five years now. Perhaps he wishes to wed again,” Padji answered.

  Amanda stared at him. “Are you trying to tell me he wants the statue back because he thinks it will undo the princess’s curse?”

  Padji nodded. “Did she not tell him in her letter that he had left the thing of most value behind? Did she not say he would know nothing of true happiness until—” He stopped short, his brown eyes wary, his stance alert. “No more, he whispered. “These matters are not for others’ ears.”

  His hearing must be prodigious acute. Hard as she listened, a long, tense moment passed before Amanda could hear the approaching footsteps over the noise of the crackling stove and the endlessly creaking timbers. A moment later, the ship’s surgeon descended the steps into view.

  As soon as he spied her, Mr. Lambeth’s heavy features knit into a frown. “Galley’s no place for ladies, Miss Cavencourt,” he growled.

  With slow dignity, she rose from the cask. “On errands of mercy,” she answered coolly, “one regards the errand first, and the surroundings not at all.” In a few crisp words, she informed him that she’d come to compensate for his neglect of the ailing solicitor. While she lectured, Amanda covered the bowl of broth and set it on a platter.

  The surgeon’s countenance darkened. “The man’s done for,” he answered defensively. “My time’s better spent with those I can help.”

  “Indeed. Attending to Mrs. Bullerham’s indigestion— a permanent condition, as all of us who know her will attest— is of far greater importance than attempting to make a dying man’s last hours endurable.”

  On this self-righteous note, Amanda took up bowl and platter and stalked out.

  Not until she’d marched halfway across the deck did she recollect she was to have sent for the valet. Just as well, she told herself. She wanted a look at his master, didn’t she?

  The door opened immediately in response to her resolute knock, and the tall form of Mr. Brentick promptly blocked it.

  “Miss Cavencourt,” he gasped.

  A mere fraction of a moment passed before he schooled his features to polite blankness, yet that was time enough. She spied the sorrow and anxiety in his countenance, and simultaneously recalled the edge of bleakness in his voice earlier when he’d asked for help. He was genuinely distressed about his conniving employer. Amanda experienced an irrational twinge of guilt. She promptly smothered it.

  “Padji had the broth ready while I was there,” she said. “It seemed foolish to let it cool while someone came to fetch you, especially when I was returning this way. Or nearly this way,” she amended with strict regard for accuracy. Her cabin was at the stern, well-lit, large, and luxurious. This, she saw as she peered past the tall, dark-coated figure, was a tiny, dark cell.

  That was very kind of you, miss.” Mr. Brentick tried to take the broth from her, but she held fast and raised one autocratic eyebrow in perfect imitation of her brother. The valet retreated to let her pass.

  “Oh, dear, the poor man,” she said softly, involuntarily, as she approached the invalid. He looked ghastly. “No wonder you are so alarmed.” She looked up to meet a stony blue gaze.

  Amanda decided to disregard Mr. Brentick’s facial expressions. “Can you prop him up a bit?” she asked. “If you will hold him, I can feed him.”

  The valet hesitated, his face stonier yet.

  “It wants two people, Mr. Brentick,” she said impatiently. “While you dawdle, the broth grows cold.”

  Under the stiff mask, he seemed to struggle with something, but it was a brief combat. Then, his piercing blue gaze fixed on her as though in challenge, he moved to the cot to do as she asked.

  Before she’d left the cabin, Amanda had promised to send Bella on the same errand in two hours. Mr. Brentick had protested, citing the needless trouble to herself and her servant, and he had got an unpleasant glint in his eyes. Amanda had firmly ignored both words and look, a
nd in the end, she’d won the skirmish.

  She waited until Bella was gone before taking Mrs. Gales into her confidence. Then Amanda quickly outlined the rani’s tale, her own suspicions, and the information Padji had so reluctantly offered.

  Mrs. Gales listened composedly, throughout occasionally interjecting a calm question. When Amanda was done, the older woman shook her head.

  “Five years in India may have disordered my reason,” she said. “On the other hand, it has taught me to accept the possibility of such mad goings-on. Once one has seen a man—of his own free will—swinging from a hook, which has been inserted into the flesh of his back, one is prepared to see or hear anything.”

  “Then you do believe it’s possible Lord Hedgrave hired the Falcon to steal my statue?” Amanda said with some relief. She had feared Mrs. Gales would think she’d taken leave of her senses.

  “It’s possible.” Mrs. Gales took up her needlework once more. “I will not pretend to understand the Rani Simhi,” she went on. “She is an Indian, and therefore incomprehensible. She most certainly ought not have told so lurid a tale to an unmarried young lady. On the other hand, at least she did not pretend to virtue, and one must respect her honesty. As to Lord Hedgrave, I’m obliged to admit I would not put it past him. My late husband had dealings with him, as did many of his colleagues. When the marquess wants something, he goes after it with all the inexorable force and disregard of obstacles as the Juggernaut. Whatever or whoever lies in his path is simply mowed down.”

  “Would he go to such lengths for a wooden statue?” Amanda asked. “That’s what bothers me most of all. It hardly makes sense, does it?”

  Mrs. Gales hesitated, her usually smooth brow knit. After a moment, she said, “In England, more than one gentleman has paid a large sum for the privilege of lying in Dr. John Graham’s Celestial Bed. If they believe a bed will instantly correct their inability to beget offspring, why should not Lord Hedgrave believe in the efficacy of a wooden statue? I suppose a marquess might be as superstitious as the next man. When it comes to these matters, my dear, otherwise sane and sensible men can prove amazingly irrational.” She smiled faintly. “What an extraordinary woman the rani is. Her letter must have acted on him over the years like slow poison. One ought not admire her, to be sure, yet it is so seldom a woman can achieve so effective a revenge for ruination. With words only. How very clever of her! Wicked, of course, but clever.”