The Sandalwood Princess

by Loretta Chase

  He would not break his heart on her account. Men had a different attitude about physical intimacy than women did. It was laughable to imagine she’d led him astray. Men went astray by nature. The difficulty was in leading them otherwise.

  Amanda’s hand slipped under her pillow and closed around the sandalwood figure. It didn’t matter, she told herself. It was done and the princess was safe. Nonetheless, long hours passed before the tears abated, and Amanda Cavencourt, thief, fell asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Cavencourt?” the elderly solicitor mumbled, while his trembling hands sought to make order of the documents his visitor had exasperatedly flung back upon the desk.

  “Lord Cavencourt’s sister,” Philip repeated, for the third time. “She lives in Yorkshire. I want to know where.”

  Coming here, clearly, was a mistake. Mr. Brewell had nearly succumbed to apoplexy at the sight of him. The old lawyer had no sooner recovered from the shock than the argument had commenced, and with it a blizzard of legal documents that might have papered the dome of St. Paul’s, with plenty to spare for Westminster Abbey.

  Unfortunately, when one had been out of one’s native country for fifteen years, and had scarcely set foot in London previous to that, useful acquaintances were few and far between. When, moreover, one preferred one’s presence not be known, the list of possible information sources shrank even further.

  The Falcon had contacts in virtually every corner of India, persons whose discretion could be relied upon in the interests of the Crown or, more often, Profit. London, on the other hand, might have been the moon, so alien it was. Actually, one might have tracked down Miss Cavencourt a deal more easily on the moon than in the chaos of this infernal city.

  Three weeks he’d wasted, searching on his own, hanging about hotels and inns and questioning tradesmen. He’d gone in disguise to clubs and gaming halls, even managed without invitation a few visits to Society affairs. He’d learned little.

  He heard no mention of the Cavencourts in the gossip he eavesdropped upon. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, he’d dared do little more than listen. As it was, he encountered far too many former fellow officers and company men. To attract their notice was to court recognition, and word might easily reach Hedgrave.

  The Falcon had far rather have slivers of bamboo jammed under his fingernails and set on fire than find himself under examination by Hedgrave or any of his colleagues. Only yesterday, in Bond Street, Philip had narrowly escaped Danbridge’s shrewd scrutiny ... and the inevitable humiliation of admitting that yes, the intrepid Falcon, whose name was feared throughout India, had got the statue... and had it stolen from him. By a twenty-six-year-old spinster.

  All of which left Philip with his family solicitor. At present, Philip could have cheerfully applied the bamboo method to Mr. Brewell. The lawyer was older than Methuselah, and his chambers had most likely been built— and not cleaned since—the Flood. One glimpse at the musty old office, and Miss Jones would have flown at it with mop and brush. Very likely she’d have taken the dusty old lawyer, in his rusty black coat and breeches, out of doors and given him a vigourous shaking.

  “Cavencourt. Cavencourt.” The watery grey eyes looked up from the papers. “Would that be the Baron Cavencourt? The eighth, isn’t it? Or is it tenth? Odd family. Something about his—or was that the other one? But they’re in India,” he concluded, much befuddled.

  “Lord Cavencourt lives in Calcutta,” Philip said patiently. “His sister is recently returned to England. We were on the same ship. She mentioned Yorkshire. What I want to know is where.”

  Mr. Brewell shook his head sadly, and his wrinkled, grey face assumed an expression of reproach. “With all due respect, this is hardly the time to be racketing about the countryside after women. There is a great deal to be settled. In any case, you ought think first of going home. The family—”

  “Can go to blazes,” Philip snapped. “We’ve discussed all that at unnecessary length.”

  “But at least—”

  “I owe them nothing. They’ve lived quite comfortably without me more than fifteen years. I daresay they’ll manage to endure another few days. I came for information,” he continued in taut tones. “If you can’t provide it, I shall seek elsewhere. Good day.” He turned and headed for the door.

  “But my—”

  “And not a word,” Philip ordered. “Not one word.”

  “That will considerably complicate matters.”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “Might one at least mention you’re alive?” the solicitor pleaded. “I need only say I received word from trustworthy sources.”

  Philip paused, his fingers on the handle. “Very well. But no more than that.” Then he left.

  Philip returned to the inn to find his bags packed, and Jessup reading a sporting journal.

  “What the devil is all this?” Philip demanded.

  “I thought you’d want to be goin’. You was just complainin’ this mornin’ how we’d been wastin’ time and you was sick o’ the sight o’ London.”

  I’ve spent the better part of three weeks scouring every inn and alley of the curst place. You think I want to try the same exercise through all of Yorkshire? Brewell, like everyone else in this confounded warren, hadn’t the foggiest idea where the Cavencourts reside,” he added angrily. I daresay he’ll be another ten years muddling and stumbling about, trying to find out. If he does try. Which he’d rather not. He doesn’t approve my racketing after women, you see.”

  Jessup picked up a valise. “Kirkby Glenham,” he said.

  “What?”

  “She lives in Kirkby Glenham,” Jessup said expressionlessly. “I’ve paid our shot and hired a carriage. Did you want to have a bite before we go?”

  Philip stared at him. “Are you sure? How did you find out?”

  Jessup looked away and mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “Debretts, sir. I looked ‘em up in Debretts. Kirkby Glenham. Lived there since the time of the second Baron. There’s a map on the table.” Jessup nodded in that direction. “It’s a manor house on the moors.”

  ***

  Mr. Thurston, the Cavencourts’ London solicitor, had warned Amanda that the manor house was not quite ready for her because his agent had been unable to fully staff it. She, however, had no wish to linger in Town, where she might collide any moment with an irate Mr. Wringle or a murderous Lord Hedgrave.

  Thus she arrived at her family home to find the interior entirely shrouded in dust covers, and mold and mildew growing everywhere. In addition to an apparently competent bailiff and an elderly gardener, she found one maid of all work feigning, in a lackadaisical manner, to do the work of a staff of twelve.

  At the end of a fortnight, thanks mainly to Bella, dust, mold, and mildew had been scoured away. During this same period, thanks to Padji, the maid of all work had fled, and the gardener threatened to do likewise. After three weeks, Miss Cavencourt had acquired one housekeeper and one scullery maid, while the bailiff had given notice. During this period, a number of servants had come, and quickly gone. They came because the wages were good. They left—usually within twenty-four hours— because Padji was not.

  “I have told him a hundred times,” Amanda complained to Mrs. Gales, “but he won’t listen, or he doesn’t understand.”

  They were in the estate office. Seated in her father’s huge, ugly chair, her elbows on the great desk, Amanda gazed mournfully at a ledger. Opposite her, Mrs. Gales calmly knitted.

  “It is a considerable adjustment for him,” the widow said.

  “But he expects everyone to adjust to him. How is one to make him comprehend that English servants do not, and are not expected to, behave as Indians do? No one is humble enough or attentive enough, he thinks. Why in blazes must Mrs. Swanslow taste my food for poison when Padji himself has cooked it?”

  Amanda closed the ledger with a thump. “He has her in such a tremble, I cannot make heads or tales of
her writing. I cannot tell if these are household accounts or Persian songs of prayer. And now I must replace the bailiff, which is Padji’s fault again. He had no business shadowing Mr. Corker about the grounds.”

  Mrs. Gales laid her knitting aside. “You want a cup of tea, my dear.”

  “I want a bailiff,” Amanda wailed, “and a butler, and maids. Bella should not be looking after the chambers, and the scullery maid should not be doing the laundry.”

  “Jane had better not do the laundry,” Mrs. Gales said. “She doesn’t know the first thing about it, and all your lovely frocks will be ruined.” She rose. “Do quit this room, Amanda. You only upset yourself here. I shall see about the tea and bring it to the library.”

  When Amanda hesitated, the widow added, “We shall go to the employment agent in York tomorrow. Until then, there’s no point fretting yourself. It will all come about in time, dear. We must be patient.”

  Amanda obediently trailed after her into the hallway, while wondering, not for the first time, how the widow managed to remain so consistently unruffled. A full eight hours sound sleep each night no doubt contributed. Amanda slept, but not soundly. Hours passed before she could drive her worries back into the recesses of her mind.

  The library was a sensible idea. Amanda would read, and blot out this whole dreadful morning—these last wretched weeks, preferably—with one of the half-dozen bloodcurdling Gothic novels she’d got from York. Chains and dungeons and headless corpses were just what she needed. Come to think of it, a dungeon and chains might be just what Padji needed, bless his interfering heart.

  She’d hardly settled into her favourite chair when the door-knocker crashed. With a sigh, she rose to answer it. The employment agent knew she was desperate. He may have sent along an applicant. Mrs. Swanslow had gone to the market, and it would be best if Padji were not the one to open the door. One prospective laundry maid had fled at the first glimpse of him.

  Padji, fortunately, was nowhere in sight when Amanda reached the vestibule.

  Belatedly, she realised a servant would not come to the front door. Who could possibly be calling? Not any of her neighbours, certainly. She’d given up expecting any sort of welcome from them, not that she had, really—

  Amanda’s meditations came to an abrupt halt as she opened the door and looked up... into the stony, blue-eyed countenance of Mr. Brentick.

  “Oh,” she gasped. Then, her brain offering no further help to her tongue, she simply stared at him.

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” he said. “I was not welcome at the servants’ entrance, and so, had no choice.”

  “N-not welcome?”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, Padji closed the door in my face. Very firmly.”

  “You mean he slammed it, I suppose.” The first shock subsided, only to be swamped by chilling anxiety and confusion. “I cannot think why he would be so rude—but he— he’s not himself—quite—lately—at least, I hope not. He is not—adjusting. Oh, dear.” She backed away. “Please come in.”

  He threw her a searching look as he stepped over the threshold. “I expect you’re surprised to see me,” he said.

  “Surprise is hardly adequate to the occasion.” Desperately she tried to collect her wits. She’d almost forgotten how very blue and piercing his eyes were, and how tall he was. Or did it merely seem that he towered over her? “What on earth are you doing in Yorkshire, Mr. Brentick?” She glanced past him at the empty doorway. “Where is Mr. Wringle?”

  This earned her another searching glance.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Something is very wrong.”

  Amanda’s face went hot and cold as the colour rushed over it and drained away.

  At this moment, a shadow darkened the hallway. She glanced behind her, to see Padji’s massive bulk advancing.

  “Never fear, mistress,” he growled. “I shall see to him.”

  “Miss Cavencourt, I must speak with you,” the valet said quickly. “I am in great difficulty and—” He sidestepped neatly as Padji’s huge hand shot towards him.

  Amanda hastily stepped in Padji’s way. “Enough!” she said. “Did I ask for your assistance, Padji?”

  “I only anticipate, mistress,” came the low Hindustani response.

  “There is no need to manhandle visitors,” she answered in the same tongue. “Everyone who comes to the door is not an assassin.”

  “Actually, your competent assassin rarely comes to the front door,” Mr. Brentick politely pointed out. In response to her startled look, he added, “I am acquainted with the language, miss. Fifteen years in India, recollect.”

  She glanced from him to Padji, her mind working as rapidly as it could in the circumstances. “Padji is surprised to see you, as I am. I’m afraid he doesn’t care overmuch for surprises.”

  “There is a perfectly reasonable explanation, Miss Cavencourt, if you’d be so kind as to indulge me a hearing.”

  Padji’s eyes narrowed. “Send him away, mistress. This man is trouble for you. Also, he stinks like a pig.”

  Mr. Brentick’s blue eyes flashed in his pale face. Unnaturally pale, Amanda now realised. He looked ill, despite his fiery gaze. And thin.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I have been upon the road nearly four days, and my lodgings have not been of the most luxurious. I should never have presented myself in this condition, had I any other choice. I spent the last of my funds on coach fare, and came here on foot from the last posting inn.”

  Amanda’s hand flew to her breast. “Good heavens, what on earth has happened?”

  His blue gaze seemed to skewer her. “I have been discharged,” he said. “Without notice, without a character, without a farthing.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Also, I may add, without explanation. We were in Portsmouth scarce two hours, when my employer flew into a rage. I have no idea what set him off. I know only that he called me an irresponsible incompetent—among other names I shall not sully your ears with—and discharged me.”

  Padji gave a disdainful snort.

  “That is monstrous,” Amanda said, disregarding her watchdog. A suffocating wave of guilt washed over her. She knew what had happened. Mr. Wringle had discovered the theft, and taken out his rage on his hapless servant.

  “I cannot apologise sufficiently for intruding in this inexcusable way, miss.” The valet shot one darkling glance at Padji before returning to the mistress. “I should never have dreamt of doing such a thing, but I had nowhere else to turn.”

  A low, rumbling sound came from Padji’s throat.

  “Stop growling,” Amanda snapped. “You are not a savage, I hope, and in any case, you are not blind. It’s obvious Mr. Brentick is tired—and hungry as well, I’m sure. Take him down to the servants’ hall and— No, on second thought, I shall come with you.” To the valet she said, “Let us find you something to eat. Then, when you’re feeling better, we’ll discuss this further.”

  They’d found Mrs. Gales in the kitchen and, luckily for Philip, the widow had supervised his meal. Padji, he had little doubt, would have blithely poisoned the unwanted visitor, if left to his own devices—and if, that is, Philip were halfwit enough to remain alone with him. Padji had not troubled to disguise his hostility. Miss Cavencourt’s reaction was far more puzzling.

  The Falcon had, as was his custom, arrived armed with several strategies. For instance, he’d fully expected Padji’s attack. Which meant a quick move to grab Miss Cavencourt and hold a knife to her throat, and thus obtain the statue under most undesirable circumstances. As soon as she’d stepped between him and Padji, Philip deduced that the lady was a most incautious and inefficient adversary. Accordingly, he’d mentally shredded Plan A. In another few minutes, he’d begun to feel disagreeably inefficient himself, because she did not react properly.

  Philip warily eyed his nemesis now, as he followed her into her office. Padji stood in the open doorway, arms folded across his chest, his
round, brown face eloquent with disapproval.

  “Mr. Wringle’s behaviour seems most unaccountable,” Miss Cavencourt began slowly.

  He watched her flit past him to take up her position behind the great barricade of a desk. In her pale blue frock, amid the dark, masculine surroundings, she seemed smaller and more fragile than Philip remembered. Not quite real. But that was because she was so false.

  “Also most ungrateful,” she added, “when one considers your devotion during his long illness. He gave you no explanation beyond what you mentioned?”

  “No, miss. At the time I suspected something else displeased him.” He hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “I regret to say he was beside himself,” Philip continued carefully. “He tore through all my belongings—as though he believed I’d stolen something.” He lowered his gaze from Miss Cavencourt’s startled golden one. “Of course you have only my word I hadn’t.”

  Padji sniffed.

  Miss Cavencourt’s face grew paler.

  “Do you think something was stolen, Mr. Brentick?”

  He pretended to think hard before answering, “It’s possible, though I can’t imagine what. He had clothes and legal papers, and a few trinkets and souvenirs—some carved objects, that sort of thing. Nothing of value to a thief, as far as I could tell. He had money, naturally, but he never searched my pockets, and he had plenty to toss about at the inn. It’s a puzzle to me, miss.”

  “If you had taken anything of value,” she said, “you’d hardly have arrived here on foot, half-starved.” She moved a piece of paper from the right side of the blotter to the left. “I collect you need a loan,” she said without looking at him.

  Padji scowled.

  Philip transformed his expression of innocence to one of embarrassment. “I didn’t come for charity—not of that sort,” he answered. “I need employment. I’ve been trying to find work nearly a month now, but with neither references nor friends, there’s nothing. Except, that is, to take the King’s shilling. I’m no coward, miss, and I’ll do that if I must, but—”