The stranger coolly strode past him to enter the shop.
With stiff fingers, Philip withdrew his pocket watch and stared blindly at it a moment before turning slightly to peer into the window.
The stranger, hat in hand, was speaking to Miss Cavencourt. Clutching a book to her chest, she stared at him. She appeared to answer, then turned away, dropped the book upon the counter, and hurried to the door.
She darted through the entrance and on down the street, utterly oblivious to Philip, who hastened after her. Her mysterious accoster made no attempt to follow, Philip saw with a backward glance, yet she continued hurrying down the street. She was about to cross – directly into the path of an oncoming cart – when Philip ran up and grabbed her arm. He pulled her back from the road and into a narrow alley.
Her bosom was heaving and her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. He drew her deeper into the shadows, lest curious passersby remark her agitation.
“I want to go home now,” she said quaveringly. “I want to go home, Mr. Br—” The rest caught on a sob.
She turned to him and pressed her hot face to his chest. Automatically, his arms went around her, to hold her as her control broke and the sobs racked her slim body.
Philip stared over her bonnet at the grimy wall opposite. He tried to make his mind blank and hard, because that must harden his heart as well. He silently prayed she’d calm soon, before he weakened.
He could not kiss her tears away, nor permit his hands to stroke her back. That sort of unservantlike behaviour would, when she was herself again, create difficulties. He’d spent too much time winning her trust, making her dependent upon him, to risk any awkwardness now. He would not let himself succumb to pity... or to the coaxing warmth of her slender body.
Drat her. If she didn’t stop soon—
To his unutterable relief, she abruptly drew back. He released her and produced his handkerchief.
“You think I’m mad,” she said brokenly into the linen.
“That’s nothing new,” he said. “I’ve always thought so.”
Her automatic but feeble attempt at a smile sent a darting ache through him.
“Who was the blackguard?” he asked.
“Nobody. One of my moth – my parents’ friends.”
“A friend, I take it, you didn’t like overmuch.”
She stared at the handkerchief she was twisting into knots. “No, I didn’t – don’t.”
“I hope he was not disrespectful, miss.”
“Oh, no, not at all. Mr. Fenthill is the very soul of courtesy,” she said tightly. “But I am not. It is very difficult for me to behave politely with people I – I dislike. Impossible, actually. And so – and so I made a cake of myself. Really, I am sorry. Now all of York will pity you for having a lunatic as your employer.” She thrust the crumpled handkerchief into her reticule.
“Not if they learn how grossly you overpay me,” he said with feigned lightness. “Are you sufficiently composed to depart this filthy alleyway, miss?”
She nodded, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Very good. Let us extricate Mrs. Gales – forcibly, if need be – from her debate with the linen draper, shall we? You will both want a cup of tea and a bite to eat before we start back.”
The night was cold, but he’d become accustomed to that. Or perhaps Philip merely ignored it, just as he’d ignored the noisome heat of Calcutta. Idly he paced the garden walkway, smoking his cheroot while he turned the puzzle over in his mind. He perceived a problem, a major obstacle, and he was certain today’s episode formed a part.
No one visited Miss Cavencourt except the vicar, who had called once only. The villagers Philip had encountered were wary and tight-lipped. The few who asked after her employed the mournful tones of those enquiring after the mortally ill. He scented scandal or tragedy of some kind, yet none of his spy’s skills could elicit the information he wanted. The villagers might gossip among themselves, but with strangers they were stubbornly aloof.
Exceedingly frustrating that was. Until he had the facts, he could not deal with the problem, and until he dealt with it, she’d remain here, hidden, while her statue remained inaccessible in the York bank.
Philip was aware of the light before he actually saw it. He glanced back at the house, his quick survey showing none but darkened windows until... ah, the old schoolroom.
“Oh, miss,’’ said Bella softly as she closed the schoolroom door behind her. “I knowed you was restless. Another bad dream, was it?”
Amanda sat huddled in a child-sized chair. She pulled her dressing gown more tightly about her. “No. At least, not tonight. It was today, and I was wide awake.”
“Miss?” Her round face creased in bafflement, Bella crossed the room to join her mistress. The abigail pulled a low stool forward, sat, and took Amanda’s hand. “Lawd, you’re cold as ice,” she said as she chafed the frigid fingers.
“I saw Mr. Fenthill.”
Bella’s busy hands stilled.
“Actually, it was more than seeing him,” Amanda said. “He spoke to me.”
“Oh, miss, how could he? But there, ain’t that just like him?” the maid added indignantly. “Never did think of anybody’s feelings but his. No wonder you come home so pale and not like yourself at all. And hardly touched your dinner, either, Mrs. Gales said. She thought it was—” Bella caught herself up short. “Well, you was working too hard, is what she thought.”
Amanda’s fingers tightened round her maid’s. “She doesn’t know, does she? I know you’d never tell her, but she may have heard from others.”
“She don’t know, miss, and she’s too much a lady to pry, so don’t you go worrying yourself. Not that you should, anyhow. Because she’s likewise too much a lady to judge you on account of what your poor ma did.”
“But it wasn’t Mama’s fault, either.” Amanda disengaged her hand, then rose and moved to the window. After a moment she said, “It wasn’t. I don’t think it was anyone’s fault.”
“Mebbe so,” was the doubtful response, “but he could of let her alone, couldn’t he? Her a married woman, a mother, and old enough to be his ma.”
“She could not have been a mother at the age of ten, Bella. In any case, perhaps if he had been more mature, Mr. Fenthill might have found the will to keep away.” Amanda sighed. “But that’s all ‘if,’ and Mama was all ‘ifs’ and ‘might have beens.’ If only she’d had an easier time bearing me, if only she hadn’t had the accidents . . . Lud, sometimes I think, if only Papa had let her go when she begged him. She was so miserable, and there was the opium to make everything go away. If he’d let her go, and Mr. Fenthill had taken her away and made her happy, she might have found the strength to break her terrible habit. Mr. Fenthill loved her. He might have helped her.”
“He only helped her to more of her poison, Miss Amanda, which you know as well as I do. Don’t you be making excuses for him. I declare, you’d find some excuse for the Devil himself.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Falcon stood motionless by the door, his body poised for flight, his ears alert to sound on every side, even as he concentrated upon the conversation within.
So that was it, simple and sordid. Her mother an opium addict and adultress. The affair with a man ten years her junior had evidently been neither the first nor discreet A long and ugly series of scandals explained Miss Cavencourt’s firm refusal to re-enter Society.
Gad, she’d not been blessed in her parents, had she? What had she said so many months ago? She’d told him her parents were broken. Philip understood now that financial ruin had simply struck the final blow. He could only marvel that her wretched life hadn’t broken her as well.
In the room beyond, the two low, feminine voices continued. Or rather, it was mainly Bella’s voice now, gently scolding and comforting by turns. She was quite right. Amanda was too soft-hearted. Nothing was her mama’s fault or her papa’s, or the doctors’, or even that scurvy Fenthill’s, according to her. T
he next you knew, she’d be inviting the filthy libertine to tea.
Why not? Her dearest friend in Calcutta had been the notorious Rani Simhi. Her devoted cook was one of the deadliest men in all India. Her butler was a master spy and thief. Amanda Cavencourt befriended the people most likely to use and betray her. She was a trusting little fool. A hard life had taught her nothing.
On the other hand, Philip hastily reminded himself as his conscience made ominous noises, she had stolen the statue. Never mind that she’d stolen it back. She’d been as deceitful and underhand as the rani, had even employed accomplices. Hardly the behaviour of a helpless victim.
Philip had just got his conscience in a stranglehold when he heard soft footsteps ascending the stairs. For all his bulk, Padji could tread lightly enough when he chose. Drat the fellow! The Indian spent most of his nights roaming the countryside. Tonight, of all nights, he’d decided to skulk at home instead.
The schoolroom was tucked into the far end of the dark hall. Padji was swiftly climbing the main staircase, which meant one must pass him to reach the backstairs.
Philip moved to the wall opposite the schoolroom and found a door handle. He opened the door and slipped inside, just as Padji reached the head of the stairs.
Philip heard the light tread approach, then pause inches away. He held his breath as the door handle moved. An instant later, he sensed the Indian moving away, then heard the tap upon the schoolroom door.
“Come out, mistress,” Padji said. “Why does the foolish maid keep you in that cold place?”
Philip heard the door squeal faintly as she opened it. James should have oiled it, he thought automatically.
“She doesn’t keep me,” came Miss Cavencourt’s annoyed voice. “Don’t blame Bella for my odd starts. What are you doing, skulking about the house at this hour?”
Padji answered he’d thought he’d heard intruders.
“Well, it was just us, and we were about to return to bed anyhow.”
The three passed Philip’s hiding place. Their low voices faded to a murmur as they descended the stairs.
He waited several minutes after the house fell silent again, then drew a long breath of relief. He’d not moved, had scarcely breathed the whole time Padji had stood by, for the Indian’s senses were as acute as his own.
Now that he could breathe properly, Philip found the air in the room exceedingly close and stale. He stepped back a pace and encountered a solid wall. Gad, no wonder. He’d entered a closet of some sort.
His heart was already pounding when he grabbed the door handle. It didn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing. The latch was stuck—or some part was stuck. In the utter blackness he couldn’t see, and his agile fingers played over the parts to no avail.
Fighting down panic, he reached into his coat for his trusty lock picks . . . and found nothing. He’d changed coats on his return from York, and neglected to transfer his tools. Bloody hell. Not even his knife. What the devil was wrong with him? He’d never been so careless before, never.
This was all her curst fault. He’d been so preoccupied with that swine in York and her hysteria—
He couldn’t breathe. Not enough air here for a mouse, let alone a grown man. A man, he reminded himself, as panic rose in a chilling wave. A man, not a child.
Any fool could deal with a closet door. One need simply think it through in a calm, logical fashion. He’d find a way out. He must. He would not be trapped here all night. Good Gad, not all night!
He raised a fist to pound on the door, then stopped. He couldn’t scream for help. He wanted another deep breath to steady himself, but didn’t dare. Soon no air would remain. He’d suffocate. Better to scream and let them release him. He needn’t explain. Let her discharge him. He’d find another way. Another way, but that would take time— weeks, months perhaps, and all these past weeks’ work would go for naught
He tore his neckcloth from his throat. He could always throttle himself, he thought wildly. But that was madness. Think, Astonly.
He couldn’t think. He never could when this one unreasoning terror caught hold. He couldn’t think and he couldn’t scream, and he would just die here by inches.
No, he would not. Of course he could breathe. He was trapped only. He would go mad, but he would endure.
He leaned back into the corner and slid slowly to the floor. Then he drew his knees up to his chest, just as he had so many times so many years ago, and lay his pounding head upon them.
***
Amanda gritted her teeth, set down the candelabra, and inserted the key in the lock. She had to twist it back and forth a few times before it caught properly. Then she yanked the door open, and her heart wrenched so sharply she had to cling to the frame for support.
For one chilling instant she beheld a death’s head. His face cold white and rigid, Mr. Brentick stared unseeingly straight ahead as though she weren’t there. She wanted to hug him, hold him close, and comfort him. She knew, though, she must not, for that would shame him. She knelt to meet his blank gaze and tried to pretend she found nothing out of the way.
“Mr. Brentick,” she said gently. Her hand crept out to touch his, to call him back to the world.
He blinked, and looked down in a puzzled way at her hand.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” His voice was weak, distant, a stranger’s.
“Do you think you can move your limbs? If you can, I can probably help you up.”
He pulled his arms away from his knees and slowly, with obvious pain, straightened his legs. “It’s all right,” he said. “They’ve merely gone to sleep.” He shook off whatever had seized him and managed a rueful smile. “Not rigor mortis, as I’d thought.”
“Don’t joke about such things,” she said sharply. “You’ve frightened me half to death.”
After a few failed attempts, she managed to pull him upright.
“My legs are like jelly,” he muttered.
“Just lean on me.” She caught him tight about the waist. He was practically a dead weight, but somehow she got him the few feet across the hall to the schoolroom, then onto the window seat. He slumped against the window and bit his lip. He was definitely in pain.
“Muscle cramps,” she said, making her tones firm and matter-of-fact, though she could have wept for him. Wept for him and killed the monster who’d so cruelly tortured a helpless little boy.
With businesslike resolution, she took hold of one leg and began kneading the knotted muscles.
He gasped.
“Trust me, Mr. Brentick. I’ve had years of practice. Mama suffered terrible muscle spasms. They made her scream. This always helped.”
She determinedly wrestled first one, then the other taut calf into submission. When she was done, she looked up to find him gazing warily at her.
“How did you come to rescue me?” he asked.
“I will tell you that,” she said, stepping away from him, “after you explain how you came to be in the closet.”
“I suppose it’s no good to say I was sleepwalking?”
She shook her head.
He swung his feet to the floor, but did not stand up. He simply sat there, studying the floor. She was just opening her mouth to demand an answer when he spoke.
“I was in the garden, smoking, as I do every night, weather permitting. You know I’m not a great one for sleep.”
She didn’t respond.
“I saw the light in this room. It was one o’clock in the morning, so I thought I’d best investigate.”
“I see. Padji suspected intruders as well.”
“Just so. I crept up as quietly as I could,” he went on. “Hearing only your and Miss Jones’s voices, I was about to leave, when I heard someone else coming. I was standing in front of the closet door—not that I knew it was a closet – and so, I slipped behind it, thinking to take the intruder unawares. When I realised it was only Padji, I felt a perfect fool, hiding there. I waited until you’d all go
ne – then I couldn’t get the door open.”
“You should have called for help.”
“I didn’t want to alarm the household.”
“Indeed? You had rather spend the night in a very small closet?”
“Perhaps I was not thinking clearly,” he said.
She sighed. They could go on this way forever, skipping about the subject, and that she couldn’t bear.
“Padji thought you were spying on me,” she said bluntly. “He said he locked you in to teach you a lesson.”
In the tight ensuing silence she heard his breath quicken. Her heart ached for him, for his masculine pride. Yet she had her pride, too. She knew he’d overheard—perhaps intentionally, perhaps not. In any case, it was too late for pretense on either side.
“He doesn’t know,” she said, “but I guessed. That day on the ship when you fell ill, you were delirious. Without realising, you told me a secret. I didn’t entirely understand then, but tonight, when Padji told me what he’d done, I guessed that’s what your father had done and... well, I didn’t want Padji to be the one to release you.”
He turned his head away slightly, to the window. The flickering candlelight threw fitful shadows over the rigid planes of his face.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely audible.
She understood what it cost him to say that, and hastened to salvage his pride as well as her own.
“I imagine you couldn’t help overhearing tonight any more than I could that day,” she said. “I don’t know what you heard, but it must have been quite enough, else you’d not have hidden. I suppose you wanted to spare me embarrassment. You didn’t want me to guess you’d heard my—our family secret. Not that it’s much of a secret. I should have told you the truth today. I’m not ashamed, not really. I just... I didn’t want you to pity me. I’ve had enough of that to last seven lifetimes, I think.”
Another lifetime seemed to pass before he looked towards her. His mouth eased into a faint smile. “In the circumstances, Miss Cavencourt, I don’t dare pity you. You might retaliate in kind. I’ve never been pitied, yet I suspect it must be worse even than that curst closet.” He rose. “The truth is, I was an incorrigible child. A birching only made me laugh. I was afraid of nothing, you see – except, that is, being trapped in a small, closed space. It was the only punishment that worked.”
The Sandalwood Princess Page 16