“Guard the door,” he ordered. “If anyone comes, divert them. I want but a moment. When you hear me cry out, run quickly, as I told you.”
Amanda nodded. Clenching her teeth to stop their chattering, she moved to the doors. She had to strain to hear anything above her thundering heartbeats. To steady herself, she fixed her mind on counting out the passing seconds. She’d just reached two hundred when Padji’s voice rang out, and she dashed through the door and round to the side of the stables.
The first startled whinny swelled into a cacaphony of shrieks and crashes. The stablemen rushed towards the noise, then swiftly scattered as a herd of terrified horses thundered down upon them. The crowded courtyard erupted into chaos. Cursing coachmen leapt to control their panicked teams. Screaming passengers ran every which way, tripping over baggage and each other. Grooms darted among the flailing hooves, some to drag guests to safety, others to capture the maddened animals.
The uproar without rapidly alerted those within, and in minutes the inn emptied most of its human contents into the courtyard’s pandemonium.
Under cover of the tumult, Amanda and Padji easily slipped unheeded into the enormous hostelry.
The sprawling inn was a nightmarish maze of corridors, yet Padji never hesitated. He headed straight past the public dining room and down a passage to the left. There, to Amanda’s consternation, stood a tall servant, wielding a pistol. He shouted a warning. Padji never paused. He caught the man by the shoulder and flung him against the wall. The servant subsided into a heap.
They turned into another hallway, where another armed guard waited. Padji flung him out of his path with a negligent motion that belied the strength of his arm. So it continued endlessly.
Time and again, Amanda watched one careless blow throw a man several feet, to crash into walls or timbers, and sink, unconscious, to the floor. As she skirted the bodies, she fervently hoped Padji had not broken their skulls. She had small time for pity or anxiety, however. She could only follow blindly, and pretend it wasn’t happening. Always another turning, another guard, another hall beyond. Would it never end?
“It’s a warren,” she gasped as she sidestepped yet another sad heap of unconscious human. “How the devil do you expect to find—”
“Hush, mistress.” Padji stopped short, and hauled her back round the corner they’d just turned.
She heard footsteps hurrying towards them.
“Who’s there?” a voice called. “What the devil’s up? What’s all that racket?”
“Dear God,” she whispered. “It’s Mr. Wringle.”
Padji nodded. “Quick, mistress. Go out to him, and draw him back this way.”
She stared at her servant in horror.
“Do it.” He pushed her forward.
Amanda crushed her hat down low over her forehead and, limbs shaking, rounded the corner once more.
“You there!” Wringle called. “Where you think you be goin’? This here area’s private.”
Amanda staggered back a pace. “Bloody hell,” she croaked in a fair imitation of a drunken groom. “Where’s the dammed privy?”
“Ain’t no privy this way.” Wringle stomped closer, his eyes narrowed. “How’d you get so far, anyhow? Didn’t the others tell you—” He paused and peered suspiciously at her. “You ain’t no lad,” he growled as he reached for her arm.
Amanda jerked away and darted back the way she’d come. She rounded the corner, then jumped clear in the nick of time. Padji charged, caught Wringle, and with one graceful sweep of his hand, knocked him unconscious.
Within the cozy parlour, two men faced each other across a linen-draped table. If they were aware of the riot out of doors, they gave no sign. At any rate, a host of armed and well-trained men stood between them and external distractions. Lord Hedgrave had paid handsomely for both privacy and security. It was not his business to worry, but that of the men he’d paid. At the moment, only one concern appeared to possess him.
“It’s a wooden statue,” he said, gazing with displeasure at the Laughing Princess. “This is not what I requested.”
“The Falcon had but one opportunity to study the rani’s residence,” Philip said. “He’d made a careful study of her character, though, previously. He knew she must have hidden it very cleverly, or she’d not have managed to keep it so long.”
Lord Hedgrave glanced at the figure briefly, then at Philip, more consideringly.
“Many curious objects adorned her chambers,” Philip continued. “This one the Falcon found most fascinating of all.” He took up the statue and lightly caressed it. “He’d seen similar figures before, many times. Usually, however, such talismans are crudely carved and quite small, because they’re meant to be worn. This I think you’d agree would make a most uncomfortable pendant.”
“I see,” said Lord Hedgrave.
Philip took out his knife.
“I presume the man already checked,” the marquess said.
“That was neither necessary nor advisable.”
The knife dug delicately into one of the drapery folds that lay beneath the figure’s tiny hands. A curved sliver of wood broke away. Philip repeated the operation at the fold beneath the belly, and removed another narrow crescent of wood. Then he lifted away the curved piece representing the belly itself. Within the statue lay a mound of shimmering white.
“Good God,” the marquess breathed.
Philip took out the great, tsar-shaped pearl and held it up to the light. “The Tear of Joy,” he said. “Perfect, isn’t it? The faintest tinge of rose. Lovely colour, and quite flawless. Some would say this was a pearl beyond price. Certainly it has cost some of us death.” He held the pearl out to the marquess. “I ought to warn you it’s cursed,” he added with a mocking smile.
A small smile of satisfaction began to curve Lord Hedgrave’s stern mouth as he reached for the pearl. Then Philip felt a rash of air at his back and saw the marquess’s countenance freeze, even as his hand did, while the colour swiftly drained from his face.
A familiar warning chill sliced down Philip’s neck. He whirled round ... to find himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.
At the other end, holding a pistol with two steady hands, stood Miss Cavencourt. Behind her, also pointing a pistol, stood Padji.
“The knife,” said Miss Cavencourt.
Philip carefully set his knife upon the table.
“The pearl,” she said.
His gaze locked with glittering gold. Hard. Merciless. In that moment, he knew she’d not hesitate to kill him.
She put out one hand. Without a word, without releasing his gaze, he dropped the pearl into it.
“No!” the marquess screamed. He shot round the table and lunged at Amanda, who quickly retreated. In the same instant, Philip caught a flash of metal, as Padji cracked his weapon against Lord Hedgrave’s skull. The marquess sank to the floor.
It had all happened in a heartbeat, and even as she’d backed away, Miss Cavencourt’s pistol remained trained on Philip. He’d not moved a muscle.
“He’d better not be dead,” she warned Padji in a hard, quiet voice. “I told you not to kill him.”
“He lives, mistress. It was but a little tap. In a short while, he wakes, and I give him something to drink. Then he will not wish to pursue the matter, I think. A little poison,” he explained reassuringly to Philip. “It will not kill him, for my mistress tells me that would be unwise. He is a great prince, and his death would cause some annoying outcry.” He paused briefly. “A mere thief, however, is another matter, is it not, mistress?”
Miss Cavencourt shrugged and lowered her pistol. She coolly stepped past Philip and collected the pieces of the mutilated Laughing Princess. The Indian’s gun was pointed straight at Philip’s head. The Falcon stood motionless. Only his eyes followed her. Despise her? How could he have dared? She was magnificent.
Miss Cavencourt did not spare him another glance. Statue and pearl cradled safely in her hands, she slipped from the room as quiet
ly as she’d entered.
Goodbye, darling.
Philip turned his gaze to the Indian. Padji pushed the door closed with his foot.
“You must not trouble your heart, Falcon,” he said. “You brought your master what he wanted. The object simply slipped from your hands. Such things happen.”
“You’re going to kill me,” Philip said.
Padji nodded sadly. “It is my dharma.”
“I pray you will not trouble your tender heart over that,” Philip answered calmly. “I’m not afraid to die.”
“Nay, only afraid to live, O Falcon. Such a fool you are. Like this one.” Padji nudged the marquess’s inert body with his foot. “He thinks the pearl is what he wants. A fool.”
“I see we English are all fools, where you and the rani are concerned,” Philip said. “This was all some sort of elaborate trap, wasn’t it? Miss Cavencourt was simply the means to get you here, and you were to be the instrument of revenge. Yet you say you’re not going to kill him.”
“So it is. He must live. His fate is not yet unfolded.”
“And what of Amanda? Or doesn’t anyone care what becomes of her?” Philip scowled. “Evidently not. You and the rani left her to my tender mercies, didn’t you?”
“Merely a painful education,” said Padji amiably. “Her heart was too trusting. She is wiser now. Be at ease, Falcon. The rani will look after her daughter.”
“She’s no kin to that witch,” Philip coldly returned.
Padji came away from the door. “You are clever, yet you are blind as well. It is the rani’s own blood runs in the veins of the mistress you betrayed. Her mother’s grandmother and the grandmother of the Rani Simhi were sisters.”
“No,” Philip said, aghast. “Amanda is not—”
“Her mother was weak, and so her heartless world destroyed her. They despised her for her tainted blood. It will not be the same with the daughter. The rani will see to it. Now, take up your blade,” Padji politely invited. “I prefer not to kill you in cold blood.”
Not the rani’s kin. That was impossible. Yet what did it matter, after all?
Philip reached for his knife, though he knew the exercise was futile. He would die, of course. Without the element of surprise, he stood no chance against Padji.
As the Falcon’s fingers closed about the handle, the room, and the moment, swept away in a rush of images. The ship... soft hands cool upon his burning face... a full moon gleaming above and the gentle splash of waves below... the stories... the scent... patchouli. Amanda, shrieking with laughter in the snow... careening crazily about the ice, her hands trustingly clasped in his. Amanda in his arms, her mouth ripe and soft, opening to his... her body, slim and sensuous, curving into his touch... gone... slipped through his hands.
He took up the knife and met Padji’s enigmatic gaze.
“Please,” the Falcon said, though there was no pleading in his cool, quiet voice. “Tell her I love her.”
Chapter Twenty
Lord Danbridge looked up from his letter as the door opened and his caller entered.
“You took your time about it,” said his lordship.
“Press of business,” the visitor answered. The door closed silently behind him.
Lord Danbridge rose from his chair and crossed the room to shake his guest’s hand. “Well, I’m glad to see you— though you have left me a pretty mess to untangle.”
“Be thankful it wasn’t the one I had to untangle for myself. Two grieving—or is it greedy?—widows, one hysterical solicitor, and one marquess promising to stick his spoon in the wall. Not to mention my loyal servant, who has spent the last month working endless variations on the theme of I told you so.’ Bloody insolent devil he is. I ought to have packed him off years ago,” Lord Felkoner complained.
“Hedgrave has recovered, I understand.”
“Physically, yes. Padji treated him to one of his milder poisons. I rather wish the Indian had exercised less restraint. I’ve had all I can do to keep his lordship quiet in Derbyshire. Now he’s well, he refuses to be quiet any longer. If I won’t go after them—which I assured him I wouldn’t— he’ll do it himself, he says. I brought him with me because he wants watching, and because I’d hoped you might be able to reason with him.”
Lord Danbridge shook his head sadly. “Ah, my lad, it’s a bad business. I never should have brought you into it.” He moved away and gestured to a chair. “‘My lad,’ indeed,” he muttered. “Still thinking of you as the wild young man I met all those years ago. It’s ‘my lord’ now—and I don’t mind saying I’m glad for you, Philip.”
Viscount Felkoner accepted the offered chair. His host dropped into the seat opposite.
“How did you get out of it alive, by the way?” Danbridge asked.
“Simple enough. The Indian didn’t kill me. Don’t ask me why. He is as inscrutable as he is immense. I woke to a thundering headache and the melodious sounds of his lordship, Marquess of Hedgrave, retching into the carpet.’’
“Poor Dickie,” Lord Danbridge murmured. “Dashed hothead, too, just like you, and just as stubborn. Never expected to inherit either, you know. Three older brothers in the way in his case. That’s why he went to India. Got into scrapes, too, but earned his fortune, just as he’d planned. Hadn’t planned for the woman, though. One never does. Of course, you couldn’t understand. I daresay she’s well past her prime now. Then ... ah, Philip. A wildcat she was, the most beautiful wildcat I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
He smiled nostalgically into the empty grate. “Too fiery and dangerous for my tastes. Even her husband was afraid of her. Not Dickie. She was just what he wanted. He never cared for safe women—safe anything, for that matter. I think he craved trouble the way some men crave drink, or opium.”
Philip stirred restlessly in his chair.
“Well, you don’t want to listen to me maundering on about the old days,” his host said more briskly.
“I gathered you had a reason for sending for me.”
“Yes.” Lord Danbridge leaned forward slightly. “I’m aware Dickie’s back on this hobby-horse of his. He’s written to Miss Cavencourt, you see. She showed me the letter herself—” Philip tensed. “You’ve seen her?”
“Oh, I’ve seen her,” came the rueful answer. “Whirled in like all heaven’s avenging angels, and gave me what for. Don’t know how she tied me to the business.”
“Padji,” said Philip. “He knows everything.”
“In any case, she told me to warn ‘his deranged lordship’—those were her exact words—that if he or his hired villains came within five miles of her, she’d take her story to the papers.”
Philip bit back a smile. “I imagine she’ll express herself equally vividly to his lordship.”
“No. She said she would not attempt to communicate with him because he was a prime candidate for Bedlam who ought to be kept under permanent restraint for the safety of the nation. She’d come to me, she said, because she assumed I had some modicum of sense. It is my delightful responsibility to inform Dickie that if he doesn’t steer clear, she’ll bring down a whopping scandal on his benighted head. I think she’ll do it, too.”
“She will.”
“Which means, I’m afraid, that your illustrious name must be dragged in the mud as well. Not that she mentioned you by name,” Lord Danbridge added. “I guessed she hadn’t made the connexion.”
“She rarely reads the papers,” Philip answered. “Besides, we’ve kept the details quiet. Philip Astonley, very recently returned from the East, has succeeded to the title of Viscount Felkoner. Few would connect that fellow with the Falcon.” He paused, his hands tightening on the chair arms. “She didn’t mention the Falcon?”
“ ‘Hired criminals. The lowest sort of thieves and thugs.’ The Falcon never came up by name, no.”
“I see. Where is she now?”
Lord Danbridge looked at him. “You needn’t worry Hedgrave will find her. She’s—”
“Is she still in London?�
� Philip demanded.
“Heavens, no. She came to me because she was intending to return to India, she said, and didn’t want to be pestered with any more of Dickie’s ‘minions.’”
Philip shot up from his chair. “No. She wouldn’t. Dammit, man, when did you see her?”
“Near a fortnight ago. I wrote you immediately after.” Danbridge struggled up from his chair. “What in blazes is this about?”
Lord Felkoner turned away from his mentor’s sharp scrutiny and headed for the door. “A woman,” he muttered. “A woman, devil take her.” He slammed out.
Mid-afternoon found the new Lord Felkoner dashing wildly about the Gravesend docks, collaring sailors and dockworkers. In his wake trailed an exhausted and increasingly exasperated Jessup.
At length, the servant caught up with his master, and grabbed ms aristocratic arm. “They ain’t lyin’ to you, guv,” he shouted. “The bloody ship’s gone. It’s been gone near a week, and her with it. You’re actin’ like a bleedin’ lunatic.”
Philip shook him off. “There are other ships. She’s only a few days’ lead. We might catch up at Lisbon.”
“We?” Jessup repeated. “You ain’t gettin’ me on no more ships. No thanks, your almighty lordship. I ain’t packin’ for you because it’s a damn fool thing to do, and I ain’t goin’ with you, because that’s crazier still. You set foot in India and you’re a dead man, and I don’t plan to watch you die or die alongside of you.” He saluted smartly, then turned on his heel and stomped off.
Jessup’s aching feet and empty stomach took him as far as the nearest chophouse.
He entered, fell into the first vacant chair, planted his elbows on the table, and bellowed for service.
A moment later, a shadow fell upon the table.
“Is that you, Mr. Wringle, making such a dreadful roar? Cross, are you? Well, that’s what comes of not taking proper care of yourself, ain’t it?”
Jessup lifted startled eyes to the vision standing by his shoulder. Then he blinked. Twice. “Bella, my lass, that ain’t you?” he whispered incredulously.
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