An expression of relief washed over the captain’s lined face and a greedy gleam appeared in his eyes. “Hearty?” he repeated eagerly. “Robust?”
“Oh, yes,” Amanda said. “Padji’s style, I’m afraid, is a deal better suited to keeping a fighting army—or navy—in trim. Plain English food, enlivened with a dash of Indian spice.”
From that point on, the captain was hers. Amanda had only to assure him she’d take charge of Padji when they reached British soil, and the matter was settled. The captain agreed to allow Padji to cook his way to England.
Padji expressed his gratitude in his usual fashion. He dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of Amanda’s frock. “Oh, generous mistress. Oh, kind and wise—”
“Get up,” Amanda snapped. “Don’t grovel. You disgust the captain.”
Padji scrambled to his feet.
“Furthermore,” Amanda went on, “while we are on board this ship, I am not your mistress. Captain Blayton is your master, and you will obey him absolutely, or he will flog you. He has been exceedingly kind to take you on, considering the difficulty you’ve caused him. You will cause no further problems, do you understand?” She could only hope Padji understood that poisoning crew or passengers must be considered a problem.
Padji nodded, all humility, then turned to the captain. “Oh, wise and generous master,” he said, “how may I serve you?”
Amanda stood at the railing, watching Bengal dissolve into the distance, and with it seven years of her life. So had she watched England recede on the grey, late spring day she and her parents had fled financial ruin and humiliation.
Not that they’d been entirely ruined. Roderick had managed to salvage the manor house in Yorkshire at least, and it would be awaiting her. Humiliation, too, was perhaps an exaggeration. Mama was oblivious, as she was to virtually everything. Papa, who’d spent most of his life pretending all was well—regardless what facts loudly contradicted—had evidently come to believe it. At the time, Amanda had felt she alone was aware that her mother was hopelessly ill, her father had just lost a fortune, and she had lost her betrothed in consequence.
Though nothing at all was wrong, in Papa’s view, India and Roderick were expected to set it all right. Papa had made his fortune there, and met his wife. He must have believed he could return to a happier past. He returned, and India killed first his wife, then him, in less than a year.
Though Amanda had mourned them, she could not say she missed them. All the life before their passing seemed too much like a troubled dream. She had simply looked on, always outside, always helpless. When they’d gone at last, the sad dream had ended.
Amanda would miss the rani though, for she was solid and real, the product of a harsh Oriental reality. She’d embraced and welcomed Amanda into her world, where Amanda had found a friend, a sister, even a mother. Padji formed part of that welcoming world. No wonder that, after the first moment’s stunned dismay, Amanda’s heart had soared with relief. In a moment, the huge Indian had become her bulwark, and she no longer felt so alone and vulnerable.
Oh, certainly she had her companion and her maid, Bella. Both were fond of her, but they could never understand how afraid she was of England. She’d needed Padji, and he, needing her, had come. Perhaps it was Fate, as he claimed.
One could only hope the princess would forgive both her friend and her servant. Yet she must. She knew how difficult it was for mere mortals to manage Padji.
The Princess herself had said that once he got an idea into his head, no power on earth could get it out again. He’d seemed uncharacteristically remiss the whole time his mistress had related last night’s story, and very unhappy when she’d given Amanda the Laughing Princess. Or had Amanda only imagined that? She was no longer certain what she imagined, what was part of the story and what was not. The goddess Anumati, the marauders, the vindictive husband, the false lover—layer upon layer the tale had unfolded, like the petals of a lotus. Even at the end, Amanda had felt there must be more.
The robbery brought more. It had seemed another piece, another unfolding petal, opening and drawing Amanda towards the dark centre of its heart... dark, like the passage last night, and dangerous.
She winced, recollecting the strong fingers relentlessly prying hers loose from the figure. Of course the thief must be strong. The masculine form she’d watched through the palanquin shutters had seemed so slender next to Padii’s bulk, yet the robber had felled the muscular servant with a single, well-aimed blow. When he’d fled before the pursuing bearers, the thief had moved with cat grace, leaping lightly into the shadows. Then, out of the shadows he’d leapt upon her, and she had felt his taut, merciless strength.
Why had he not knocked her unconscious as well? Surely that would have been simpler than wrestling with her for a piece of wood. Moreover, he would have ensured her silence — and oblivion.
Smoke and the scent of agarwood ... rough muslin and the crushing trap of hard muscle ... a long body pressed to her back… and the confusion, black and hot. Amanda shuddered at the recollection. Turning from the hypnotic sea, she found an intent, blue-eyed gaze upon her.
The man looked away to the ocean.
In his hair gleamed the golden light of the sun and in his eyes the glistening sea. Amanda smiled. The rani’s description of her English lover would aptly describe a considerable portion of the British male population. In any case, this man’s eyes were not the shifting, unreliable colour of the sea, but deep, deep blue. Even at a distance of several yards, Amanda had not mistaken that. He wore no hat, and the ocean breeze tumbled and tossed his thick, dark gold hair.
His profile ought to have been sculpted, she thought with critical appraisal: the high forehead and clear ridge of brow, the aquiline nose, the firm, well-shaped jaw. She sensed a slight movement then, and hastily withdrew her gaze.
He was undoubtedly handsome, but that was no excuse for staring at him as though she was a cobra intent upon her next meal. Furthermore, any man so splendidly attractive must surely be vain, accepting as his due the admiring gazes of scores of stunning women, which Amanda most assuredly was not. Not to mention it was silly at her age... Lud, she must be overtired.
Without sparing him another glance, Amanda made her way back to her cabin.
***
Bloody hell. Over a million square miles of subcontinent, vessels swarming up and down the coasts, and the curst Indian was aboard this ship.
Not until early afternoon, when the Evelina had sailed out into the Bay of Bengal, had word trickled down from crew to passengers about the cook’s replacement. Not until very late in the day had Philip discovered who the new cook was.
Philip had, wisely, he’d thought, kept within the cabin until they’d sailed well beyond reach of Calcutta. He knew the rani’s spies must be mingling among the crowds at the docks. He knew better than to let them catch a glimpse of him in daylight
Escaping the cramped cabin at last, he’d come above for a preliminary scout of the deck. He’d scarcely taken in his surroundings when his gaze lit upon a turbaned giant, standing by the ship’s bell. The massive brown being gravely listened to a mate, who explained the six four-hour watches and pointed out the inadvisability of tardiness in producing the daily ration of grog. The few words the giant spoke merely confirmed his identity. Philip never mistook a voice.
Luckily, he’d been staring at the Indian’s broad back, and Padji hadn’t seen him. Philip had slipped away to the stern to weigh his options. He considered stealing a lifeboat, but instantly discarded that notion. He couldn’t leave Jessup behind, and he certainly couldn’t take him along. They were trapped.
Philip glanced about him. The woman had left. She must be Miss Cavencourt. The Bullerhams and their staff had boarded shortly after he had, and he’d helped their servants with the trunks. That left three female passengers, and the one standing by the rail seemed far too young to be the widowed companion Randall had described. She was also, obviously, not a servant. Her dress would have told h
im so, even if Philip hadn’t noted unmistakable signs of breeding in her profile and carriage.
He’d sensed something else, though, and he’d stared at her overlong, trying to determine what it was. Some nagging recollection. He swore again. If it nagged, it must be attended to, whatever it was. As if he hadn’t enough to cope with already.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Gales, “Bella is perfectly capable of seeing to your frocks. You’d do better to nap. This morning you looked as though you hadn’t slept a wink, and our interview with the captain cannot have been restful. Padji was most thoughtless to oblige us to tell falsehoods. My conscience is most troubled.” Troubled or no, Mrs. Gales continued steadily with her needlework.
Amanda was bent over her trunk. She’d been examining her frocks, trying to decide what she’d wear for her first dinner at the captain’s table. The blue was more fashionable, but the rose was more becoming... She flushed and pulled herself out of her fantasies. “You weren’t the one that told all the fibs, Leticia.”
“I didn’t contradict you, though, did I? And poor Captain Blayton. Such a dreadful morning he must have had.” She sighed.
Amanda looked up. “He seemed happy enough about replacing his cook so speedily. Nor did he seem remotely displeased to be talking with you near a whole hour after,” she added slyly.
“My dear, I do not find endless miles of ocean nearly so fascinating as you do. We shall see enough of it, I daresay, and there is no harm in allowing a harassed gentleman to unburden himself.”Older gentlemen did tend to confide in Mrs. Gales. She was well-rounded and comfortable in form, and equally comfortable in personality. Having no pretensions to beauty, the widow was neither vain nor flirtatious, but a sensible, well-bred, and tolerant female. Perhaps that was why so many mature men were drawn to her. One could not be amazed to learn the captain had, so soon after meeting her, commenced confiding his woes.
Amanda frowned at a crease in the bodice of the blue muslin. “I take it more than Padji harassed him, then?”
“I’m afraid so. Captain Blayton has apparently fallen victim of the whims of the aristocracy. He was obliged to leave Mr. Larchmere behind in order to take on an invalid solicitor and his valet The Marquess of Hedgrave’s solicitor,” Mrs. Gales added significantly. “Naturally, a mere ‘Honourable’ must give way.”
“How sick is this man?” Amanda asked. “He can’t be seriously unwell if he undertakes a long sea voyage.”
“But that is just the point, my dear, and no wonder the captain is so provoked. Mr. Wingle was carried on board and, according to Captain Blayton, looked even worse than the cook he hadn’t dared move from Calcutta! Did you ever hear the like?”
The blue-eyed man was the valet, then. Miss Cavencourt’s colour rose once more. She let the lid of the trunk fall shut. “It seems most inconsiderate to me,” she said, ruthlessly squelching a flutter of disappointment. “This is hardly a hospital ship, and I daresay we’ll all be tried enough with Mrs. Bullerham’s digestion.”
“Mrs. Bullerham’s only problem is a revolting tendency to overeat,” said Mrs. Gales with a sniff. “I expect she’ll be running Padji ragged demanding special teas and broths, and complaining the whole time. When I heard the news, I was nearly as irritated as the captain. Though Mr. Larchmere is rather full of himself, he does relate the most charming anecdotes, and I had counted on him to relieve the tedium of our mealtimes at least. Not that the captain is tedious,” she added, “but he is responsible for everything. One cannot expect him to carry the entire burden of entertainment. I do not blame him a whit for feeling as he does. I should feel put upon myself. Yet, as I told him, the Whitestones have always been high-handed. One might as well complain of the ocean being damp, you know.”
Amanda sat back on her heels. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “Did you say Whitestone? Whom do you mean?”
“Richard Whitestone, Marquess of Hedgrave, my dear,” Mrs. Gales said patiently. “Very high-handed they all are. Or were, since he’s the last of his branch of the family. His heir presumptive is a distant cousin, I believe. There is the marquess, half a world away, yet the commander of an East Indiaman must do his bidding, regardless who is inconvenienced. Not that one is surprised, when most of the East India Company dances to Lord Hedgrave’s tune.” She shook her head. “Really, Amanda, I must insist you lie down and rest. You are as white as a sheet.”
***
“He’s far too sick to undertake a voyage of any sort,” the ship’s surgeon said brusquely as he followed Philip out of the cabin. “Just as I told Mr. Groves last night. Kit’s fever, it’s not like any I’ve ever seen.” He paused. “Well, not since this morning, actually. Our cook showed similar symptoms.”
For a moment, Philip felt ill himself. So that was how the murderous Indian had gotten on board the ship. But Jessup would not die, Philip told himself. He would not.
“The physician in Calcutta seemed to think my master risked greater danger in remaining,” he said, in as placating tones as he could manage. “The climate had already weakened his constitution, and the doctor believed he’d not survive the monsoon season. Surely his case isn’t hopeless, Mr. Lambeth. I was given to understand the present ailment resulted from ingesting tainted food.”
The surgeon continued on towards the upper deck. “No surprise, that. Confounded Indian food,” he muttered. “Spiced so hot you never know what you’re eating.” He scowled. “Blayton’s a damned fool, hiring that Indian. Miss Cavencourt herself admitted her sister-in-law couldn’t stomach the man’s cooking.”
The queasy feeling washed through Philip again. He blamed the rolling vessel.
“The Indian was employed by Miss Cavencourt’s family?” he asked with no more than ordinary polite curiosity. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Was. Unreliable, like all of ‘em. Not a native you could trust as far as you could throw him. A sneaking runaway, that one. Admitted it himself-—boasted, even. Should have been flogged, to my way of thinking. But the lady stood up for him, and who’s going to contradict Lord Cavencourt’s sister?” Mr. Lambeth hesitated a moment, then added reluctantly, “Still and all, she don’t seem a fool, and the Indian seems to worship the ground she walks on. Whatever he gave Saunders seemed to do the man some good. Maybe you can get him to mix up one of them messes for your master. Worst it can do is kill him, and he’s not likely to last more than a week anyhow.”
On this uplifting note, the surgeon took his leave.
Cold-hearted swine.
Philip returned to the cabin. Jessup lay upon his stomach, moaning faintly.
“Is it very bad, old man?” Philip asked softly.
“Unh.”
“Are you thirsty? Can I give you some water?”
“Nunh.”
“You have to take something. You’ve got to keep up your strength, soldier,” Philip said with an attempt at heartiness.
Under the rusty brown stubble, Jessup’s normally ruddy flesh lay flaccid and damp, a jaundiced green. The whites of the eyes he painfully opened had turned pale yellow, webbed with spidery red lines, and the brown irises were cloudy, unseeing. He mumbled something. Philip bent closer.
“Throw... me... over,” came the gasping words.
Philip swallowed. “Can’t,” he said. “They’ll keelhaul me. Just isn’t done. You’re going to have to hang on. But of course you will,” he added encouragingly. “Fifty thousand pounds, and half that’s yours, my lad. There it waits, safe and snug in the bottom of the trunk. You’re not going to pass up twenty-five thousand quid, are you? We’ll get you a pair of roly-poly tarts, one for each arm. And we’ll dress you like a lord—shining boots from Hoby, one of Locke’s hats, and Weston’s best cut of suit. It’s Weston now, you know, for the Beau’s brought him into fashion.”
On through the long afternoon and into the twilight, Philip sat by his servant and talked until he was hoarse, because words were all he could offer. He must give the man reason to live, to hold on. If Jessup held on this night,
if he managed to sleep a bit, perhaps he’d wake stronger tomorrow. Perhaps he’d swallow a bite then, and grow stronger yet.
If and if, perhaps and maybe. Philip Astonley had never felt so helpless since the day, fifteen years ago, he’d made his decision. Was this the end of it, or the dream that never quite came true, but never quite proved false, either? Trapped on a ship bound for England, his one friend in the world about to die, his worst enemy about to kill him? The Falcon had always known he’d be murdered one day. He was not afraid to die. He was simply curious: Would Padji snuff him out quickly, or would the giant take his time, to draw the thing out with supreme, unruffled Indian patience?
However the end came, it would be his own damned fault, Philip reflected disgustedly. Rage edged to the surface again. The rani... imbecilic Randall... the woman...
Jessup groaned. Banishing his growing fury, the Falcon focused mind and energy on keeping his servant alive.
Chapter Four
Morning came at last, and Jessup finally fell into exhausted sleep. He was sinking, though. His colour had deteriorated to grey.
Philip recalled the surgeon’s words: “Maybe you can get him to mix up one of those messes for your master.” He’d have to hazard it. There was a chance the Indian would recognise him. On the other hand, Jessup at present had no chance at all.
After all, Philip—in the disguise of a plump, prosperous hookah merchant, complete with beard and thick padding— had merely passed Padji briefly in the hallway of the rani’s palace. For the robbery, he’d shaved and foregone the padding. Thus Padji was unlikely to equate the merchant with the robber. Would he note a resemblance between Mr. Brenuck, valet, and the thief, though? Perhaps not. Philip had, as usual, disguised his voice that night. The Falcon could mimic virtually any masculine voice he heard, and more than a few feminine ones. What Padji had heard was an excellent imitation of the Bhonsla Raja.