Thunder & Roses

  "From what I've seen, it's a cursed uncomfortable state." She squeezed his arm, adding softly, "I should have thought that you had been cured of believing in love matches."

  Ross gave her a wry smile. "Once a romantic, always a romantic. It's a fatal affliction, I think. You always did have far more sense than I."

  They came to a bench set in a small sunny glade, and he guided her to it so they could sit down. Traffic sounded faintly in the distance, but they were so surrounded by greenery and floral scents that it was hard to believe that the garden was in the heart of London. "If Weldon withdrew his offer or was run over by a carriage, would you repine?"

  "If he withdrew his offer, I would be a little relieved," she admitted, then gave her cousin a stern governess stare. "However, I don't wish to see him run over, so you are not to push him under a carriage in the belief that you are rescuing me."

  "I have no homicidal intentions," he assured her. "I just wanted to understand how you feel about this marriage."

  "I appreciate your concern," she said, affection warm inside her. Their mothers had been very close, as twins often are, and Ross and Sara had been raised almost as brother and sister. They had always brought their secrets and sorrows to each other, shared their dreams, and gotten into trouble together.

  More often than their mothers realized, it was one of Sara's mischievous ideas that got the cousins into trouble, though Ross always insisted that it was his duty as the male and the elder to take the more severe punishments for their crimes. In a world that thought Lady Sara St. James was a consummate lady—boringly so—Ross was the only one permitted to see her more unruly impulses. If she had had a real brother, she could not have loved him more. "You mustn't worry, my dear. Charles is a perfectly respectable man, and we shall do very well together."

  Her cousin nodded, apparently satisfied, then changed the subject. "A friend of mine has just arrived in London, and I think you would enjoy meeting him. His name is Mikahl Khanauri, but he is called the Falcon among his own people. Since his own title is unpronounceable by British tongues, he is calling himself Peregrine, after the peregrine falcon. Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan. To the best of my knowledge, he is the first Kafir ever to visit Europe."

  "Impressive." Sarah knit her brows as she invoked her memory. "Kafiristan is in the Hindu Kush mountains beyond the North-West Frontier of India, isn't it? Several years ago you wrote that you intended to travel into the area, but it was months until your next letter. By then you were back in India, and you said nothing about the trip to Kafiristan."

  "I may be the only Englishman who has visited there." Ross's face lit up, the passionate scholar showing through his gentlemanly facade. Like Sara, his conventionality was only surface deep—but they both had excellent surfaces. "The Kafirs are remarkable people, unlike any of the other Himalayan tribes. It would be interesting to know their history—there is the most amazing jumble of races and languages in central Asia. In appearance and customs, Kafirs resemble Europeans more than they do their Muslim neighbors. Perhaps they are a Germanic tribe that went east instead of west—they claim to be descendants of Alexander the Great and his men.

  "The Kafir languages are the damnedest ones I've ever come across, every valley with a different dialect. The tribesmen are wild as hawks, and they love personal freedom more than any other people I have ever met." He gave his cousin a laughing glance. "Even the women are allowed to roam about at will, once their chores are done."

  "Clearly they are people of great good sense," Sara said serenely, refusing to rise to her cousin's bait. "Your friend Peregrine is a Kafir nobleman?"

  "There is no aristocracy in the British sense, but he was a man of great influence among them, a mir, which is the Kafir term for a chief." Ross bit his lower lip thoughtfully. "I never grew proficient enough in the language to be sure, but I had the impression that Peregrine was not a native son of Kafiristan. There was a suggestion that he came from somewhere farther west, Turkestan perhaps. Or perhaps his father was a wandering Russian who impregnated a Kafir woman and then left. I never asked about his background, and he never volunteered the information."

  Intrigued, Sara asked, "How did you come to meet him?"

  "He saved my life. Twice, in fact."

  When Sara frowned and opened her mouth for another question, her cousin shook his head. "Believe me, you don't want to know any more than that."

  "Ross!" she said indignantly. "You can't possibly make such a statement without explaining it."

  He chuckled. "The first time he saved me was just after I entered Kafiristan. I had fallen afoul of a group of chaps who misliked my foreignness, and they immediately began debating the best method of effecting my demise. While my understanding of what they said was imperfect, the gist was most unpleasant.

  "At a critical point in the proceedings, Peregrine happened along and was invited to join the fun. Deciding that it would be inhospitable to allow his friends to flay me alive, he challenged my chief captor to some sort of gambling game. As I recall, the stakes were about twenty guineas worth of gold against my life. When Peregrine won, I became his property. He saved me again when he was escorting me back to India. We were attacked by bandits, and I was cornered by two of them when I had run out of ammunition. He intervened to even the odds."

  Sara shuddered, knowing that behind Ross's light words lay the specter of a hideous death. "How many other times have you been nearly murdered in your travels?"

  "I said that you wouldn't want to know." Ross put his arm around her shoulders for a brief, reassuring hug. "You needn't worry when I am out of the country. If only the good die young, I will always come home to England.

  "At any rate, after winning me at gambling, Peregrine took me back to his village and patched me up. Come to think of it, he probably saved my life again by keeping the local quack away from me. When I had recovered enough to take an interest in my surroundings, I was amazed to learn that my kind host spoke very decent English. He was also the cleanest Kafir I ever met, which is one reason why I think that he was born somewhere else."

  Ross paused meditatively. "Perhaps his cleanliness is what made his coloring seem fairer than that of his fellows. Hard to say. Once I saw a Kafir lad who had fallen in a stream, and he was pale as an Englishman, but within a week or two he was back to normal. But I digress. During the months I was Peregrine's guest, we became friends. He has a remarkable mind, shrewd and quick, and he never forgets anything. Europe fascinated him. He asked questions constantly, absorbing every word like a sponge.

  "He must have put what he learned to good use, because when our paths crossed again two years ago in Cairo, he had left Kafiristan and become a very wealthy trader, with interests throughout the Orient. He mentioned that someday he intended to make an extended visit to England, and here he is." Ross gave Sara a smile of cherubic innocence. "A simple enough tale."

  "Your tales always raise more questions than they answer," she commented, her eyes twinkling. "But even if your prince is a savage with gold earrings and a dagger thrust through his beard, I will be glad to receive him because of what he did for you."

  "I was hoping you would say that, for if you receive him, everyone will. But Peregrine is not a savage, though I'm not sure he is precisely civilized, either. He is a remarkable man—not like anyone you have ever met." Ross started to say more, then shook his head. "I should let you draw your own conclusions. May I bring him to your garden party next week? It would be a suitable occasion to introduce Peregrine to a small slice of London society. Less overpowering than a ball."

  "Of course he is welcome. I look forward to meeting him."

  Before Sara could say more, Sir Charles Weldon appeared. She suppressed a guilty start; in the pleasure of talking with her cousin, she had forgotten that Charles was due.

  Ross rose as the other man approached, and they shook hands. "Good morning, Sir Charles. I imagine it is my cousin you have come to visit, so I will take my leave."

  Weldon smi
led genially. "Very tactful of you, Lord Ross. Indeed, I am most anxious to speak with Lady Sara."

  As Ross disappeared from sight, Weldon took Sara's hand and bent over to kiss it. As he did, she examined him approvingly. Even though he was near fifty, her future husband was a fine figure of a man, tall and powerfully built, with the air of understated confidence that success brings. There was only a scattering of gray in his light brown hair, and the lines in his face just made his appearance more distinguished.

  Weldon straightened, his expression intent. Clasping Sara's hand, he asked softly, "You know why I have come, Lady Sara. Dare I hope you will give me the answer I have been praying for?''

  She felt a touch of irritation that he was going through an amorous charade over what was really a practical arrangement. No doubt he thought romance was what she expected. As Ross had remarked, Sara was a cold-blooded creature; most women would have preferred the soft words. Smiling, she said, "If the answer you have been praying for is yes, you are in luck."

  When he heard her reply, his pale blue eyes filled with such fierce triumph that for the first time Sara wondered if his heart was engaged as well as his head. The thought made her uneasy. She was prepared to be a dutiful wife, but if he wanted passionate response, he was doomed to disappointment.

  The hint of dangerous exultation vanished so thoroughly that it must have been imagination. Weldon pulled a small velvet jeweler's box from his pocket and flicked it open with his thumb. The box contained a ring with a diamond so large that Sara drew in her breath in surprise as Weldon slipped it onto her finger. It was a jewel fit for royalty or a really superior courtesan.

  "It's magnificent, Charles." Sara turned her hand, admiring the shimmer of blue fire in the diamond's depths. The stone's natural color was enhanced by the small sapphires that encircled it. Rather gaudy and not at all her style, but very lovely. "Though perhaps a smaller stone would have been better."

  "You don't like it?" he said with a slight edge to his voice.

  Concerned that she had hurt his feelings, Sara glanced up with a quick smile. "The ring is lovely, but the stone is so large that I shall cost you a fortune in ruined gloves."

  He smiled back as he sat down next to her. "I want you to cost me a fortune. You are the best, and you deserve the best."

  This time it was a hint of possessiveness that made Sara uneasy. Becoming betrothed was making her oversensitive. There was no particular mystery to marriage; it was a state most women entered, and once she became more accustomed to the idea, she would no longer start at shadows. She turned the engagement ring on her finger. "You guessed the size exactly right."

  "I didn't guess. Your maid gave me the correct size."

  "Was that necessary?" Sara asked, not at all pleased to learn that her future husband had engaged in a form of spying.

  "Audacity is a necessary ingredient to success, my dear, and I have been very successful." He paused for dramatic effect. "I have just learned something that you might consider another betrothal gift. Your husband will not be a commoner for long—I am going to be created a baron within the next year. I will call myself Lord Weldon of Westminster. Has a nice roll to it, don't you think?" He smiled with vast satisfaction. "While becoming a baroness is a step down for a duke's daughter, this is only the beginning. I will be at least an earl before I die."

  "I would be perfectly content to marry plain Mr. Weldon," Sara said gently, "but I am very pleased that you will be recognized for your achievements." In fact, she thought rather cynically, he was being rewarded less for his undeniable accomplishments than for giving large amounts of money to the Whig party. But since being made a peer was obviously important to him, she was glad for his sake.

  He put his hand over hers. "We must set a wedding date, Sara. I would like the marriage to take place in about three months, perhaps the first week of September."

  "So soon?" she said uncertainly. "I was thinking in terms of six months or a year."

  "Why should we wait so long? We are neither of us children." Weldon's face changed, real tenderness coming into his eyes. "Speaking of children, Eliza wants the wedding to be as soon as possible so she can come live with us. Though she is fond of her aunt and uncle, she says they lack dash."

  Sara smiled. Weldon's love of the eleven-year-old daughter of his first marriage was the trait that had convinced her that he would make an amiable husband. "I'm so glad Eliza approves of me. She is such a darling. Did no one ever tell her that stepmothers are supposed to be wicked?"

  "Eliza has too much good sense to believe fairy tales." Weldon turned to Sara, his eyes intense. "Tell me that you will marry me in September. I don't want to wait."

  He was right—there was no good reason for a long engagement. "Very well, Charles, since that is what you wish."

  Weldon drew her into his arms and sealed their betrothal with a kiss. Sara had guessed that this was coming and prepared herself. She had reached the age of twenty-seven with little experience of kissing, much less what came after. As his powerful arms pulled her against the starched linen of his shirt, she decided that his embrace was not so bad, though rather engulfing, perhaps in time she would come to enjoy kissing. Then his tongue slipped between her lips into her mouth, and she stiffened.

  Immediately he released her, his breathing uneven. 'I'm sorry, Sara," he said apologetically. "For a moment I forgot myself. I did not mean to offend your innocence. That must be saved for our wedding light." There was a hungry, possessive look in his yes as he cupped her cheek with one hand.

  Once more Sara felt a faint thread of alarm. Once more, she suppressed it.

  Chapter 2

  Peregrine turned in a slow circle, scanning the drawing room of his newly acquired suite in the Clarendon Hotel. It was a rather overpowering example of European luxury, replete with gilt furniture, heavy moldings, and mediocre paintings of landscapes and dying animals. Personally he thought the room would be improved by replacing the overstuffed chairs with cushioned divans, but the place would do well enough for the time being.

  Kuram, his Pathan servant, entered the drawing room, resplendent in white turban and red silk tunic. "Mr. Benjamin Slade to see you, Excellency."

  The man who followed Kuram's heels was short, slightly built, and had thinning hair. He was a man who would be easily overlooked, unless one noticed the shrewd gray eyes. Bowing, he said, "It's a pleasure to welcome you to London, Your Highness."

  Peregrine grinned as he shook hands with his visitor. "You and Kuram certainly seem to be enjoying my princeliness, Benjamin. It is not how you behaved in India."

  Slade permitted himself a small smile. "To be j prince enhances your status in London. Even in private, I think it a good thing to maintain the formalities."

  "Doubtless you are right. Care for some tea?"

  Slade accepted the offer. While Kuram went to order refreshments, the Englishman brought his employer up to date on matters of business.

  Peregrine had met Benjamin Slade five years earlier in Bombay. A lawyer by training, Slade had served the East India Company loyally for a decade before being dismissed in a cloud of scandal. After some quiet investigation, Peregrine learned that Slade's business acumen had helped make his superior, a Mr. Wilkerson, a wealthy man. His reward had been to be made a scapegoat for Wilkerson's embezzling.

  Benjamin Slade had been an embittered and desperate man when Peregrine paid a call and offered him two things: a job and revenge. Slade had accepted both. Within a month, new evidence came to light that destroyed Wilkerson's career and sent him to prison. While the lawyer knew that the evidence must have been manufactured, he made no protest, for justice had been done. A month later, Slade took ship for London to become Peregrine's British business agent. In the intervening years he had served his employer brilliantly, in ways both orthodox and unorthodox.

  After receiving an overview of recent business developments, Peregrine leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. "I wish to make a splash in the London soci
al scene, so you must find me a fashionable house. Something worthy of a prince."

  Slade nodded. "To rent or to buy?"

  "Either. If no suitable property is available for lease, buy one. I would also like you to look for a country estate within two hours' drive of London. Besides an impressive house, there must be enough land so that it can be farmed profitably."

  His agent's eyebrows went up. "Do you intend to stay in England indefinitely?"

  "That remains to be seen. As a matter of principle, I want the property to be a decent investment in its own right, as well as good for entertaining." Peregrine paused while Kuram set down a tea tray between the men, then continued, "The information you have gathered on Sir Charles Weldon was a useful beginning, but I want you to explore his business dealings more deeply."

  Slade nodded, his face expressionless. "Certainly. Can you give me an idea of what are you looking for?

  Peregrine's answer shook the lawyer's careful control. "Good God," Slade gasped, "what you are suggesting is unbelievable."

  "Unbelievable, perhaps, but not impossible," Peregrine murmured. "The fact that it is unbelievable would be Weldon's best protection. While I have no evidence, my instincts tell me that if you look in the directions I have indicated, you will discover something. I rely on you to find the needle in the haystack, Benjamin, and to do it with the utmost discretion."

  The lawyer nodded, still stunned. "If it is there, I swear that I shall find it."

  Peregrine sipped his tea, satisfied. A vital thread was about to be spun in the web forming around Sir Charles Weldon.

  * * *

  The unpredictable English weather had cooperated to make Lady Sara's party a success, and the colorful dresses of the female guests were like flowers strewn across the sunlit garden of Haddonfield House. Food, drink, and conversation, mankind's basic entertainment, were all plentiful. As voices and laughter rang through the summer-scented air, footmen circulated among the guests with trays of drinks and gentle strains of music emanated from an invisible chamber quartet.