Veils of Silk

  Ross frowned. "I do know him. Recently he was made a baronet, so he is now Sir Charles Weldon. Strange that you should say that about cousins. We are not related, but oddly enough, he has just proposed marriage to one of my cousins, and she intends to accept him." He finished his brandy, his frown deepening. "My favorite cousin, as it happens."

  "I did not know that he was to take another wife." Peregrine poured more brandy for both of them, then sank back in his seat, one leg folded beneath him with un-British fluidity. "I gather that you do not approve. Do you know anything to Weldon's discredit?"

  "No, he is widely respected. As the younger brother of Lord Batsford, he moves in the highest circles of society, even though he has made his fortune through trade and finance." Ross considered a moment, then said slowly, "Weldon has always been perfectly affable on the occasions when we have met. I can't explain why I find him disquieting. Perhaps he is too affable."

  "Is your cousin in love with him?"

  Ross shook his head. "I doubt it. He is easily twenty years older than Sara, and she is not of a romantic disposition."

  Peregrine gave a faint smile. "Since the lady's heart is not engaged, will you object if her betrothal comes to naught?"

  Ross thought of the uneasy feeling Weldon gave him, and the dark whispers that sometimes touched the man's name, hints too vague to be called rumors. "Can you assure me that Weldon deserves the doom that is hovering over him?"

  "I promise you that he has earned anything I might do, and a good deal more," Peregrine said, his voice soft and dangerous.

  Ross believed him. Peregrine might be an enigma whose mind worked in mysterious oriental ways, but Ross had always found him to be honorable. "To be honest, I'd welcome an end to Sara's betrothal, as long as she is not injured by your actions."

  "I have no desire to injure the innocent." Peregrine leaned back against the embroidered-silk cushions. "Tell me more about your cousin."

  "She is Lady Sara St. James, the only daughter of the Duke of Haddonfield. Our mothers were twin sisters, two Scottish beauties of modest birth. When they came to London, they had no fortune but their faces." Ross sipped more brandy, savoring the complex flavor. "It was fortune enough. They were called the 'Magnificent Montgomerys' and both became duchesses, setting a matrimonial standard that every ambitious mother in Britain has tried to match ever since, without success."

  "How old is your cousin?"

  Ross did a rapid calculation. Sara was four years younger than he... "Twenty-seven."

  "Rather old to be still a maid. Is she uncomely?"

  Ross laughed. "Not at all. Twenty-seven is not such a great age to be unwed in England, you know. If Sara had ever shown willingness, she would have been inundated in suitors, but she has had no desire to marry."

  Peregrine's dark face was contemplative. "I should like to meet Lady Sara soon. But first I must be polished into the semblance of an English gentleman."

  Ross inspected the other man. "Easily done. Tomorrow I'll take you to my tailor and barber. I warn you, fashionable English clothing will be much less comfortable than what you are wearing. But don't let yourself become too polished—a trace of the exotic will make you more interesting, for society craves novelty." He thought a moment more, then smiled mischievously. "I shall introduce you as a prince."

  Peregrine's brows drew together. They were thick black and more than a little diabolical. " 'Prince' is not the best translation of 'mir.' "

  "Since there is no precise English equivalent, prince will do very well. To be a prince will earn you more respect, even though no foreign title could possibly be as good as an English one," Ross explained. "Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan. You will become a sensation."

  Particularly among jaded society hostesses, Ross added with silent amusement. It was going to be very interesting to set this particular Asiatic hawk among the English society pigeons.

  * * *

  Lady Sara St. James was walking in the garden behind Haddonfield House when she heard masculine footsteps crunching on the gravel on the far side of the holly hedge. He was early.

  Her fingers brushed uncertainly over her dark blond hair, then dropped when she became aware that she was behaving like a nervous female. While she was entitled to be nervous when waiting to accept an offer of marriage, she knew that Sir Charles Weldon's chief interest was not in her appearance. If spectacular beauty had been his primary goal, he would have looked elsewhere, but what he wanted was a wellborn lady who would be a gracious hostess and a step mother to his daughter. Sara was amply qualified for those roles, so it wouldn't have mattered if her hair was mussed. But, of course, it wasn't.

  Wryly she decided to give Weldon what he was looking for, so she stopped and contemplated a lily in an impeccably ladylike pose. Then a familiar teasing voice called out, "Sara, where are you? I've been assured that you are lurking around here somewhere."

  Artifice vanishing, she spun about and extended both hands to her cousin. "Ross! What a pleasant surprise. Did you bring the latest chapter of your book for me to read?"

  He clasped her hands, then bent over to place a light kiss on her cheek. "I'm afraid to show it to you. Perhaps it was a mistake to interest you in oriental studies, for you have become entirely too critical a reader."

  Sara gave him a concerned glance. "I'm sorry—I thought you said my comments were useful."

  "That's the problem," he said with feeling. "You're always right. By this time you know more about Asia and the Middle East than most men in the Foreign Office. It would be easier if you were wrong, because then I could ignore your criticisms." He grimaced. "The next chapter should be done next week. It was easier to make the journey than to write about it."

  Seeing that she was being teased, Sara relaxed. "I can't wait to see the next chapter. This will be your best book yet."

  "You always say that," Ross said affectionately. "You're my best supporter."

  "And you're my window on the wide world." Sara would never see the sights her cousin had, but his letters and journals had been the bright spots during her dark years. In fact, she had been the one who first suggested that he write about his travels. His first two books had become classic accounts of remote parts of the world, and the book he was working on now should be equally successful. "But I warn you, I'm expecting an important caller very soon."

  "Anyone I know?"

  Sara wrinkled her delicate aristocratic nose. "Charles Weldon is coming to receive my official acceptance of his offer. Even though all the actors in this play know what the result will be, it's considered proper to speak the lines anyhow."

  "Actually, I came today to speak to you privately about this engagement." Ross regarded her narrowly. "Are you accepting Weldon against your will? Surely my uncle is not coercing you."

  "Of course not, Ross. Don't let that splendid imagination run away with you." She tucked her hand under his elbow, and they began strolling along the garden path, her cousin shortening his long strides to adapt to her limp. "My father is encouraging the match, but there's nothing sinister about it. Since the Haddonfield title and entailed property will go to Cousin Nicholas, Father has decided that it is his duty to see me settled in my own household with a husband to take care of me."

  "And you agree with him?" Ross asked skeptically. "Since Uncle Haddonfield will surely leave you most of his personal fortune, you'll be a very wealthy woman. If you feel the need of male protection, you can live with me." He gave her a hopeful glance. "Can I persuade you to do that? That great mausoleum I inherited is far too large for one person."

  "I'd rather live in a rose-covered cottage surrounded by cats." Sara laughed. "I would quite enjoy that, you know, but I'd become so dreadfully eccentric that you would be embarrassed to admit to the connection."

  "Never," he declared. "We both inherited our share of idiosyncrasies from the Magnificent Montgomerys. I shall move into the cottage next to yours and surround myself with piles of Asiatic texts. You and your cats will wander over for
tea, and I will quote Turkish poetry to you." Then his whimsical tone turned serious. "Sara, do you love Charles Weldon?"

  She glanced up at him in surprise. "Of course not, but I think we will rub along very well. It's no sacrifice to marry Charles—he is intelligent and well-bred, and we know what to expect of each other. It will please Father to see me wed, and I'd rather like a child of my own."

  "And you will have a civilized marriage where you will each go your own way much of the time."

  "Exactly," Sara agreed. "That is one of the things that commends Charles to me. I don't think I should like a husband who was underfoot all the time."

  Her cousin shook his head sadly. "What a coldblooded creature you are, Sara. Have you never wanted to be in love?"

  "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 smiled 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.