“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.”