“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.