The Sandalwood Princess (8 page)

Mrs. Gales looked up from her needlework. “You are quite determined to have it back, my dear? Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Amanda met her gaze squarely. “I cannot explain, but the statue means a great deal to me.”

“You needn’t explain. As I said, I do not see why that arrogant man should have it, especially via such abhorrent methods. You ought to be able to simply demand what is rightfully yours from this Mr. Wringle.”

“He has only to deny it,” Amanda said, “and if I demand a search—”

“Yes, my dear, we both know how the world works. Unfortunately, I also know how Lord Hedgrave works.” Mrs. Gales paused, a shadow of concern crossing her countenance. “He can destroy you, Amanda. He can ruin Roderick. Even for a wooden statue.”

“I know,” Amanda answered quietly. “I intend to be careful.”

The plump, dark-eyed
maid appeared five times a day with the odd-smelling broth. Five times a day, Philip propped Jessup up, while Miss Jones patiently spooned the liquid into him. By the end of a week, Jessup seemed marginally better. By the end of the second week, he’d definitely improved. During this time, Miss Cavencourt also supplied plump pillows and fresh linens from her own stores.

Philip was none too happy to find himself under so great an obligation to her.
Still,
he reminded himself,
she had saved Jessup’s life.

Accordingly, Philip sought her out that afternoon to thank her. He found her, as he’d expected, above, standing at the rail and gazing out at the sea. She spent most of the day at the rail, it seemed, sometimes with Mrs. Gales or Bella, but most often alone. Time and again he’d come up for a five-minute breath of air, and find Miss Cavencourt standing so. An hour later, he’d be back for another hasty gulp, and behold her there yet, apparently lost to all the world, her gaze fixed upon the water.

At his polite greeting now, she started, and, as though she had been someplace very far away; a long moment passed before her golden eyes brightened with recognition.

Halfway through the proper little speech he’d prepared, Philip became aware of a new scent mingling with the salt air. Patchouli. But light, only a hint. It must be in the shawl. Kashmir was often stored in patchouli, to ward off insects.
Nothing ominous about that,
he thought, as he continued somewhat distractedly to describe Jessup’s improved condition and express his gratitude.

“It’s very pleasant to be applauded,” she said when Philip finally ground to a halt, “but most of the credit goes to Padji. It’s his secret recipe, you know.”

“Indeed. We are most fortunate you brought him with you,” Philip replied stiffly.

“You seem devoted to Mr. Wringle,” she said, her gaze upon his left lapel. “Have you been long in his employ?”

Now it begins,
he thought cynically. Still, expecting an examination sooner or later, he’d prepared his answers. As usual, he’d offer no more truth or falsehood than absolutely necessary.

“I have been acquainted with Mr. Wringle some time,” he said, “but came into his employ only very recently, thanks to Mr. Groves.” Mr. Groves the incompetent, Jessup a solicitor, and Philip the valet, when it was supposed to be the other way about! But that wasn’t all Randall’s fault, was it? With Philip unavailable at the time, Jessup had to play the master. They’d hardly chuck Monty Larchmere out on account of a mere servant, regardless how desperate the case.

“Then your loyalty is all the more admirable.” Her gaze swept upward, and he found himself gazing into golden light, where shadows flickered. “You’ve scarce left his bedside this fortnight.”

“Naturally, one would wish to be at hand if the master needed anything.”

“All the same, you will not wish to wear yourself out. You’ll be no use to him if you sicken as well, and your pallor tells me you haven’t enjoyed a decent night’s sleep—or a proper meal—the whole time.”

Until that moment, Philip had not felt the least unwell. Abruptly he became aware of his aching muscles, and with that awareness, weariness began to steal through him. It was as though he’d been an automaton these last two weeks.
Now she’d said the words, the mechanism proceeded to disintegrate.

“It can’t be healthy for you to remain so long in that close space,” she went on, ignoring the denial he murmured. “At least when Bella is there, you might leave with clear conscience, and take a stroll in the fresh air.”

Fresh air. Damn her.
But she couldn’t know about
that.
She only wanted him out of the way.

“I appreciate your concern, miss, but I’m afraid the nursing still wants two people.”

“Oh ... yes ... naturally. In any event, you are here now, aren’t you? How silly to tell you to do what you’re already doing. Sillier still to make you stand and endure a lecture, when I have just recommended exercise. Pray don’t let me keep you.” She turned back to the sea.

Philip hurried back to the cabin, certain one of Miss Cavencourt’s minions was nosing about. That he found no minion, nor a single article disturbed, did not appease him. He crawled into his uncomfortable hammock and tried to nap. Too late.
She’d killed sleep, hadn’t she?

For Jessup’s sake, Philip had clamped down his own feelings, locked and sealed them away. He hated the cabin. Monty Larchmere was as hard up as everyone suspected, or he’d never have settled for this miserable hole. The place was narrow and dark, and the air was stale at best, but mostly foul. Philip would have slept above on deck, if he dared. He didn’t. He couldn’t leave the cabin unguarded at night, even locked. What was a lock to the sly Indian, curse him. Curse her as well—Pandora, with those deceitful golden eyes. She’d uttered the words and the demon he’d locked away had sprung out to smother him.

It was early afternoon, but light scarcely reached this place. It was dark, rank, suffocating. Too familiar.

That was all a lifetime ago, he told himself as he forced his eyes closed. Another life, a child’s, and he was a man. How many times in the last fifteen years had he hastened fearlessly towards certain death? He was no longer a weak, helpless little boy. He was not afraid... of anything.

All the same, he felt it steal over him in a slow, icy stream: Dread.
Groundless, irrational,
his adult mind insisted, even as it sank under the cold horror.

In minutes, Philip was out of the cabin, hurrying blindly through the passage. Then he was into the light at last, into the air, gulping it greedily until his mind rose out of the icy trap and his heart returned to its normal, steady beat.
Damn her to hell.

Jessup’s recovery continued at the same faltering pace, and the ensuing week was slow torture. Of course one must eat and rest and exercise. Philip was not a fool. Yet his appetite dwindled, suffocated, as his reason was, by the endless watching in the hot, tiny cell. The sight of food sickened him, and he grew bone-achingly weary, so that climbing to the upper deck this day was like scaling a thousand-foot cliff.

Catching sight of him, Miss Cavencourt marched across the deck and commenced another lecture. Philip stared at her, utterly unable to comprehend a syllable. Then something began to buzz very loudly in his ears, his muscles jerked crazily, and Miss Cavencourt and all the world were submerged in a heavy black blanket.

A child was screaming, sobbing, somewhere. A door, thick and heavy… and oppressive, stifling darkness. He couldn’t breathe. His little hands burned, raw with pounding on the immovable barrier. “Please, I won’t do it again, Papa. Please, Papa. I’m sorry.”

Something cool and wet touched him then, and a gentle hand brushed his forehead. Philip’s eyes opened to golden light shimmering amid the shadows. Autumn at Felkonwood, sate in the forest. The light fell warm, and the breeze blew sweet with ... patchouli?

His mind shot back to the world and discovered a woman bent over him. He tried to pull himself up.

“No, Mr. Brentick, not so quickly,” Miss Cavencourt said softly. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Nausea rose in a dizzying wave. He lay back again and took a long, steadying breath. “What happened?” he asked. His voice seemed to come from miles away.

“You collapsed,” she said, “under the weight of my disapproval.”

A disconcerting warmth overspread his face.
Devil take it!
He’d swooned at her feet—he, the Falcon—and now he must be blushing like a schoolboy.

A faint smile curved her full mouth, but her gaze softened to smoky amber. “You should have listened to me, Mr. Brentick. But that will be my only ‘
I
told you so,’ “ she added, the smile fading, “so long as you follow my directions henceforth. Fortunately, there is no fever. You are simply overtired and weak from hunger. I want you to try to sleep. When Bella comes by later to feed your master, she’ll bring you some broth as well. You must try to finish it. Even if you feel a bit queasy at first, it will do you a deal of good, I promise.”

She rose, and only then did he realise he lay, not in the hammock above Jessup’s cot, but on a narrow mattress on the floor.
How the devil had she managed that?
As she moved away, Philip glimpsed a large brown shoulder at the corner of the open doorway. Padji. So that was how.

Gad, how long had he lain unconscious? They might have ransacked the entire cabin by now.

Philip waited patiently until the pair had departed and their footsteps faded away. Then he sat up slowly, fighting the urge to vomit, and crawled onto his hands and knees. The trunk was still wedged against the wall, and his mattress had been pushed against it. He fumbled in his coat, found the key, and unlocked the trunk. His arms seemed to be made of blancmange. He needed three attempts to get the lid up.

A few endless, stomach-churning minutes later, he sank back onto the mattress. They’d touched nothing. The tiny telltale feather lay exactly as he’d placed it, upon the small rag in which the Laughing Princess still nestled. He’d made certain all was as it should be before replacing all as it had been.

What the devil was she about?
A golden opportunity, and she and the Indian had ignored it. Why did she bother with him, with Jessup? Why hadn’t she let Jessup die? That would be one obstacle out of the way. And today—an ideal opportunity for Padji to eliminate Philip himself. Easy enough to render a swoon fatal, with the mistress by to create any needed distraction. Why had nothing happened? Was it possible she didn’t know, after all? Or was she more cunning than he imagined?

He couldn’t think any more. Not now. Later. His head fell back upon the pillow, and in minutes he was asleep.

***

“It’s in the trunk,” Amanda said. With trembling hands she brought the tumbler of wine to her lips and sipped. She and Mrs. Gales sat on the cushioned banquette under the row of windows.

Mrs. Gales’s needle was not so steady as usual. “You promised to be careful,” she said. “That was foolhardy, Amanda. Suppose he or Mr. Wringle had wakened?”

“Padji saw to that. I don’t know what he used. At any rate, I had the cloth over Mr. Brentick’s eyes, and Padji was very quick. He’d got the keys when he was carrying Mr. Brentick to the cabin. Then we had all the bustle of carrying in the mattress. I made sure to ask whether there were clean linens. If either had awakened, that would have been our excuse for rummaging.” Amanda swallowed a bit more wine before adding, “Padji was in and out of the trunk in about a minute. I’d hardly turned my head before he was done.”

“Indeed. Practice makes perfect, I suppose,” Mrs. Gales said dryly. “Still,
your
aptitude in the matter is a surprise. Your presence of mind seems nothing short of miraculous.”

“Hardly. If Padji hadn’t been nearby, it would never have occurred to me to take advantage of the situation. When Mr. Brentick fainted, I nearly did, too, I was so . . . taken aback.”

Frightened, half to death. Every day she’d watched his brief ventures above, and her heart had gone out to him, so sick and miserable he seemed.

At first she’d told herself this was just as he deserved for associating with a low criminal like Mr. Wringle. But Reason had promptly pointed out it was fully possible the valet had no idea what his employer had been up to. Why should Wringle tell his servant? If he had, why should the valet risk his own health to care for such a man? Just suppose Mr. Brentick were of the same dishonest ilk. Wouldn’t he do far better to let his master die, and collect the reward himself? There must be a reward—a considerable one—to drive Wringle from Calcutta in his condition.

The more she’d reflected, the more evidence Amanda found to make the valet an innocent bystander. And today...

How she wished she’d not remained in the cabin to nurse him. She should have summoned Bella. As yet, the maid knew nothing about the statue, except that it had been stolen in Calcutta.
Her
conscience would not have shrieked while she listened to Mr. Brentick’s delirious mutterings. The poor man had cried out to his papa.

Some childhood terror must nave seized him. Amanda could understand that. She had her own nightmares. Everyone did. Yet her heart had ached at the pitiful pleas, and again later, when his eyes had opened. Horror lingered in those deep blue depths, and in the fleeting moment before he came fully awake, they’d seemed the innocent, terrified eyes of a little boy. She had wanted... really, how stupid. He was a grown man, and ill. He’d simply had a nightmare, or a hallucination brought on by exhaustion—or by whatever Padji had used on him.