In the Arms of a Marquess(5)

“For what do you thank me now, memsahib?” he rumbled.

“For putting up with me for so many years. In case I should forget to thank you later when everyone is busy getting ready to depart, I wanted to do so now. Or perhaps simply twice. Will you go now to work for my uncle in Calcutta?”

“I will go to London.”

Tavy sat up straight. “Has my brother-in-law asked you?”

Abha did not respond. He often did not when she asked questions to which the answers seemed obvious. To him, at least.

Tavy shook her head. “London is not like Madras. Englishwomen are not kidnapped and held for ransom there, and I am not royalty. Far from it. I can go to the shops or call upon my friends with only a maid.”

He put a thick palm on the ground and pushed himself up to stand, silent as jungle birds at the onset of a storm.

“Well, you won’t like it, I daresay,” she said. “It is horridly gray and cold. Sometimes, at least.”

He moved toward the kitchen entrance.

“Abha, you cannot come. India is your home.”

He halted and looked over his bulky shoulder. “As it is yours, memsahib.” He disappeared around the side of the house.

Lal landed on Tavy’s shoulder and pressed his tiny hand against her cheek.

“You smell of rosewater.” She stroked him beneath the chin. “You have been in our neighbor’s kitchen, after all.”

He clucked his tongue.

“Lal, will you come to London and stay with me when I become Lady Crispin?” Tavy’s gaze strayed to the wall between the garden and the neighboring villa. Vines twined around the gate, especially thick where they tangled about the rusted latch. Her heart beat hard and fast. “You see,” her voice dimmed to a whisper, “except for Abha, I will not know anybody else there.”

Chapter 2

To IMPRESS. Where no other adequate mode can be substituted, the law of imperious necessity must be complied with.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

Cavendish Square

“I have no need to hear the details, Creighton.” Benjirou Doreé, Fifth Marquess of Doreé, set his elbow atop the broad mahogany desk, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose between a manicured thumb and forefinger. “Indeed, I would rather know nothing about it at all.” He looked up and lifted a single black brow. “As I have told you ten score times. No, I must correct myself. Twelve score. But perhaps your memory fails.” His smooth voice seemed unperturbed.

His secretary knew better than to trust in that tone. While the marquess remained deceptively calm, his black eyes saw everything and his mind never rested. It had been this way ever since Creighton came to work for him seven years ago. A man of Lord Doreé’s wealth and power had no other choice, even if he liked to pretend otherwise.

Of course, everyone knew of that wealth, but few in English society knew of the power. For the sake of the projects the marquess pursued, that was best.

“My lord,” Creighton murmured, “I would review the matter with Lord Ashford were he here. But he has not yet returned from France—”

“And damn him for it and leaving this to me.”

“Very good, sir.”

The marquess glanced at his secretary’s poker face. He had, after all, hired Creighton after a night of cards in which the fellow won a pony from a veritable sharp.

The tug of a grin loosened the knot in Ben’s jaw, but the tension in his shoulders persisted. He rolled his gaze to the massive, gilt-framed canvas across the chamber. Afternoon sunlight striped his study in lines of gold and shadow, like the great beast depicted in the painting. But the portrait of the tiger remained fully in the dark. As always.

“Have you already inspected this—” He glanced at the papers Creighton laid before him. “—Eastern Promise?”

“Partially. The master was off visiting his family, and the quartermaster wouldn’t allow us belowdecks.”

“You suspect they are hiding something. Faults in the hull, or cargo?”

“Either.” Creighton’s brow crinkled. “Or neither. The pratique-master gave it a clean pass.”

Ben flashed his secretary a look suggesting his opinion of the honesty of quarantine officials. “A man has no need to protect himself from prying eyes when he has nothing to hide, Creighton.”

“Quite so, my lord.” Creighton’s puddle-brown eyes glimmered and his narrow chest puffed out. Ben nearly rolled his eyes again. He should never pontificate; his secretary enjoyed it far too much. Devoted fool. Excellent employee.

“Sir, atop I did see some evidence of human—”

“Enough.” Ben took up his pen and scratched his signature onto a bank check. He pushed it across the desk and stood. “Take Sully with you.” Creighton was a tough man of business, but the former dockworker and his crew of miscreants who served Ben’s interests in other capacities were tough in quite another manner. “Allow the quartermaster no more than thirty minutes to clear out his crew and their personal effects.”

“But, sir, don’t you wish to see the vessel for your—”

“No.” Ben’s voice was unyielding. “If you find illegal goods aboard her, incinerate them. If she proves unseaworthy, scrap her for materials and find another vessel to serve our current needs.” He gazed steadily at his secretary. “Now, Creighton, leave before I become inordinately displeased that you have disturbed my leisure in this manner again.”