In the Arms of a Marquess(61)

Just like Ben.

“What is his business with you?”

“He wishes me to sign a bill of lading so that a ship can leave England without a full inspection.”

“A ship with illegal cargo aboard?”

His Adam’s apple jerked. “Yes.”

“What sort of cargo?”

He shook his head.

She could not bear his touch any longer, even through her gloves. She drew her hands away and placed them in her lap.

“I accept your proposal of marriage, Marcus.”

He took a breath, his shoulders rising then falling abruptly. “You will not be sorry. And I will be grateful to you for the remainder of our lives.”

“I do not need gratitude. Only honesty.”

“You have enough of the latter for the both of us, I daresay,” he said with an uncomfortable chuckle. He took the ribbons in two hands again and clicked his tongue to set the horses in motion.

Oh, yes, she had loads of honesty, thoroughly tarnished now because of her weakness for a man who would never have her. Perhaps she had tired of seeking out adventures. This one was proving to be not so thrilling after all.

In front of her sister’s house, Marcus handed her out of the phaeton and kissed the back of her hand. Tavy tried not to squirm. She declined his escort to the door.

Lal met her with a relieved chirp and leaped onto her shoulder. His tail curled around her arm in a caressing gesture, soft clucking sounds in the back of his mouth. Tavy removed her bonnet and placed her reticule on the table.

Abha stood in the corridor.

“He was not content in your absence.” His comfortingly foreign rumble met her ears like warmth. Tavy missed hearing the music of Indian voices all about her. She missed the bazaar and the port overflowing with ships, and the heat, and her veranda. “You went away too soon after your return from the country. He did not understand.”

Tavy studied her longtime companion.

“Abha, how are you getting along in London?”

“Well, memsahib.”

“Really?”

He shrugged a heavy shoulder. “One city is like another.” He wore the same loose cotton trousers, shirt, and tunic that he always wore in Madras. His beard and the small hat topping his hairless head were as neat as ever. He looked perfectly at ease.

“Not really,” she said. “But you do not mind it here?”

“You do, memsahib.”

Tavy chewed on her thumbnail, then plucked it out of her mouth and went to the foyer table. Lady Constance’s calling card rested upon the silver tray.

“I enjoyed being in the country again,” she murmured for Abha’s benefit. Constance was back in town already, and calling upon her. If Lady Fitzwarren had seen something between Ben and her at Fellsbourne, then Constance must have as well. But if Constance cared for him in that way, she would not pursue their friendship in this manner.

“Abha, what do you know of the Marquess of Doreé?” She replaced the card on the salver. “I suspect you must know at least a bit more than everyone else in Madras, if not a great deal more. You always know everything.”

“Not everything. I do not know why you ask me about him.”

“Clever. Obviously I have just spent a week at his home, which—I note the extraordinary—shows absolutely no hint of India whatsoever.” Not even his bedchamber. “Extraordinary, you know, when every Englishman I have met in London who has spent two days upon the subcontinent practically wears turbans and smokes the hookah. Isn’t that a curiosity?”

Abha shrugged again. His usual taciturnity did not sit well with her now.

“You have not changed your clothes to look like one of the other servants here.”

“I am not an English lord.”

“He is a great deal more than an English lord, and you know it.” Her cheeks were wretchedly warm. “And there is a very good chance that you and I are amongst the few residents of London who understand to what extent.”

“Do you understand?” His deep-set eyes questioned. It was unusual for him, this man of few words and fewer queries.

“I spent the better part of seven years listening at knotholes and cracks in the walls of bazaar stalls to find out. I should think I do.”

His mouth curved into a grin.

Tavy chuckled. “You and Lady Fitzwarren are quite a lot alike.” Her mood sobered. “Now I must write a note. I need you to deliver it to the marquess’s house here in town. Please make certain that he receives it directly from your hands. If he has not yet returned to town, bring back the note and we will try again tomorrow.”

His brow drew down, but he said, “Yes, memsahib. I will make certain.”

“How do you like the new furnishings, Doreé? More lush than all those years ago when you came here as often as I.” Styles waved his whiskey glass in a gesture that took in the entire dimly lit drawing room of Hauterive’s. “Must be the elevated clientele these days. See over there the Duke of Avery, hoping to entice Abigail Carmichael into his bed. But she still has her cap set for you.”

Ben had no interest in these sadly debauched members of the beau monde. Not in their petites affaires du coeur, in any case. Styles surely kept the conversation light for his benefit.

But Ben had had enough of this brief trek into his sordid past. He hadn’t heard anything useful in hours of card play and drinking while Styles rambled on about the petty misbehaviors of his set. Nothing concerning Nathans or Crispin, and certainly nothing about that other matter he had kept in a corner of his mind over the past fortnight, the mystery Creighton had shown him.