In the Arms of a Marquess(63)

Her happiness, however . . . that was something else entirely.

It felt good.

Ben rode home with an unfamiliar sense of peace settling upon his shoulders. As he came into the foyer, Samuel met him.

“My lord, a certain person has been waiting some time to speak with you. He is in the blue parlor.”

“Thank you.” A brace of candles lit the corridor, but Ben had no need of light to know who awaited him. Samuel’s unusual tolerance in allowing the visitor to remain needed no decrypting.

“Hello, Abha.”

Towering half a head taller than Ben and thick about the neck and chest like the bales of cotton he had hauled as a youth, the man stood and came forward. He bowed deeply.

“My lord.”

Ben’s jaw flexed. “Cut line with the excessive formality. You are no longer in my employ.”

“You honor me, sahib.”

Ben repressed a scowl, his chest tight. Abha could only be here for one reason. “Have you a message for me?”

The hulking man produced a folded slip of foolscap from his tunic. Ben slid it into his waistcoat pocket. Abha did not move.

“Well?” Ben’s voice sounded edgy. He’d known this man his entire life, spent more of his childhood in Abha’s company than any other human. Eighteen years had taken their lives far from the narrow alleyways of the Madras bazaar and the cotton fields around Mysore where Abha usually lived. But the clear intent in Abha’s eyes was the same as it had been two decades ago.

“Good Lord, you haven’t changed since you were fifteen,” he said when Abha remained silent. “What is it? What do you wish to say to me now?”

“That which, out of honor, I could not say while you paid me for my service to you.”

Ben waited.

“I say this, Benjirou. Once I saved your life. I can take it away as easily, or . . .” He paused. “ . . . make you wish I would.”

Chill slid through Ben’s veins. “Son of my mother’s brother,” he said with intention the Japanese half-caste could not mistake, “your mother who suckled me, and mine who treated you as a son, would not look kindly upon such a deed.”

“Son of my father’s sister,” his uncle’s bastard replied, “your mother and mine would never know.”

Silence stretched through the dark between them.

“Of what wrongdoing do you accuse me?”

“That which you paid me for seven years to prevent.”

“I intend her no harm.”

“Then leave her be.”

Ben met his gaze straight. “I cannot.”

Abha’s heavy eyelids sank down. “Then tread carefully, my cousin.”

Ben’s spine unlocked. Abha would not call him that if he truly meant him ill. He had enormous respect for Abha’s ability to carry through on a threat. It was the very reason he had hired his foster brother to watch over Octavia all those years ago. While Ben had returned to England, Abha remained with her, the man Ben trusted most in the world to protect her.

After that, four times a year for seven years, Abha had punished him for that sublime arrogance by sending the same message across thousands of miles. Each time, three short words only: She is well.

Ben nodded. “I will take care.”

Abha turned and without further words disappeared into the rear of the house, where he would depart by the servants’ entrance.

Ben passed his palms across his face, took a deep breath, and went into the parlor. At the sideboard he poured three fingers of whiskey and carried his glass to a chair before the fire. He sat, set the crystal on the floor by his foot, and drew out her missive.

I am once more betrothed, and in possession of part of that which you desire.

It was unsigned. She must trust Abha as he did, but still she had not endangered herself by committing details to paper. She would tell him in person at Lady Fitzwarren’s gathering.

He leaned back into the chair and stared at the fire. Flames licked at the coals, drawing life from the hard black chunks of dead matter. He tried to recapture the contentment of remembering Lady James and her hospital. But he could not. This business he had become involved with hadn’t a shred of altruism to it. He did not deserve any gentle swell of satisfaction for now being on the verge of learning what he must to carry through. He deserved the terse diffidence in this single line of script.

He looked again at the words penned by her hand and closed his eyes. She hadn’t any idea that she was already fully in possession of his single desire.

Chapter 17

ABACK. The situation of the sails of a ship when they are pressed against the masts by the force of the wind.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

Déjà vu.

Tavy sat before her dressing table gowned in white silk speckled with tiny pearls and sequins, hair arranged on the crown of her head threaded with white satin ribbon. The usual impossible orange lock stole from the arrangement to dangle over her brow. She smoothed it back but it popped right back down.

She drew in a steadying breath. Just like seven years ago, nerves twisted her belly. But unlike seven years ago, tonight he would actually come to the party. Through the front door.

Lady Ashford arrived early and took up a position by Tavy’s side in the drawing room, from which she commented on each new arrival with wit enough to nearly distract Tavy from her fidgets. Nearly. The drawing room filled, and Tavy began to imagine herself back in Madras in 1814 once again, in a house full of people, yet she only wished to see one who was not present.