In the Arms of a Marquess(73)

“I will ruin Crispin.”

Abha smiled.

Chapter 19

DEAD-WIND. The wind right against the ship, or that blowing from the very point to which she wants to go.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

Crispin could not be found. The doors of India House had closed for the day, and the baron was not at his club or his flat. Nor was Styles, but Ben knew where to find his old friend tonight. He rode home, scribbled a note to his secretary, and sent it off with Samuel.

His valet met his demand for formal attire with enthusiasm.

“Which pin would you prefer, my lord?” Singh stood with his hand poised eagerly over the dressing case as Ben folded his starched cravat into a simple arrangement. “The blue diamond, perhaps? Or the ruby crescent?” Singh’s turban sported a tiny emerald, his loose cotton shirt fastened with freshwater pearl buttons. Ben suspected his valet spent a great deal more time with his jewels than he did.

He did not fault him for it. Old sailors loved swag, and Ben trusted Singh as he trusted Creighton, Samuel, and all his employees. A great deal more than he trusted his peers.

“The fire opal,” he replied.

Singh produced an octagonal cut jewel the size of the flat of his callused thumb, of brilliant apricot shot through with golden strands, and affixed it within the fall of Ben’s cravat. In the mirror, Ben stared at the jewel he had bought from a Mughal prince just before leaving India seven long years ago. Cut for a queen nine centuries earlier, the gem was precisely the shade of Octavia’s hair.

“Off to Lord and Lady Savege’s ball tonight, my lord?”

Ben nodded and headed toward the door.

“My lord?”

Ben paused.

Singh placed his palms together and bowed at the waist. “May the blessings of the universal god be upon you.”

Ben lifted a brow. “Thank you, Singh. Any particular reason why today?” He could certainly use blessings at this point. His muscles were clenched, his stomach tight as though he anticipated a fencing match or horse race. Styles would be at the Saveges’ fête.

“Upon this day five years ago, sir, you took me from that fearful galley and gave me freedom.” The former slave bowed deep again and did not rise. “I am most grateful.”

Ben stared at the top of his valet’s linen-wrapped head, at Singh’s hands rough and dark as earth. Something in him unwound. Across the chamber in the glass, a reflection of the shimmering jewel in his cravat winked.

“You are quite welcome, Singh.” He turned and went from his house.

The Earl and Countess of Savege’s home was not far. Head full, Ben walked the distance without knowing the direction he took or the time elapsed. His hostess met him in the foyer.

“Lord Doreé, what a great pleasure to see you.” She offered him a broad, generous-mouthed grin, her eyes sparkling as though she meant her welcome. It worked into Ben’s fraught senses like Singh’s words, with insidiously warm, familiar fingers.

The countess leaned toward him, grasping his hand as she had on that night five years earlier when she accosted him in an alleyway, seeking the truth as Ben did now. Then, he had known so little of himself.

He feared he still knew little. His world seemed to be turning around him, spinning more swiftly with each moment and each partially answered question. For years he had sought to trap the past behind him, locking its pain and turmoil behind bars. A quiet soul by nature, he had never sought the unrest his uncle thrust upon him, nor the hazards. Now they reached out to him, telling him they were his lot and he would be content with them. Not only content, but justified. Complete. Happy. If he could but understand whom to claim as allies, whom as foes.

“Lady Constance has been asking after you.” Lady Savege’s eyes shone with concern. “Perhaps you will seek her out and put her mind at rest?”

Ben moved into the crush of people packing the town house. He avoided such events even when welcome at them because he could not think in crowds. Born in India, the most populous land on earth, and all he had ever wanted was peace, the peace of common understanding and bone-deep joy he had found in the animated brown eyes of a freckle-nosed, long-legged English girl.

A crowd of young gentlemen surrounded Constance. Her mouth was wide with laughter and her eyes glittered far too brightly.

“She is fully in her element,” Styles said at his shoulder.

Stillness streamed through Ben’s veins like the ocean in a calm wind. “I do not think so. She much prefers her horses and the countryside.”

Styles’s regard slipped away. “And yet, she is at her most beautiful when surrounded by beaux, at her most lively and ebullient admired as she is at this moment.”

“And your admiration, Walker? To what extent will you allow it to take you?” It was a gamble. Perhaps Constance had nothing to do with the fire. Styles had treated her with indifference so often. But Ben must probe his own open wound to discover the bullet within.

“I haven’t an idea what you can mean.”

“Did you envy Jack? Did you wish you were in his place?”

The baron chuckled uncomfortably. “If I had envied him then, don’t you think I would have taken advantage of his absence by now?”

“Perhaps guilt has stood in your path.”

Styles didn’t miss a beat. “Guilt?”

“I understand you were a guest of my brother at the hunting box shortly before the fire.” Long ago, when he was just a boy, his uncle taught him that the truth was often the hardest taunt for a dishonest man to bear. “I recently learned of this. Since you had not mentioned it to me before, I wondered why.”