Jane Steele(67)

I should not have taken pride in this; and yet, I could not help myself.

“She’s a remarkable woman,” Mr. Singh replied. “I did my best to take the measure of her whilst you were away, and I confess I did not get far. Miss Stone seems a clear enough pool on the surface, but glimpsing the bottom is another matter.”

“I can’t put my finger on it either,” Mr. Thornfield said quietly. “You ought to have seen her when she was thrown from Nalin. Popped up again like a jack-in-the-box, not even knowing how badly she was hurt. If she weren’t so thoroughly British—that pale elven look about her, those lustrous eyes—I’d have thought her raised north of the Sutlej. She doesn’t just carry a knife, she knows how to hold it. If I’d meant her any disrespect, I’m fairly sure she’d have made mincemeat of my bollocks.”

“She interests you,” Mr. Singh mused, and there was a twist to his tone which made me long to have seen his face as he spoke.

“Of course she does, she would interest anyone,” Mr. Thornfield retorted. “Not to mention the fact I’ve had nothing to occupy me all this while, save your company and that of a child whose every third word is horse.”

“You’ll feel better when the dead start speaking to you again.”

I had been listening with such rapt interest to the topic of myself that this shocking pronouncement startled me terribly; and further, I realised that the men had risen from their chairs and would find me with my ear to the door in a matter of moments.

“All locked up, then?”

“Snug as a noose,” Mr. Singh answered, and I heard the rattling of an iron in the grate.

Whirling towards the staircase, I made as much soundless haste as possible. My ankle felt as if a spike had impaled it, but I forced myself to limp faster.

“I can’t bear the feeling there is nothing to be done,” came Mr. Thornfield’s voice, and now they were at the threshold of the drawing room door.

“We shall consider further. Be at peace in the meanwhile.”

“At peace with both eyes open.”

“Quite so.”

They’re coming, I thought in a blind panic, and I had only made it halfway up the first set of stairs, and my ankle was ready to give way under me; getting up a staircase, it seemed, was another matter altogether than getting down. They would see me, they would know. I faced either being caught like a rat fleeing a refuse heap, or . . .

That is a terrible idea, I informed myself.

“Sahjara starts on the new mare tomorrow. She’s named it Harbax.”

“God’s gift,” said Mr. Singh as they neared the start of the staircase. “Excellent choice.”

“Clever little creature,” Mr. Thornfield agreed fondly. “Though Charles’s gift might have been more appropriate.”

“Even you, my friend, are moved by the will of God.”

There was nothing for it; I made an about-face, went as limp as I could, and fell down half a flight of stairs.

“What in the name of the devil!” Mr. Thornfield cried.

An inarticulate groan emerged when I had got my breath back from the wind being knocked out of my lungs. My left side was bruised, my limbs twisted, and my brain rattled into oblivion; beyond this I could not tell where I was hurt, though hurt I knew I must be. Mr. Singh was speaking urgently now, and so was Mr. Thornfield, and there were warm, careful hands on my shoulders. Then one of them shifted and a soft, thin glove with a heartbeat inside it cupped my cheek and drew it away from the carpet.

“Miss Stone! Dear God, Sardar, what has she— Confound it, Miss Stone, look at me.”

“She’s breathing steadily,” Mr. Singh’s tense voice added.

“Miss Stone, can you hear me?”

I could; I could feel him as well, feel the pressure of his fingers beneath the glove, and thought for a lunatic instant that apart from having just thrown myself down a staircase, I felt surprisingly happy. I opened my eyes.

“Christ, there you are.” Mr. Thornfield blew out the breath he had been holding. “’Pon my soul, you gave us a fright. Can you move at all? It would greatly endear you to me.”

Shifting, I found that I could, but stifled a cry when I discovered that my knee had been badly wrenched, and this time on my previously uninjured left side.

“Easy, easy now, that’s it,” he admonished, sliding a hand under my back.

“Oh God, I feel such a fool,” I gasped as Mr. Thornfield helped me to sit. “I left my book in the morning room, and I make such a horrid clamour with that crutch—I thought I could manage without.”

“You feel a fool because you are a fool,” Mr. Thornfield growled. “What in hell did you think you were about? You could have woken the whole bloody house with reveille on the trumpet for all we—”

“Mr. Thornfield,” put in Mr. Singh, his butler persona back in place, “might I suggest you help Miss Stone back to her bedroom and that you cease swearing at her? Miss Stone, what were you reading?”

“La Rabouilleuse,” I lied.

“I shall fetch it up to you with a bit of brandy.” Mr. Singh smoothly disappeared.

Mr. Thornfield was still on bended knee, glowering at me as if I had fallen down the stairs on purpose and little knowing I had done exactly that. When I raised my brows, he opened his mouth, shut it again, and composed his features by scrubbing his hand over them.