“I’m sure your work poses plenty of interesting challenges,” Constance piped in charmingly.
“Challenges?Certainly.”Fletcher smiled at her.“They just make for terrible dinner conversation.You should see the people I’ve bored over cocktails.You’d think they were all malarial.”
Constance laughed brightly, which thankfully disguised Neil’s half-hearted chuckle.
“Have you and Miss Tyrrell eaten yet?You’d be welcome to join me for dinner.We could do a bit more catching up.”
Panic threatened to close Neil’s throat at Fletcher’s reasonable invitation.
“I’m afraid we’re actually supposed to be meeting an acquaintance of my grandmother’s,” Constance cut in smoothly.“Only we can’t seem to find him.His name is Borthwick.”
Wary surprise tightened Fletcher’s features.“You’re meeting Borthwick?”
Something in the way he said the name gave Neil a chill.Fletcher was nothing if not polite, but the delicate tension in his voice spoke volumes—none of them good.
He thought of the officer he had seen across the crowd at the festival earlier that day, straight-backed with piercing eyes.
“My grandmother is, anyway,” Constance dismissed lightly.“I expect we’ll just be there to fill out the table.You don’t happen to know where he’s staying, do you?”
“He’d be in the Lal Bagh, I expect,” Fletcher mused uncomfortably.
“The Lal Bagh?”Constance echoed.
“This whole property belonged to some Mughal prince who had his summer palace here,” Fletcher explained.“Most of it’s torn down, but they’ve got one of the old sixteenth-century buildings set up as a private suite.It’s meant for visiting dignitaries and such, but to be honest, hardly anyone uses it anymore.The place has a reputation for being haunted.”
“Does it really?”Constance brightened with gruesome interest.“By the nawab’s unhappy wife?Or maybe a brother he murdered to secure his claim on the throne?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea, I’m afraid.”Fletcher gave her an apologetic smile.“I think it’s all nonsense myself—probably an excuse by the dignitaries to avail themselves of the more modern plumbing in the club building.Borthwick prefers the old palace building for… other reasons.”
A hint of discomfort rang through Fletcher’s inflection.
Charles Borthwick was the head of the Raj’s secret police.Neil could think of several reasons why he might prefer a more private setting for his stay in Puri—some of them perfectly reasonable.
Others less so.
“That’s ever so helpful.Thank you.”Constance extended a hand.“It was lovely to meet you, Mr.Fletcher.”
“You as well, Miss Tyrrell.”Fletcher turned to Neil.“Do look me up if you’re staying in the area.The club has all my details.I’d love to hear more about whatever you’re working on.”
Neil felt like a fraud.“I’ll be sure to do that,” he lied.
Constance steered him out onto the veranda.The night air was only marginally less thick than the atmosphere inside the club.
Neil gripped the rail, leaning over it as a maelstrom of emotion roiled through him.
“Are you all right?”Constance asked quietly.
“I ought to be asking you that,” Neil returned shortly.
Constance tilted up her chin defensively.“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“I know that,” Neil blurted out, the wretched mess of feeling twisting tighter inside of him.“I just…”
He could hear the low murmur of laughter from the lounge, mingling with the clatter of silverware.His hands tightened on the railing.
“I don’t like this place.”
Constance studied him through the gloom of the veranda.The thunder of the monsoon rumbled softly again in the distance.“You have nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”
