Neil couldn’t comprehend how anyone could meet Constance and believe that they could shove her into some mold of what they wanted.He had certainly never had any choice but to see her for exactly who she was, whether she was hiding his textbooks in hedgerows or leaping at him with a wooden sword while ‘playing Brutus.’
‘Sic semper tyrannis!’was the only Latin he’d ever heard her properly use.
“Anyone who thinks you’re just a pretty face deserves to get tossed onto the floor,” he grumbled.
Constance’s mouth quirked into a smile.“That’s very kind of you, Stuffy.”She turned back to the golden gleam of the Mughal building.“At any rate, men like Northcote or Yardborough—or Lord Aldbury—aren’t going to see a couple of women and a no-name archaeologist as a threat.Even Bates is invisible to them.They likely haven’t made the connection.I’m sure his father isn’t putting it about that his oldest son now works as a lowly colonial surveyor.The Order has no idea where Adam came from.They’d never believe any of us clever or resourceful enough to follow them all the way here to India.We could probably give them your real name at the door, and it wouldn’t make any difference.”
Neil warily contemplated the brightly lit windows of the old palace.“I think I’ll stick with Culpepper.”
“Wonderful!”Constance took his arm as her eyes sparkled with distinctly danger-gnomish energy.“Now help me steal some laundry.”
“Why wouldn’t we?”Neil agreed with resigned dismay.
?
Eight
Ten minutes later
Neil stood infront of a sixteenth-century Mughal summer palace and muttered a curse.
Evening had fallen.The thick clouds overhead were tinted a rich purple.Light from the windows spilled across the crushed gravel of the drive as a gust of rain-scented wind sent flower petals dancing over the stones.
With a crunch of footsteps, Constance joined him.Her gold dinner dress was gone, replaced by a pair of white trousers and a tunic belted at the waist by a red sash.A white turban hid the thick waves of her hair.She had stolen her new ensemble off the laundry line by the club facilities building, forcing Neil to watch the path as she shucked out of her gown and corset.His ears still rang with the sound of rustling cloth.
Neil gave Constance’s disguise a careful study.The loose clothes concealed the feminine shape of her body, but he wasn’t sure how anyone could look at her face and not know that she was a woman.
But then, how likely was anyone to look at her face?She was playing the part of a servant, a category of people who were invisible in a place like this.
He prayed that she could stay invisible.
A figure lurked at the bottom of the stairs.The light fell across a khaki uniform and cap, marking the man as a member of Borthwick’s Indian Police detachment.The orange spark of a cigarette flared against the gloom.
“Just stick to the plan,” Constance assured him in a whisper.“It’ll be fine.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”Neil muttered under his breath.
The constable straightened as they approached.“Yes?”he asked in heavily accented English, his eyes flicking over Neil’s formal British attire.
“Dr.Bartholomew Culpepper calling for Colonel Borthwick,” Neil announced.
He half expected the constable to push back about the lateness of the hour, the unscheduled visit—or the utter ridiculousness of his alias.
The man’s face revealed nothing.Instead, he called up to the door, where another policeman stepped out of the shadows.The two had a brief exchange in Odia, and the second man slipped into the building.
Neil waited with the first constable, the silence growing painfully awkward.Should he try to make some kind of small talk?He quickly dismissed the idea and tried not to look too closely at the rifle slung over the man’s shoulder.
The second constable returned.“The colonel will see you.Your boy?”
It took Neil a moment to realize that he was talking about Constance.He tried not to panic at the idea of either policeman undertaking a more detailed inspection of his supposed servant.
“He stays with me,” Neil quickly demanded in what he hoped sounded reasonably authoritative.
The constable by the door accepted this with a shrug.“This way, sahib.”
Neil stepped into a high-ceilinged hall.To his left, ornate arches framed rooms furnished with French settees and teak side tables.Only the richly patterned tiles and the distinct curves of the stonework spoke to the building’s Mughal past.
A grand staircase rose to Neil’s right, carpeted by a dull runner held down with brass studs.
