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Philip had been forced to invoke the Marquess of Hedgrave’s power and, this receiving scant respect, had finally thrust the last of the documents into the captain’s hands. According to these, Messrs Wringle and Brentick were on a secret government mission. Captain Blayton at last, and with very ill grace, had consented to drop his unwelcome passengers at Portsmouth. Evidently, that meant he would drop them into the harbour if they could not disembark within the next fifteen minutes.
“A quarter-hour it is, then,” Philip said. He fumbled in his coat – in which he’d slept, or tried to sleep —and found his purse. He thrust a pile of coins into the mate’s hand, asking for help with the baggage.
The hefty bribe elicited the assistance of four strong seamen, which was fortunate, as it turned out, for Jessup proved to be in worse state than his master. A brawny sailor had to carry him down the ladder onto the boat waiting to take them ashore. Throughout the short trip, Jessup’s head hung miserably over the rowboat’s side.
After depositing their passengers and flinging their belongings haphazardly about them, the crew members hopped back into their boat and rowed feverishly for the Evelina.
Jessup dutifully took up one carpetbag. Clutching it with both hands, he managed to stagger about three feet. Then he slumped down upon a trunk and gazed wearily about while Philip took his own throbbing head and aching body in search of transportation.
Some hours later, after being jolted in a stinking coach from one low hostelry to another – and arguing with the driver at each stop – the two were at last comfortably disposed in the large chambers of a commodious inn.
Jessup immediately fell upon his bed, where he sprawled, groaning.
Philip glared at him. “What the devil’s the matter with you? You weren’t up roistering with the rest of us, and you seemed well enough all yesterday.” His eyes narrowed. “May I take it Miss Jones stopped in for one of her visits?’’
Jessup moaned.
“What in blazes did the wench do to you?”
“Nuthin’, guv.” Jessup dragged his hand over his face. “Leastways, I don’t remember. I must’ve had a drop too much. She brung a bottle and – “
“And you haven’t touched liquor in seven months. Damned fool. You know your liver isn’t what it was. Didn’t I tell you that, a score or times? Confound it, didn’t your chubby reformer tell you?”
“Aye, she tole me.”
“But you didn’t listen. I suppose you emptied most of the bottle yourself.”
Jessup nodded wretchedly.
“Oh, good work. Very intelligent,” Philip said. “After what your poor belly’s been through, you’re lucky it didn’t kill you.”
A tap at the door interrupted the lecture. Philip answered it, to learn from one of the inn servants that his bath awaited him in the adjoining chamber. His mood instantly lightened.
“That’s what I like,” he said, turning back to Jessup. “Prompt service. Fawning attention. Someone bowing and scraping to me, for a change. Gad, seven months, and never a proper wash the whole time. Don’t look for me for at least a week, soldier,” he said as he headed for the connecting door.
Jessup grumbled something unintelligible then buried his face in his pillow.
Philip chuckled. “I do hope you got some pleasure from her last night,” he said, shaking his head, “seeing you’re paying so handsomely today.”
Soap, gallons of fresh, hot water, towels that weren’t damp and scratchy with salt. Paradise, Philip thought as he sank into his bath. The throbbing in his head subsided and his taut muscles at last began to relax.
More than half an hour later he climbed out, dried himself off, and went to the trunk to unearth the dressing gown he’d forgotten to take out before. It was near the bottom, for he hadn’t bothered with it during the voyage. He’d not felt inclined to linger in the tiny, stale cabin, even if life aboard ship had accommodated a long morning’s dawdle over newspapers and coffee.
His dressing gown lay carelessly folded upon the rolled-up rug which contained the Laughing Princess.
Philip stared at the robe, then at the open door between the two rooms.
Wine. Jessup drunk, unconscious. And Philip above, lost in an embrace ... that never should have been allowed to begin. Where had Padji been?
The heavy haze which had filled Philip’s mind all morning abruptly cleared, and an unpleasantly familiar warning chill trickled down his neck.
At that moment, every piece of the game came together in his brain.
He took out the rug, though he didn’t need to. He unrolled it, though he knew what he wouldn’t find.
Naked, he knelt by the trunk, gazing down at the rug’s contents: a jar of incense.
He closed his eyes and laughed. It was an ugly sound that made Jessup jump up from his bed and hurry to the open doorway to stare at his master.
“That bitch,” Philip said softly. “That treacherous, scheming bitch. Seven months.” He turned to meet Jessup’s baffled gaze. “Seven months,” Philip repeated. His mouth warped into something like a smile. “Is that not Oriental patience for you, soldier?”
“What – “ Jessup stopped short as his employer held up the jar of incense.
“Seven months they’ve played us for a pair of fools. Whored her maid. Whored herself—or would have, I’ve no doubt. I hope you got a tumble out of the maid, my lad. I, you see, was too much the gentleman to attempt the mistress ... because she’s a lady,” Philip spat out.
Jessup moved into the room, his horrified gaze fixed upon the jar of incense.
“You see it now, don’t you?” Philip said in deceptively cool tones. “Why should you suspect her that last night, after all those days and nights, weeks, months? No one knew—or so we smugly believed—it was our last night. Why should you dream there was anything in the wine? Did it taste odd in any way, soldier? Would you have noticed? Or would you have put it down to your ailment, and going so long without?”
“But she drank it, too,” Jessup said, dazed. “I seen her. I wanted to get her drunk.”
“Of course Miss Jones drank it. Why shouldn’t she? She might lie there in a stupor, for she’d no more to do. The Indian slips in, picks the lock as neat as you please, takes out the statue, throws the maid over his shoulder, goes out and, moments later, deposits maid and statue at the feet of his mistress. Then he proceeds to the forecastle to join our dissipations and watch me drink myself into stupefaction.” Philip’s fingers closed about the neck of the jar. “I couldn’t have done it neater myself... if I’d such a pair of clodpates to deal with.”
Abruptly he flung down the jar then ripped a shirt and a pair or trousers from the trunk. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Aye, you’ll be sorry, sweetheart.”
Five minutes later, he was dressed and out the door.
An hour after, he stood at the pier, clenching his fists in impotent fury. The Evelina was long gone, driven swiftly by the most accommodating wind she’d encountered since leaving Calcutta.
One might hire a speedier vessel, and very possibly overtake her. But then what? Board the ship and demand that Lord Cavencourt’s sister be flogged? Keelhauled? Tried and hanged as a thief? What the devil had he been thinking of?
Murder, Philip answered silently. A nice, satisfying little murder. He would take her smooth, slim neck in his hands… and choke the life ou
t of her. He merely wanted to strangle her, that was all. With his bare hands.
“But that would never do, miss, would it?” he murmured. “What would Mrs. Bullerham think? Most improper.”
Stories. All those lovely stories. The seductive voice and scent. The ridiculous, contradictory innocence and vulnerability, and the pity he’d felt because she was so utterly alone.
“Oh, Amanda,” he whispered. “You miserable... little... scheming... bitcb!”
***
In one particular, the Falcon had erred. Padji had not placed the statue at his mistress’s feet. He had concealed it for the remainder of the journey in an exceedingly elaborate and lofty arrangement of turban.
He did not reveal this until they were all safely ensconced in their hotel in London. Only then did he present to his mistress, with all appropriate ceremony, the Laughing Princess. In the event the theft had been discovered too soon, he explained, it was best the statue not be in his mistress’s possession. Equally important, she ought not know where it was. Thus, only Padji would suffer for the crime.
Amanda was far too weary to point out that she’d never have let Padji be punished in her place. She’d barely the strength to thank him. She’d spent these last days in a frenzy of anxiety and guilt. Even in Gravesend, she’d expected Mr. Wringle to pop out of every door and alley, screaming for a constable. More appalling was the prospect of seeing Mr. Brentick’s shocked, reproachful face. He would have concluded Amanda Cavencourt had toyed with his affections purely for her own criminal ends.
Which was absurd, she told herself now, as she crawled into bed and pulled the blankets up over her head. She was quite certain he could know no more of the Laughing Princess at present than he ever had. Even if he did, she could not be the only suspect.
As to what had occurred that last night—well, that had nothing to do with his affections, did it? Such things were not unheard of. Lady Tewkshead had eloped with Sir Rodger Crawford’s groom. Miss Flora Perquat had been exiled to Calcutta because she’d had a child by her father’s gardener. Mr. Brentick must have kissed any number of gently bred ladies—and bedded at least some of them. One embrace would mean little to him. Furthermore, he’d kissed Amanda only because there was no one else conveniently at hand.
