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“My dear, I do not find endless miles of ocean nearly so fascinating as you do. We shall see enough of it, I daresay, and there is no harm in allowing a harassed gentleman to unburden himself.”Older gentlemen did tend to confide in Mrs. Gales. She was well-rounded and comfortable in form, and equally comfortable in personality. Having no pretensions to beauty, the widow was neither vain nor flirtatious, but a sensible, well-bred, and tolerant female. Perhaps that was why so many mature men were drawn to her. One could not be amazed to learn the captain had, so soon after meeting her, commenced confiding his woes.
Amanda frowned at a crease in the bodice of the blue muslin. “I take it more than Padji harassed him, then?”
“I’m afraid so. Captain Blayton has apparently fallen victim of the whims of the aristocracy. He was obliged to leave Mr. Larchmere behind in order to take on an invalid solicitor and his valet The Marquess of Hedgrave’s solicitor,” Mrs. Gales added significantly. “Naturally, a mere ‘Honourable’ must give way.”
“How sick is this man?” Amanda asked. “He can’t be seriously unwell if he undertakes a long sea voyage.”
“But that is just the point, my dear, and no wonder the captain is so provoked. Mr. Wingle was carried on board and, according to Captain Blayton, looked even worse than the cook he hadn’t dared move from Calcutta! Did you ever hear the like?”
The blue-eyed man was the valet, then. Miss Cavencourt’s colour rose once more. She let the lid of the trunk fall shut. “It seems most inconsiderate to me,” she said, ruthlessly squelching a flutter of disappointment. “This is hardly a hospital ship, and I daresay we’ll all be tried enough with Mrs. Bullerham’s digestion.”
“Mrs. Bullerham’s only problem is a revolting tendency to overeat,” said Mrs. Gales with a sniff. “I expect she’ll be running Padji ragged demanding special teas and broths, and complaining the whole time. When I heard the news, I was nearly as irritated as the captain. Though Mr. Larchmere is rather full of himself, he does relate the most charming anecdotes, and I had counted on him to relieve the tedium of our mealtimes at least. Not that the captain is tedious,” she added, “but he is responsible for everything. One cannot expect him to carry the entire burden of entertainment. I do not blame him a whit for feeling as he does. I should feel put upon myself. Yet, as I told him, the Whitestones have always been high-handed. One might as well complain of the ocean being damp, you know.”
Amanda sat back on her heels. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “Did you say Whitestone? Whom do you mean?”
“Richard Whitestone, Marquess of Hedgrave, my dear,” Mrs. Gales said patiently. “Very high-handed they all are. Or were, since he’s the last of his branch of the family. His heir presumptive is a distant cousin, I believe. There is the marquess, half a world away, yet the commander of an East Indiaman must do his bidding, regardless who is inconvenienced. Not that one is surprised, when most of the East India Company dances to Lord Hedgrave’s tune.” She shook her head. “Really, Amanda, I must insist you lie down and rest. You are as white as a sheet.”
***
“He’s far too sick to undertake a voyage of any sort,” the ship’s surgeon said brusquely as he followed Philip out of the cabin. “Just as I told Mr. Groves last night. Kit’s fever, it’s not like any I’ve ever seen.” He paused. “Well, not since this morning, actually. Our cook showed similar symptoms.”
For a moment, Philip felt ill himself. So that was how the murderous Indian had gotten on board the ship. But Jessup would not die, Philip told himself. He would not.
“The physician in Calcutta seemed to think my master risked greater danger in remaining,” he said, in as placating tones as he could manage. “The climate had already weakened his constitution, and the doctor believed he’d not survive the monsoon season. Surely his case isn’t hopeless, Mr. Lambeth. I was given to understand the present ailment resulted from ingesting tainted food.”
The surgeon continued on towards the upper deck. “No surprise, that. Confounded Indian food,” he muttered. “Spiced so hot you never know what you’re eating.” He scowled. “Blayton’s a damned fool, hiring that Indian. Miss Cavencourt herself admitted her sister-in-law couldn’t stomach the man’s cooking.”
The queasy feeling washed through Philip again. He blamed the rolling vessel.
“The Indian was employed by Miss Cavencourt’s family?” he asked with no more than ordinary polite curiosity. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Was. Unreliable, like all of ‘em. Not a native you could trust as far as you could throw him. A sneaking runaway, that one. Admitted it himself-—boasted, even. Should have been flogged, to my way of thinking. But the lady stood up for him, and who’s going to contradict Lord Cavencourt’s sister?” Mr. Lambeth hesitated a moment, then added reluctantly, “Still and all, she don’t seem a fool, and the Indian seems to worship the ground she walks on. Whatever he gave Saunders seemed to do the man some good. Maybe you can get him to mix up one of them messes for your master. Worst it can do is kill him, and he’s not likely to last more than a week anyhow.”
On this uplifting note, the surgeon took his leave.
Cold-hearted swine.
Philip returned to the cabin. Jessup lay upon his stomach, moaning faintly.
“Is it very bad, old man?” Philip asked softly.
“Unh.”
“Are you thirsty? Can I give you some water?”
“Nunh.”
“You have to take something. You’ve got to keep up your strength, soldier,” Philip said with an attempt at heartiness.
Under the rusty brown stubble, Jessup’s normally ruddy flesh lay flaccid and damp, a jaundiced green. The whites of the eyes he painfully opened had turned pale yellow, webbed with spidery red lines, and the brown irises were cloudy, unseeing. He mumbled something. Philip bent closer.
“Throw... me... over,” came the gasping words.
Philip swallowed. “Can’t,” he said. “They’ll keelhaul me. Just isn’t done. You’re going to have to hang on. But of course you will,” he added encouragingly. “Fifty thousand pounds, and half that’s yours, my lad. There it waits, safe and snug in the bottom of the trunk. You’re not going to pass up twenty-five thousand quid, are you? We’ll get you a pair of roly-poly tarts, one for each arm. And we’ll dress you like a lord—shining boots from Hoby, one of Locke’s hats, and Weston’s best cut of suit. It’s Weston now, you know, for the Beau’s brought him into fashion.”
On through the long afternoon and into the twilight, Philip sat by his servant and talked until he was hoarse, because words were all he could offer. He must give the man reason to live, to hold on. If Jessup held on this night,
if he managed to sleep a bit, perhaps he’d wake stronger tomorrow. Perhaps he’d swallow a bite then, and grow stronger yet.
If and if, perhaps and maybe. Philip Astonley had never felt so helpless since the day, fifteen years ago, he’d made his decision. Was this the end of it, or the dream that never quite came true, but never quite proved false, either? Trapped on a ship bound for England, his one friend in the world about to die, his worst enemy about to kill him? The Falcon had always known he’d be murdered one day. He was not afraid to die. He was simply curious: Would Padji snuff him out quickly, or would the giant take his time, to draw the thing out with supreme, unruffled Indian patience?
However the end came, it would be his own damned fault, Philip reflected disgustedly. Rage edged to the surface again. The rani... imbecilic Randall... the woman...
Jessup groaned. Banishing his growing fury, the Falcon focused mind and energy on keeping his servant alive.
Chapter Four
Morning came at last, and Jessup finally fell into exhausted sleep. He was sinking, though. His colour had deteriorated to grey.
Philip recalled the surgeon’s words: “Maybe you can get him to mix up one of those messes for your master.” He’d have to hazard it. There was a chance the Indian would recognise him. On the other hand, Jessup at present had no chance at all.
After all, Philip—in the disguise of a plump, prosperous hookah merchant, complete with beard and thick padding— had merely passed Padji briefly in the hallway of the rani’s palace. For the robbery, he’d shaved and foregone the padding. Thus Padji was unlikely to equate the merchant with the robber. Would he note a resemblance between Mr. Brenuck, valet, and the thief, though? Perhaps not. Philip had, as usual, disguised his voice that night. The Falcon could mimic virtually any masculine voice he heard, and more than a few feminine ones. What Padji had heard was an excellent imitation of the Bhonsla Raja.
