A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (29 page)

“I’m afraid Maurya took care of that little deed for you.”

“What?” John made to lift his head again, but the pain made him give up. “How?”

“After Bradleigh left the Delhi gates open for the mutinous sepoys to enter, he scurried here for his payoff. But Maurya never delivered—or should I say he delivered something the Resident hadn’t expected?”

Vámbéry lifted John’s shoulders to fasten the bandage around him. John groaned at the pain slicing him in two. “As soon as I’m able, I intend to pound on you for the way you carved me up, not to mention the way you toss me around.” He grunted as Vámbéry eased him back on the bed. “I think you enjoy torturing me.”

“
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
You should thank me, Ravenswood. I thought I did a marvelous job of making it appear as though I’d stabbed you through the heart. I was exceedingly thorough in my endeavor, by the way. I even managed to slip into the screened viewing room beforehand to figure out where to position myself between you and the witnesses so they couldn’t see exactly where the knife was to be delivered. Had to make it look as though I stuck you square in the heart so mine wouldn’t get cut out.”

What could barely pass as a smile swept over Vámbéry’s lips. He lifted the scissors from where they lay atop John’s chest and raised them high in the air. “See here—I angled the blade just so in order to make a vertical slice between the threads of sinew, and not horizontally where it would have cut the muscle in two. And then with great force, I—”

“Enough!” John growled and batted at the scissors. “I don’t give a damn how you faked my demise, I’m alive and—” He squinted hard at Vámbéry again. “Was Tanush one of the witnesses?”

Vámbéry nodded.

“Did you manage to get to him afterward and tell him what you’d done?”

Vámbéry’s brows arched. “No time for that. I was so good at what I was about, the man is probably convinced I’m the enemy.”

“Good thing he’s off to Bombay, or he’d see to your head.” John hissed in pain when Vámbéry pressed the bandage to his wound. “By the by, you could have used a cleaner knife from the looks of that oozing pus.”

“It’s all I had on me at the time,” Vámbéry said. “Besides, it’s a rather special weapon. One I designed myself.” He rose from the bedside, made his way to the table, and returned with a sinister looking dagger with a long, slender blade. He handed it off to John. “Take a look.”

“The blasted thing must be six inches long. How the devil did you manage to keep from poking me clear through to the other side? In case you didn’t know, you weren’t gentle in your delivery.”

A rare sparkle went through Vámbéry’s eyes and then vanished as quickly as it came. “See that little jewel near the top of the handle?”

John nodded.

“Have a go at stabbing the mattress. Just when the point of the blade makes contact, press the carnelian and—”

“Good God, man, I can barely raise my head and you want me to plunge—”

“Allow me.” Vámbéry slipped the knife from John’s fingers and stabbed it into the mattress with a violent thrust.

John winced at the recollection of the same force driving into him. “Bloody hell?”

“Watch carefully as I extract the knife.”

To John’s surprise, the blade wasn’t much over an inch long. “Be damned! Where’d you get that thing?”

Vámbéry’s lips twitched. “Told you already. It’s my design. The blade withdraws by pushing on the carnelian. I adjusted it beforehand so it wouldn’t retract all the way.” He pressed the round jewel and the full length of the blade popped out again. “Clever, say?”

He stepped away from the bed and went back to preparing new bandages for the next treatment. “Tell me, Ravenswood, if I were forced to repeat my clandestine act upon your body, would you still prefer I use a normal knife that was a bit cleaner?”

John couldn’t tell with Vámbéry’s back turned, but he’d wager there was a small, but satisfied, grin generating from that bearded face. “You knew exactly where to place the knife so as to deliver the least amount of damage and still make it look as though you’d killed me. Brilliant, but you’re still arrogant.” He regarded the little Hungarian for a long while. “You’re a bit insane, you know.”

“Isn’t every man, in one way or another?” Vámbéry turned, took another swig of his pálinka and shot John a taut grin. “I’ll have you out of here within the week.”

“Sooner,” he responded. “I’m only a few days behind Suri and Tanush, which means there’s a good chance I can catch up with them in Bombay. Hopefully, they’ll have to wait for a ship.”

He’d make certain Suri was all right. Make certain she was not carrying his child. And then he’d return to Ravenswood Park and go about the business of finding a suitable wife. The prospect layered another dull ache upon his many others.

He lay there staring up at the ceiling. What if he reached England and learned that Suri was not with child? What then? Would he pay his respects and simply leave? The thought of never seeing her again hit him so hard it was as if someone had walked into the room and pummeled the stuffing out of him again.

Hell, walking away was not what he wanted to do. Not at all. What he wanted was Suri. He wanted her as his wife. As the mother of his children. As his friend and lover. But what he wanted most was to spend the rest of his life with her beside him. They’d see each other through thick and thin, they would. He knew her well enough to know she’d do that—stand by him no matter what.

For the first time in a long while, something finally felt right in his life. He didn’t give a bloody damn what anyone considered suitable for a duke, he knew, as surely as he breathed, that he and Suri were right for each other.

If she would have him.

“Ever been to Bombay during the monsoons, my friend?” Vámbéry offered the bottle to John who shook his head and grunted, too stunned by his spectacular revelation for words.

Vámbéry lifted a brow and, after studying John for a moment, gave a shrug of his shoulders, swallowed a mouthful of pálinka, and expelled a quick breath. “What a steamy, muddy mess that city is during the season. In case you haven’t thought of it, there’ll be no ships leaving port once the rains come, so you’re likely to find yourself stuck there until the monsoons die off. By the way, I’ll not be the one to escort you.”

John managed a small snort to cover the groan of pain as he shifted about. “Once I get out of this bed, I can manage to hire someone to transport me. Where are you headed from here?”

“I was thinking a trip to Budapest might be just the thing.”

Something peculiar sketched a shadow across Vámbéry’s eyes. John recognized the look—he’d seen loneliness reflected in the mirror too many times not to know the signs. “Any family there?”

Vámbéry set about replacing the near empty bottle, scissors, and remaining squares of cloth on the table. “Been so many years, I no longer know. However, all will not be in vain since those marauding Turks left spectacular thermal baths behind a few centuries ago. I’ve a mind to sink my sorry body in a few while I figure out if anyone I’m related to still exists.”

Picking up the bottle of pálinka, he made his way to a chair and sank into it. “There is one high note in this blight upon humanity I nearly forgot to mention.”

When Vámbéry failed to elaborate, irritation leaped through John like flames through a dry haystack. “Spit it out, blast it!”

“It seems there was a familiar-looking cat lounging about the Chatham grounds while I was there.”

Shahira!
John shot up on one elbow and cursed both his head and host but managed to remain upright this time. “You’re certain it was her?”

Vámbéry nodded. “There aren’t many cheetahs that give off that strange noise and then trot up beside me for a bit of a scratch behind the ears. Followed me back here.”

A flood of relief—or perhaps it was the entire morning’s events coupled with his weakened condition—swept through John, unhinging him to the point of threatening tears. God, how he’d like to bury his face in Shahira’s coat about now.

Vámbéry took another swig of his pálinka, then reached up and straightened his turban before stroking his beard. “Someone made off with her decadent collar and leash, though. In these parts, the chain alone would feed and clothe an extended family for a good ten years, so I doubt you’ll see it again.”

“Where’s Shahira now?”

“Damned if I know. Likely hiding in the brush waiting for you.”

…

Suri sat under the cover of a deep veranda and stared at a curtain of rain so dense she couldn’t make out the other side of the walled garden. God’s tears, her stepmother used to call a heavy downpour. Well, in this torrent, God was doing more than weeping—he was wailing. She glanced down at John’s signet ring she’d been twisting around her index finger—an unconscious habit of late.

God’s tears.
Wouldn’t that be something if her Maker truly was weeping, seeing as how she hadn’t shed a tear since the night they’d escaped Delhi’s mayhem?

But then, neither had Jeremy.

Nor had he uttered a word.

She didn’t know which was worse—his lack of tears or his lack of voice. And he hadn’t let her out of his sight. Not for a waking moment. If she turned around this minute, she’d find him behind her, leaning up against the wall and staring at her back. This morning he had even followed her to the privy and waited not three feet from the door—staring at it with those sorrowful eyes when she’d opened it. They’d been more than a week as guests of Tanush’s friends—a large, extended family. She awoke every morning with Jeremy asleep on the floor beside her bed.

Poor thing.

He was like an empty shell. However, so was she. All hollow inside, lifeless and unable to feel anything except a concern for her nephew that ached like a bad tooth.

A vision of John, so wonderfully handsome, floated through her mind. Perhaps she shouldn’t have thought only one night with him would be enough—for that’s exactly what she got, wasn’t it? He was gone to her now.

Forever.

A tiny quiver of pain threatened to sprout. She focused harder on the sheet of rain. How could it be so insufferably hot even in this hard downpour? What a godforsaken place. How did humans even think to settle here in the first place? How had John stood it for so long? Or Marguerite and Harry, for that matter?

At the very thought of them, at the image of each in her mind’s eye, grief inched its way toward the surface, followed by a trail of misery so profound it would surely take her under if allowed to take hold. Good Lord, she had Jeremy to think of! Her mind cleared and she swallowed hard against the emotions that threatened to expose themselves. Soon they all but withered, leaving her empty once again. Her dry eyes burned, but still no tears came to dampen the sting.

A thin girl of about fourteen padded over to Suri carrying a small tray with two glasses of minted lemonade. “Memsahib?”

Suri took one in her hand. “Thank you. Would you see to it that Jeremy gets the other?”

The girl nodded and disappeared behind Suri only to reappear a moment later. “He won’t take it from me, memsahib,” she whispered with a frantic look in her wide brown eyes.

“It’s all right. Set the tray down and I’ll see he gets it.”

The girl scurried back into the house. Without turning around, Suri stretched her arm out, palm up, and waited. After a moment, a small hand slipped into hers, hot and sweaty. “Come, Jerri, sit beside Auntie.”

A shock of red hair caught her peripheral vision and then Jeremy slid in beside her. He laid his head in her lap and stared out at nothing. Slowly, she stroked his hair. “You’re safe, sweetheart. Your mother will come along behind us. She will.” Oh, she prayed her words wouldn’t prove false. “Drink your lemonade. A sip or two, so you won’t get too dry.”

Still the boy said nothing, only stared at the rain. How long was this going to go on—Jeremy’s silence and the deluge?

And where was Tanush, anyway? She hadn’t seen him going on three days. He’d sent a trunk of clothing in for her that had arrived early this morning—fashionable English wear. She still wore the sari she’d traveled in, although it had been thoroughly cleaned. She wasn’t about to climb into burdensome clothing until right before the ship’s departure. Fainting once in this oppressive heat, because of a tight corset, had been enough.

As suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped. Just like that. “Well,” she said. “I see Tanush was right. These on-again-off-again downpours are merely a prelude to the monsoons. Can you imagine what they must be like? I do hope our ship sails before they arrive, don’t you, Jeremy?”

He said nothing.

Suri sighed and ran her fingers through his hair while she absentmindedly studied the foliage. Aside from jasmine and roses, she had no idea which plant was which, only that they were well cared for. She also had no idea how long she’d been sitting there when she heard footsteps approaching from behind. Not the padding of bare feet, but the heavy steps of boots that scraped to a stop.

She turned to find a finely dressed, dark-haired, and exceedingly handsome English gentleman with eyes black as cinders watching her. His head turned to the side, his eyes flashing dark mystery. A muscle rippled along a chiseled jawline—a jaw that had been recently shaved, judging by the lighter shade of skin at—oh, my God!

“Tanush?” Gently, she settled Jeremy beside her and rose on shaky legs. “Tanush, is that you?”

He arched a brow. “Trenton Traehaern at your service, Miss Thurston. You may call me Trent. All my friends do.”

Gone was the turban, the Indian clothing, the thick beard that had once obscured a rigid face without emotion—which this one wasn’t. This countenance was fluid, bore depth and grace. And the eyes were no longer unreadable.

Her head spun and she grabbed the arm of the settee to steady herself. “Oh, my God. Tanush? I don’t understand. You…you’re not Indian?”

He shifted on a polished booted foot smattered with mud and straightened his back in a manner at once familiar. “Welsh, actually.”

“But…but your black hair…your skin.”

“We Welsh are known for our dark hair and olive skin. Although I’ve had to bake in the sun on a daily basis to help the coloring along. It’ll fade in the coming weeks and then I won’t have a two-toned face.” A corner of his mouth hiked up in a faint, rueful grin.