India Black and the Rajah's Ruby (2 page)

“I’ll see what I can do,” I told him. “But I make no promises.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I reckoned I’d regret my decision as impulsive folly. But I can honestly say I have not.

***

Mother Moore listened to my entreaty with a skeptical air, head cocked to one side. I didn’t resort to tears; anyone with the slightest acquaintance with yours truly would have seen through that ruse immediately. Instead, I presented my situation as a business affair. I chose to invent a pater who had just shuffled off this mortal coil. There were accounts to settle and a modest cottage to sell. Mother Moore sat upright when I mentioned the cottage, fearing financial independence for her most popular employee, but I bemoaned the state of the roof and the distance from the nearest village and when my abbess was convinced that I’d be lucky to unload the property at all, she relaxed and considered my request.

“You’ve never mentioned your father at all until today,” she said, absently toying with a tumbler of gin.

I shrugged. “Pa was a staunch Methodist. We never did see eye to eye on anything. When I left for London, he called me the spawn of the devil and said good riddance and farewell.”

“I thought you said you were born in London.” A quarter of the gin disappeared down her gullet.

“I did,” I said promptly. “Would you have taken a chance on a girl from the country at such a fine house as this?” Blast. When I’d first come to her abbey, I had told Mother Moore the truth about my London origins. Now I’d have to remember my alleged provincial upbringing. That’s why I usually stick to the truth; it can be damned difficult keeping your stories straight and while I’m quite capable of doing so, there’s no point in adding complexity to your life. Simplicity, especially in matters of deceit, is desirable. I resolved to say no more about my rural origins and concentrated on looking ruffled at the prospect of having to hawk a run-down cottage in Devon.

Mother Moore savoured another mouthful of gin. “Mr. Barrett will be disappointed at your absence.”

I held my breath for a moment. If I’d been a madam and a tart had come to me with just such a tale as I had spun, I’d have immediately suspected that she was off with her lover. In theory, most abbesses don’t mind if you go traipsing off with a client, as long as they get their proper cut. Madams have two rules: everything has a price, and whores should not be giving away the house’s favors without collecting for them.

I shrugged. “I’ll only be gone a few days.”

“Well, I don’t suppose a week will matter.” Mother Moore polished off the gin and rose to help herself to more. “I don’t like to keep my girls chained up. A change of scenery can work wonders for the complexion. But mind you don’t get down there and decide to marry the pigman at the local estate.”

I laughed heartily at that, as it genuinely was a ridiculous notion. A pigman indeed.

Mother Moore sank back into her chair. “Right, then. Off you go. But you be back here in time for Sunday night’s business or I’ll find some other chicken to tempt the lads.”

I rose with elation, which I carefully concealed, and trundled off to pack a bag. I briefly entertained the notion that the old bag was beginning to go soft if I could get round her that easily, but with my customary confidence I assured myself that my talent for guile had reached unprecedented heights and quickly put the matter from my mind. There was the delightful prospect of a week in the country before me, and I intended to enjoy it to the fullest.

Philip had sprung for seats in first class. I thought this extravagant and told him so as we settled into our compartment.

He gave me a gambler’s grin. “I had to hock my cuff links to get the dosh, but it’s worth the expense. I must appear to be a highly successful merchant prince if I’m to land a contract with White.” His smile turned cheeky. “I congratulate you. You sounded just like a wife then, berating her husband for spending money unwisely. You’ll be splendid in this role.”

“Naturally.”

“Did Mother Moore swallow your story?”

“If she hadn’t I wouldn’t be sitting here. Of course she believed me. I’m a regular thespian when I want to be.”

“Was it a dying mother?”

“A dead father,” I said shortly. My mother had died years ago, and her memory was too precious to use as a stratagem for escaping my duties at Mother Moore’s. Of my father I knew nothing and so it had been quite easy to create him out of whole cloth. It amused me to think he might have been an intolerant religious bloke with an obsession regarding sin. Those types are some of my best customers.

“I suppose you’d better tell me more about Mr. White, and how you expect me to help you with him,” I said.

“I only know what I’ve picked up from my contacts in the city. I’m told his origins are plebian and while he has money, he hasn’t the wit or sophistication to use it well. He made his pile by buying up land from southern plantation owners who’d gone bankrupt during the war. He’s a shrewd businessman who’s amassed a fortune and come to Europe to become a gentleman.”

“How does one do that?”

“One purchases every third-rate French painting and Italian statue one can.”

“On a buying spree, is he?”

“He and his wife have shipped hundreds of crates back to St. Louis. I understand there’s a huge mansion that needs to be kitted out to impress the locals. He’s also become a patron of the arts. He wouldn’t know an aria from an ape, but you can find him at the opera nearly every night that he’s in London.”

“He sounds a terrible bore.”

“I expect he is. He’ll talk with his mouth full and use the wrong fork and he’ll have a booming voice that will make you wince. Do try not to wince, India. And please refrain from yawning or rolling your eyes or delivering a
bon mot
at the dinner table.”

“What
am
I to do in his presence?”

Philip gave this some thought, absently stroking my palm through my glove. “Well, he’s American, so for God’s sake don’t be subtle. The colonists don’t go for subtle. He’ll probably be patting your hand at dinner on the first night, and planting a kiss on your cheek by the second.”

I shuddered. “I do hope this is worth it.”

Philip smiled and lifted my hand to his lips. His kiss was tender. “It will be, my girl. Remember what I’ve promised you.”

“I shall try to do so, but it may be jolly difficult to concentrate if the man chews with his mouth open.”

“I’m sure he will.” He smote himself lightly on the forehead. “I nearly forgot. There’s one other thing the old fellow will do and that’s boast. Honestly, these Americans seem to think the rest of world is as fascinated by their possessions as they are. So you can expect to hear White enumerate the rich and rare objects in his collection for your benefit. If he shows you the paintings, do keep a straight face. The vases will be vulgar and the silver gaudy. I am told, however, that he has acquired some fine jewels. He probably paid too much for them, but they are supposed to be quite beautiful.”

“I wasn’t aware that there was such a thing as an ugly jewel.”

Philip grinned. “You’ve the heart of a mercenary, India. It’s one of the things I like best about you.”

“We’re two of a kind, you and me. Now, let’s discuss what sort of wife I’m to be. You mentioned the nagging sort, always worried about money.”

“Yes, I think that would work. But don’t overdo it. Allude to your desire for a new villa in the suburbs and look wistful. Just don’t make me out to be the inept or dull. White must believe I’m a ruddy genius with my nose to the grindstone. He’s a businessman, after all, and will want to believe his future partner knows what he’s about.”

“So when he trots out the jewels, fall on them with delight and exclaim loyally that someday my brilliant, darling Philip will be presenting me with my own collection.”

“That’s the stuff. And be sure and tell him that I’ve been extraordinarily successful importing goods from America and selling them here in England.”

“What if he wants details?”

“This will be a challenge for you, India, but try to look bovine and rather stupid and say that you don’t understand the details of my activities. Can you giggle, or is that husky, knowing laugh of yours the best you can do?” He gave me a teasing look, and the light from the window struck gold sparks in his eyes. I drew an involuntary breath. Good Lord, the fellow was comely.

“I shall titter like a vicar’s daughter at the sight of the prize-winning bull.”

“Excellent. I believe we shall carry this off, India. With you here to charm the old boy, I should be leaving on Sunday with a signed contract in my case.”

We shared a conspiratorial smile. I enjoy a challenge, and winkling a binding agreement out of a vulgar American in a week’s time would be an invigorating test of my skills at subterfuge. And Philip’s, of course. But I had no doubt that he’d asked me along because the key to Mr. Harold White was his predilection for tasty lasses. Thinking about the old goat reminded that he was not alone in his house in Devon. There was the ball and chain to consider.

“What do you know of Mrs. White?”

Philip frowned and flicked a smut from his lapel. “Very little, I’m afraid. We shall have to take her measure when we meet her.”

“I hope she’s not a harridan, or cuddling up to her husband may be difficult.”

“White has quite a reputation as a rake, so she’s either one of those oblivious creatures who doesn’t suspect a thing or he keeps her sweet with liberal applications of cash.”

We spent the rest of our trip boning up on the details of our domestic arrangements. I argued for a small semidetached in the suburbs but Philip finally won out with a flat in Holborn, convenient to his work at the company’s warehouse on the Thames. We conjured up a story of how we’d met at my cousin’s wedding. Philip manufactured a quaint family circle for me, consisting of a deceased mother, a country doctor for a father, and two maiden aunts who’d moved in to look after their widowed brother and raise his only child. We practiced calling each other ‘Mr. Barrett’ and ‘Mrs. Barrett’ and by the time the train pulled into the station at Ottery St. Mary, we could do so with the solemnity of two judges.

We jerked to a halt and Philip rose gracefully, clapping his hat on his head and adjusting it to a sober angle. He collected his case and I followed him down the corridor to the exit. At the bottom of the steps he stopped and offered me his hand, and I assumed the persona of Mrs. Philip Barrett, which meant I looked around eagerly, virtually quivering in anticipation at the prospect of a few days in a country house.

“I’ll see to the bags,” said Philip. “Wait here. I won’t be a minute.”

I nodded and gazed around with interest. It was feigned, of course, for there isn’t much to see at a country station, save for the ladies who’ve returned from London with parcels and hatboxes. There was the odd man of business in last year’s suit and shiny bowler, striding away with the evening paper under his arm, and a commercial traveler or two, conspicuous in their checked trousers and scuffed boots, walking hunched over from the weight of the sample cases they carried. The platform cleared quickly, the conductor bawled the name of the next station and advised anyone who was going there to climb on board or be left behind, and the train chugged away from the platform, belching cinders and smoke as the wheels ground shrilly against the rails. The clamor died away and we were left on the platform with our bags.

“Jolly quiet out here,” said Philip.

“Too bloody quiet. Except for the damn birds. I don’t suppose I’ll sleep the entire time I’m here, not with that racket going on,” I said. “And what’s that smell?”

“I expect it’s fresh air.”

“Oh. Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose. I’ll just have to bear it.”

Philip squinted down the platform. “Here’s a fellow coming. I wonder if he’s White’s man.”

The gent in question approached ponderously, halting a few feet from us and removing his hat. He had a thatch of thick black hair, a nose that had once encountered a fist, and an expression of total indifference.

“Mr. Barrett?” His voice was flat, with a nasal twang. He regarded us indifferently through eyes the colour of treacle.

“I am Mr. Barrett,” said Philip. “And this is Mrs. Barrett.”

“I’m Duckworth,” he announced in an untutored American twang. “Mr. White sent me to fetch you.” He shouldered past Philip and seized our cases, then turned on his heel. Philip and I exchanged a glance and paced after him.

Outside the station a handsome carriage, painted a glossy burgundy with stenciled gold decoration, stood waiting. The horses were a matched pair of greys, hooves polished until they gleamed and tails brushed so that they floated like gossamer in the breeze. Duckworth strapped our luggage to the wooden rack at the rear of the carriage and climbed into the driver’s seat. He snapped the reins and we were off. Our route took us through the village. I suppose it was pretty, if you care for that sort of thing. Quaint cottages twined about with vines and roses, substantial brick homes of the local worthies, a few pubs and shops and an appalling number of pink-cheeked children tumbling about the streets, whooping with laughter, while their plump, golden-haired mothers gossiped at garden gates. Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the River Otter as it wound lazily past the village. Bees droned among the flowers. I suppressed a shudder. I’m used to the grime and smoke and incessant buzz of the Big Smoke, not to mention conversation that doesn’t revolve around the two-headed calf born last week.

A half mile beyond the village we turned off the road and rumbled through a set of impressive iron gates bearing a crest featuring a Saracen’s head and multiple instruments of war. Just the sort of thing to impress an American. I caught a glimpse of the house through the trees, a solid lump of grey stone plonked down in the midst of a green field, looking dreary and defiant. My heart sank at the sight, imagining a week spent wandering its gloomy corridors. I hoped the company would be more congenial than the accommodations.

Duckworth guided the horses up the drive and to the front door, where a pale, slender fellow waited to greet us. At first glance I thought I’d spotted a ghost. As we drew nearer, it occurred to me that it might be a corpse instead. The chap stood motionless. Blue veins were faintly visible beneath alabaster skin. His eyes were the color of lead and surrounded by sparse white lashes. Soft white fuzz covered his skull and his mustache might have been prized by a schoolboy, but anyone else would have shaved it off in shame.