The Golden Leopard (41 page)

He looked down at his naked body. Already scratched, scabbed, and bruised from his cross-country adventure, it could take on a few more abrasions without attracting notice. But not too many. He required a bit of covering, and Shivaji did not tend to Jessica’s wardrobe. Rifling through her clothing chest, he located a cotton petticoat, tore it into long strips, and wrapped them around his knees, elbows, and palms. The last segment was used to pad the deadly bracelet.

All fine as far as it went, but he was going to be moving low to the ground. Certain vulnerable bits of his anatomy remained unprotected and would be, well, dangling
.
Back to Jessica’s stock of underclothing.

Shortly after, wearing his bandage-guards, the bracelet, and a pair of knee-length female muslin drawers edged with lace, he slid two lit candles in brass holders through the opening and slithered in after them.

The narrow crawlway extended only a few feet before connecting with a stone staircase, equally narrow but with more headroom. Not enough of it, though. Even doubled over, he could not descend the stairs on his feet. After maneuvering to a sitting position on the top step, he went down on his haunches, holding out the candles like a figure of Shiva carrying tokens of Agni, the fire spirit.

Next came a landing, followed by another flight of stairs. The wall to his left felt warm, and soon he heard the muffled sounds of voices and the clanking of metal. He must be passing alongside the kitchen. Then a second landing, a third staircase.

At what he guessed to be cellar level, the stairs ended in what might have been, a century or two earlier, a small storage room. The remnants of worm-eaten shelves were attached to the cinder-block walls, and he saw on the floor the remains of hemp sacking, insects, and mouse droppings.

All this way for nothing. Discouragement lodged in his throat like a rock.

But he’d come too far to give up yet. There was a door-shaped outline to his left, probably leading to the cellar proper, but it had been bricked over. Lifting the candle, he examined the mortar. It appeared crumbly and far older than Jessica. If she had used the tunnel to escape the house, she’d have found another way out of this room.

He studied the floor. The layers of detritus. The slightly clearer area near the far corner to his right. He’d learned one lesson from the entrance in Jessica’s room—when in doubt, look low. Sure enough, a push at a cinder stone smaller than the others dislodged it straightaway, and its companions on either side could be pulled out and set aside with ease.

The next stage of the journey was through a tunnel so small he could navigate it only on elbows and knees. When it became too difficult to proceed with a candleholder in each hand, he left one behind him.

The passage curved. Curved again. And then his arms and head came into a tunnel that was nearly as tall as he was. Scrabbling through the opening, he stood and stretched his cramped muscles.

The air was fresher here. There must be an opening to the outside not too far away. He let out a vigorous sigh of relief and, to his horror, saw the candle flame go out.

Careless!
But not disastrous. Not yet. A warning, though. He’d found his way to the exit, or near to, but next would come Talbot. And always, always, Shivaji. In the future there would be no margin for error, no recovery from a mistake.

In inky darkness, he felt his way along the tunnel. Originally dug out by tin miners, he reckoned, and linked to the house by an especially enterprising Carville. Trailing his fingers along the way to orient himself, he guessed he must have come a quarter of a mile or more from where he’d begun.

Just when he was congratulating himself, he ran smack into a pile of rocks.

But the news wasn’t all bad. From overhead came a few slivers of light, pronging down like dagger blades, and with imagination filling in the black spots he could trace the outline of a trap door that must be partly covered with debris.

He was nearly afraid to give it a try. Should a boulder have been pushed atop the exit, not unlikely if someone had discovered the trap door and decided to seal it off, he would have to try and find where it was from the outside. And that he could not do without Shivaji or one of his minions taking note. Either the trap door opened now, or it was useless to him. Heart pounding, he raised a hand and pushed.

Resistance. Another push.

The trap door went up an inch. Two inches. Three. Hosanna!

He let it drop again. When the time came, it would readily open and he could hoist himself up and out. That was all he needed to know.

Amazed at his good fortune, he made his way swiftly back the way he’d come. Now he had a sterling chance of escaping, a God-given, Jessica-inspired exit from the house that Shivaji didn’t know about.

The notion of departing early, perhaps even that night, slid into his mind. And slid quickly out again. Old territory. He had already fought this battle with himself. When he might have ducked off with the leopard, he had instead put himself back in the assassin’s grasp. And the reasons for it had not altered. They would hold him here until he’d accomplished what he meant to do.

In the bedchamber, he stripped off the wrappings from his knees and elbows, removed the lacy drawers, and stashed the lot in the crawlway. Remembering the blanket under the bed, he tossed that in as well. He used the pitcher of water in the dressing room and the water from a pair of flower vases to wash himself down. The dirty towel joined the pile of linens behind the wainscoting, along with two fresh candles. Later, he’d filch a tinderbox.

With the panel closed and the room in order, he speedily dressed, settled on a wingback chair with his ankles crossed on an ottoman, and was immersed in
Pride and Prejudice
when Shivaji came to tell him that Sir Gerald had arrived.

His heart jolted up to double time. It would be tonight after all. Just as well. No one would be expecting him to act so soon.

“Colonel Pageter and Lady Jessica must be notified before they return to the house,” he told Shivaji on his way to the writing table. “Will you see a message delivered?”

“I will send Arjuna.”

Marveling at the unquestioning agreement, Duran scribbled two notes. The first required Pageter to keep watch over Mariah at the cottage while Mrs. Bellwood, if she would be so kind, removed to High Tor. In the next few days, the earl would need her steadying presence. Jessica was directed, on her return, to enter the house without being seen and take herself to the one room no one would think to search.

“And what will you do, Duran-Sahib?”

“I am going out. Come watch me. Then, if you are asked, you can truthfully reply that you saw me leave and had no idea where I was going.”

“Where are you going?”

“Dear me. If I tell you, you’ll have to lie. Or betray my location, which would be inconvenient. Besides, it’s not as if I can go anywhere unobserved by your watch dogs.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or can I?”

“No.”

“Well, then, what are you worried about? I’m only trying to disengage you from any illegalities I may be required to undertake. If you could bring yourself to tell a corker, these precautions would be unnecessary.”

“When Sir Gerald inquired for Lady Mariah,” said Shivaji, ignoring Duran as if he hadn’t spoken, “he was disturbed to be told she was not in residence. There were threats, I believe. He departed soon after.”

In some regards, Duran was compelled to admit, Shivaji was a better game player than he. “I’m almost afraid to ask. Where was he going?”

“To locate a constable. He believes the family to be guilty of withholding a wife from her husband. This is illegal in England?”

“How would I know? I grew up in India, where law is a matter of whim. Take, for instance, a certain nizam—but I digress.” Sealing the notes, he passed them to his nemesis. “Is there anything else I ought to know?”

“When Sir Gerald demanded to see you, Lord Sothingdon said you were not to be disturbed. He also said that if Sir Gerald was unable to behave with civility, he should take himself . . . elsewhere.”

“Will wonders never cease? Papa-in-law has located his backbone.” Duran glanced at the letters in Shivaji’s slender hand. “Well, be off with you.”

The brown eyes fixed on him. “I suspect you intend to fight Sir Gerald, but it will not be permitted. I cannot allow you a weapon.”

“Would you accept a battle of wits, then? Insults at dawn? Sarcasm at twenty paces?”

“You can do nothing, Duran. He is for his family to deal with.”

“But I
am
his family. And until Sunday, my life is my own.”

“I was mistaken to grant the time,” said Shivaji, regarding him thoughtfully. “I have had a dream. The pathway to death is under the ground and in the country of stones. You will be lost in white darkness. Thunder will bring you down.”

“Ah. A poetic demise. Entirely wasted on a plebeian like me, I’m afraid, but at least you will be denied the pleasure of doing me in.” Duran chuckled. “All assuming, of course, that dreams really do come true.”

“See!” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “You said it.
We
elected. I concede your point about staying clear of the authorities, but I am as much a part of this scheme as you. I helped plan it, arrange it, and carry it out, and I intend to be present at the conclusion.”

“What you really want, princess, is to gloat.”

“Precisely.”

“But you are losing sight of the objective. We wish him to go away and stay away, quietly and without making more trouble for anyone. Yes?”

“Of course. But why can I not watch him squirm?”

“Because—” He swiped his fingers through his hair. “Jessie, this is one of those things that has to be dealt with man-to-man.”

She whirled on him, fur all puffed out and claws unsheathed. “Toad-to-snake, you mean.”

He guessed she had cast him in the role of snake. But maybe not. “Try to put yourself in Talbot’s place. You have taken his measure. He is an arrogant man with aspirations beyond his capacities who frequently meets with disappointment. He also has an entirely misguided contempt for females.”

“In that,” she said acidly, “he is not alone.”

“I’m sure your experience in business has led you to believe so. But Talbot is not merely unenlightened. He loathes you. And because you are stronger, more intelligent, and far more accomplished than he will ever be, he fears you as well. You demonstrate that he cannot claim even the superiority he feels entitled to for having been born a male.”

“Born? He was spawned. In a pond.”

Ah, good. Talbot had been appointed toad. And what had he come to, Duran wondered, to be pleased at his own elevation to snake? “Then consider how he will react when I point out to him, in quelling detail, his exact circumstances. It is bad enough you were the architect of his downfall. He will not stand for you to witness his humiliation.”

She dropped onto a chair. “How does that signify? His sensibilities are of no concern to me.”

“Nor to me. But a man trapped in a corner can either yield or fight back. Add a woman to the mix and the man will nearly always choose to fight. If the woman is you, even a toad will fight to the death.”

“I see. How provoking. But is he truly cornered?”

“Near enough. My fear is that given a short list of bad choices, he may select one that will do damage to your family. Your presence would all but certainly goad him to retribution.”