The Sandalwood Princess (26 page)

She stared at it, then up at him. “Oh, I don’t know. Do you think—” She caught herself and flushed.

“Yes, miss? May I be of assistance?”

Miss Cavencourt bit her lip, stared once, more at the paper, then shook her head.

Unperturbed, Philip left the room. She’d call him back. She’d survived without him a mere three days before summoning him to assist with the book once more. Within a week, they’d fallen into old habits—or near enough. Their long afternoon activities had ended. When Miss Cavencourt wanted exercise, Padji accompanied her.

All the same, she was too accustomed to relying on her butler’s judgment. She’d call him back. If not, he’d simply discard Plan A. Plan B or C would do as well.

An hour later, he was summoned to the library. Miss Cavencourt could not make out one of his notes.

When he’d done translating what was perfectly clear in the first place, the lady asked with studied nonchalance whether he’d heard anything of Mr. Wringle. Bella had mentioned him just this morning. Bella, evidently, cherished hopes of meeting the fellow in London.

That, Philip knew, was a fabrication. Bella had nothing to do with it. He knew exactly what troubled his employer: she wanted to be sure it was safe to take the statue with her.

He affected astonishment. “In London? Doesn’t she—” He stopped short. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Tell me what?” Her fingers gripped the table’s edge.

“Good heavens,” he said, shaking his head. “I believe I never
did
tell you. Though how it could have —”

Tell me
what,
Mr. Brentick?” she demanded.

“I do beg your pardon, miss. I should have told you, but in the press of domestic crises, it must have slipped my mind. Later, no doubt, I assumed I
had
told you.” He paused briefly. “Mr. Wringle was taken up.”

Miss Cavencourt’s golden eyes opened very wide. “Taken up?” she echoed. “By whom, for what?”

“By Bow Street officers. I had it from the employment agent, the first day I met with him. Evidently all York was buzzing about it. Mr. Forbish was most excited, having observed the arrest himself.”

Miss Cavencourt appeared so utterly lost that her butler was strongly tempted to lift her out of her chair and carry her to safety. The trouble was, he couldn’t take her anywhere she’d be safe from him.

“But that is very strange,” she said after a moment. “What was Mr. Wringle doing in York? I thought he worked for a respectable London law firm.”

“So it appeared, miss.”

“But you said you’d been acquainted with him—and Randall Groves helped you get the position.”

“I daresay Mr. Groves found no more reason to doubt the man than I did. I noticed nothing out of the way in Mr. Wringle’s behaviour. That is, not until the regrettable incident in Portsmouth.”

“I see.” Her amber gaze dropped to the table. “Do you know what the charge was against him?”

In low tones her butler informed her that Mr. Wringle had been trafficking in stolen goods, among other felonies. Most shocking it was.

“Astonishing, to be sure,” she answered slowly, as she digested the news and reached precisely the conclusion Philip intended. “Bella will be distressed.” She looked up. “But we needn’t tell her right away. I should hate to upset her now, when she has so much to do.”

“Most considerate of you, miss. I only hope I haven’t distressed
you,”
he said, frowning in concern.

“Oh, no. I’m just... surprised. Well, not altogether, for this does explain his inexcusable behaviour to you, Mr. Brentick. The man is a hardened villain. Once he was home, safe and well,” she said indignantly, “he had no more need for you. He must have feared you’d discover his true self. Certainly you would, because you are so clever and— and perceptive.”

Philip had to drop his own gaze then. He wished she wouldn’t look at him so. Her guileless golden eyes told him far too much. She not only believed every word, she believed in
him.

It was a pity, really. So quick and capable her mind was, as she glided through the labyrinths of Hindu mythology and philosophy. So sadly inept, on the other hand, when it came to comprehending her faithless butler.

He heard her tell him she’d go to York the day after tomorrow to collect her “jewellery,” just as he heard himself nod and answer calmly. This, after all, was precisely what he’d worked so hard to accomplish. Yet it seemed another man composedly acceded to her wishes, while Philip Astonley wanted to shake her and scream at her not to be such a beautiful, trusting little fool.

Padji rarely slept. He usually spent some part of the night prowling the house and another part roaming the countryside. As Philip had discovered the night he’d ended
up in the closet, the Indian followed no predictable routine. Sometimes Padji never left the house at all. At other times he vanished before midnight and did not return until near daybreak. Twice he’d not turned up until after breakfast, leaving the meal to an irate Mrs. Swanslow. When he did go out, moreover, one could not be certain whether he lurked near the house or roamed miles away. The Falcon had therefore contrived several different schemes to accommodate all eventualities.

On the night before the planned trip to York, Padji chose to wander abroad. He returned shortly before dawn and headed for his sleeping quarters, a small room off the kitchen. Philip gave him time to settle in, then crept out to the kitchen.

“Hush,” he said in a drunken whisper. He needn’t raise his voice. Padji’s ears were prodigious sharp. “We don’t want to wake everyone.”

He answered himself with a feminine giggle. Miss Cavencourt’s giggle, to be precise.

A short, amorous conversation ensued, the Falcon playing both drunken servant and the tipsy mistress he enticed out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room.

He’d scarcely closed the door when he heard Padji in stealthy pursuit. Damp cloth in one hand and heavy saucepan in the other, Philip leapt upon the chair he’d previously placed by the door, and flattened himself against the wall.

The door flew open, Padji swung through, and Philip slammed the saucepan against the Indian’s skull. The giant sank to his knees, and Philip swiftly pressed the cloth to his face. Padji collapsed.

Moments later, Philip was hauling the cook’s inert body through the butler’s pantry, then down the steps to the cellars.

He deposited Padji in the outermost wine cellar, tied him up, and gagged him. Then he locked the door, stuffed a few shards of metal into the lock, and began building a barricade of casks.

This labour done, he quickly put into place the dozen
booby traps he’d prepared days before. The Indian shouldn’t come to for several hours, and he’d have a devil of a time untying himself, then breaking down the door, but it was best to create as many hindrances as possible. Every minute could count.

Philip returned upstairs, locked the cellar door, and speedily erased all signs of recent events. He checked his pocket watch and smiled grimly.

Knowing he could delay her if that proved necessary, he’d persuaded Miss Cavencourt to make a very early start. He’d already packed and stowed in the carriage his few belongings. He’d plenty of time to bathe and shave, time even to breakfast leisurely—if he’d had any appetite.

A thief, a prince, a falcon.... A prophecy, perhaps.
Padji’s words came back to Amanda as she sat, silently fretting, in the curricle beside her butler.

She’d felt uneasy all day because she hadn’t told Padji her plans. He of all people was entitled to know she was retrieving the Laughing Princess. The trouble was, he’d want to guard her, and if Padji accompanied her to York, Mr. Brentick could not. She had not wanted to give up these last few precious hours.

Now, as they drove homeward, Amanda wished she hadn’t been so stupidly sentimental. The disturbing dream had visited her again last night, leaving her anxious when she woke. She’d wanted to speak to Padji of that at least, but he’d gone wandering again. He was nowhere to be found this morning when she’d come down.

To compound these previous vexations, her butler had been behaving oddly all day. When she tried to make conversation, he answered absently, or with the polite detachment of the early days of his employment.

Their discourse en route to York had been desultory at best. Once there, he’d taken her briskly from shop to shop. He’d claimed business of his own when she stopped tor refreshment, and left her to eat her meal alone. After that,
she’d retrieved her statue from the bank, and they’d left. No, the day had not passed as she’d hoped.

She threw him a sidelong glance. He seemed very pale. Faint, grim lines at his eyes and mouth made his face taut and hard. This was not the laughing, boyish countenance of her teasing playfellow, or even the amused, ironic visage of her efficient secretary. He seemed another man, a chilling stranger.

Abruptly it occurred to her that they’d left York an hour ago, home waited nearly another hour’s drive ahead, and they travelled at present upon a desolate stretch of a little-used country road.

What nonsense,
she chided herself. She knew perfectly well this was the shorter route to Kirkby Glenham. Mr. Brentick’s countenance was tired, that was all. She had no reason to be uneasy. She’d been alone with him countless times, in equally uninhabited locales.

It was the bundle at her feet that made her so irrationally anxious—that, the distressing dream, a poor night’s sleep, and a devilish conscience. Not to mention a pathetic case of unrequited love which had long since robbed her of her reasoning power.
Idiot.

She’d no sooner succeeded in talking herself round to sense, when the carriage stopped.

“Miss Cavencourt, I must speak to you,” he said.

Her anxiety instantly resurged. “That’s hardly reason to stop,” she said. “It’s growing late, and I promised Mrs. Gales rd be home for tea. You
can
talk and drive at the same time, Mr. Brentick.”

“Not this time.”

She darted him a nervous glance. His expression had softened somewhat, and he did appear merely tired, or troubled.
Lud, what a ninnyhammer she was!

She folded her hands in her lap. “What is it, then?”

He turned slightly toward her. “Miss Cavencourt, I’m afraid I can’t continue working for you any longer.”

Her heart chilled and sank within her, though she told herself she’d expected this. She’d known a message would come one day while she languished in London. He’d grow bored. He’d want a more challenging and convivial position. He deserved better than the dull isolation of Kirkby Glenham. Still, she’d not expected the break so soon. She couldn’t speak. She nodded stiffly.

A warm, gloved hand closed over hers.

“Look at me,” he said. “Look at me, Amanda.”

Amanda.
Her head flew up. She looked square into blue, stormy eyes, and her heart wrenched painfully.

“I must leave. You’ll know in a moment. Damn, I’m so sorry—yet I can’t be. It’s just not in my nature.
Bloody hell,”
he growled.

He pulled her into his arms and dragged her close against him, as though she’d try to run away, when of course she never would. He held her so a long moment while his hands moved over her back and shoulders in hard caresses. “I’m not a gentleman,” he murmured into her hair, “and it’s been hell pretending, Amanda. I’ve always wanted you.”

Wanted her. Tentatively, her hand crept up his coat to rest over his heart, and she leaned back in his arms to gaze into his beautiful, troubled eyes.

“I want you, too,” she whispered. “I—”

“
Don’t
.”

“But
I-”

His mouth crushed the rest, and the words she’d meant to utter melted in the first hot taste of him.

Her hand slid up the fine wool of his coat, past the starched linen neckcloth and up, to curl about his neck. She’d wanted him so long, waited so long for this. His mouth was bruising and his tongue impatiently seeking, yet she wasn’t afraid. She loved him. She wanted all he’d give, and would gladly give all he wanted.

He plundered her mouth, an easy conquest, for the taste of him, wild and sweet, was a tantalising liquor racing through her veins. Happily she surrendered to the warm prison of his body, the hot, hard trap of his arms and the punishment of his restless hands. His mouth moved to her neck, to taste and tease until aching pleasure made her moan. Under his ravaging hands, her body strained eagerly for his. Her hands caught in his hair and pulled his face back to hers. More. She wanted more.

Time vanished, and all the world, leaving only endless yearning and heat. Black and glittering, it churned hotly about them, an eternal, fathomless sea. Only their two souls existed. They were prince and princess of the dark sea, as they had been in the dream. So like the dream. Even the Laughing Princess, lying at her feet...

Amanda’s heart chilled, lurched wildly, and her eyes flew open. She jerked free of his mouth.

“Don’t move,” he said.

She became aware of something cold and hard pressed against her neck. Metal. A pistol. She didn’t move. Only her glance dropped... to the bundle at her feet
A thief, a prince, a falcon. A prophecy, perhaps.
With a burst of glaring clarity, she understood. And then she realised she’d always known.