The Sandalwood Princess (6 page)

“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.

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.

His decision made, Philip dressed quickly but carefully, discarding any garments that still bore traces of agarwood. The expensive incense was too distinctive. He would have to adjust his posture and stride. He’d imitate Monty Larchmere’s stiff and graceless valet.

That left one’s countenance, but it was too late for cosmetic adjustments. Virtually everyone on board had already seen him. In any case, Padji could not have seen the robber’s face in the unlit passage. Even the rani— who was aware the merchant was the Falcon or the Falcon’s accomplice-would recognise the eyes only. Padji hadn’t her opportunity to study the ersatz merchant at close hand. Had they ever seen Jessup, though? Philip swore under his breath. Never mind. The Indian might make the connexion. He might not. Half a chance, then.

Philip headed for the upper deck and turned towards the forecastle, hoping to find the cook there. A confrontation in plain view of others was vastly preferable to a private one in the galley’s hot confines.

Philip had scarcely taken five steps before something struck the back of his head. Instinctively, the Falcon’s hand went for the knife under his coat, and he whirled round. His glance darted about, seeking his attacker... and lit on a woman. Miss Cavencourt. He drew his hand, empty, from the coat. She hurried towards him, her face flushed, and her coffee-coloured hair whipping in the stiff sea breeze.

Something tapped at his leg. He glanced down and saw a bonnet, which the wind knocked against his leg. He’d stepped on one of the ribbons. He snatched up the hat and held it out to her.

“I take it the missile is yours, miss?” he said, then cursed himself. Servants didn’t make facetious remarks to their betters.

The colour rose higher in her cheeks. Dusky rose on mellow ivory.

“Yes. Thank you.” Gingerly she took it.

“I’m afraid I accidentally trod on the ribbon,” Philip said with great deference while his brain clawed and scratched, trying to place her voice. It wasn’t enough. He needed another few words, and he’d already said more than he ought. Ladies didn’t speak to strange gentlemen, and he wasn’t even supposed to be a gentleman. Drat that idiot, Randall.

She’d turned away slightly to examine the bonnet. Now her gaze slid slowly up to meet his. Her eyes were very unusual, large and amber-coloured.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m—I’m sorry it hit you. I’d taken it off, you see, because the wind was knocking it about, and then I forgot I had it... Oh, well. At least it didn’t fly into the sea.” She flashed a nervous smile. “Thank you.” She turned and made quickly for the forecastle.

No.

Not possible.

Not the same woman.

But he was already following, calling out, “Miss? I say, Miss Cavencourt!”

She halted and turned around.

“I beg your pardon, miss, but you can’t go there,” Philip said, his brain working rapidly while he schooled his features to a proper servantlike blank.

Her surprise stiffened into chilly hauteur. “Indeed,” she said coldly. “Are you a sentry?”

“No, miss, certainly not,” he answered, his tones humbler soil. “I only guessed you might not be aware the forecastle is no place for ladies.”

Though her expression remained chilly, he discerned a shade of indecision in the glance she threw behind her.

“That’s where the off-duty crew customarily take their leisure,” Philip explained. “They may be about soon, and you’ll find the company a bit rough, miss, especially without an escort. I rather think the commander would prefer you kept away, escort or no.”

She stared at him as though he were foaming at the mouth.

“That is quite absurd,” she said. “That is, I realise it was kindly meant, but I assure you I have nothing to fear.”

Definitely the same woman. The same height, the same form, the same voice, with its husky overtones.

At that moment, Padji emerged from the galley. His gaze swept the deck and flitted past Philip without a glimmer of interest before lighting upon Miss Cavencourt.

She turned to Philip. “That man is my servant. As you see, I can have nothing to fear, on the forecastle, or anywhere upon this vessel.’’ Again she began to walk away.

Crushing the wild urge to heave her arrogant person over the rail, he followed. Jessup first, he reminded himself. The woman could provide a less risky way to get what Jessup needed, if Philip could but control his temper.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” he managed to choke out. “I meant no offence.”

“None taken,” she said dismissively, still walking.

“I didn’t realise the cook was your servant,” he said hurriedly, as the immense form loomed nearer. Philip kept his eyes downcast. “I was about to speak with him myself. You see, I need his help.”

Miss Cavencourt paused.

Philip didn’t grovel, precisely, but near enough, while he explained Mr. Wringle’s condition and the surgeon’s estimation of the invalid’s prospects.

“Mr. Lambeth sounds monstrous disobliging,” she said when he was done. “He should have spoken to Padji directly.”

“I am in no position to make demands of anybody, miss. I regret to say we caused considerable inconvenience to several people, and I understand Mr. Groves handled the emergency less diplomatically than one could wish.”

Imbecilely was more like it. Had Groves allotted Philip the role of master, he’d not be in this humiliating position. He’d have had them all running briskly at his beck and call. He’d learned that, if nothing else, from his overbearing sire. Small good it did him now. Leave it to Randall to behave like a blithering idiot at the first hint of difficulty.

Aye, but you left it to Randall, didn’t you?
nagged a sardonic voice in his head.
Had to dash off like an adolescent hothead, didn’t you, wild for revenge!