A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (8 page)

“Darling, there are forty thousand British officers with over two hundred thousand sepoys serving under them. Where do you think those kind of odds would get us should a mutiny occur?”

Suri sat back in her chair as if she’d been punched. “When do you expect us to depart?” The thought of leaving before she met her grandparents stunned her. She could not leave—not after all these years—not after she’d come so far, got so close.

“As soon as you’re able,” Harry responded. “I don’t expect you to rush from the room right this instant but within a fortnight, at least.”

“Sooner,” Ravenswood replied.

Vámbéry nodded.

A sudden dawning spread through Suri that filled her with near panic. She had waited half her life to come face to face with her mother’s family. But for the first time, she realized her deepest motivation—she wanted to look her grandmother in the eye and ask her how she could have tossed Suri out for the lions to eat. Her own blood. Ravi-ji was arranging the meeting. She would not budge from Delhi until she was close enough to her grandmother to catch the slightest shift in her demeanor when asked the question that had haunted Suri for years.

A knock sounded on the door. Ravenswood made to rise. Marguerite waved him off. “I am closest.”

Suri caught sight of a white-clad servant. After a brief exchange, Marguerite closed the door, a large package with a smaller one atop it in her hands.

She turned to Suri, her brows knit together. “These are for you, dear, along with this letter from Ravi Maurya. The servant said there are many more boxes being delivered to your room. What do you make of this?”

Suri scrambled to her feet. “I have no idea.”
Oh, but I know whatever it is, it has to do with meeting my maternal grandparents, as he promised.
Blood pounded in her ears
.

She opened the letter. “Why, it’s an invitation to a royal wedding. Ravi-ji has invited me to be his guest.”

A muscle twitched in Ravenswood’s hardened jaw. His eyes turned a deep gray. “To where?”

She paused, regarded him for a moment with a cold stare, and then returned to reading the invitation. She could barely keep her fingers from shaking. At last. Ravi-ji had told her he would notify her as soon as arrangements had been made, but she would have to read between the lines of whatever was sent, and keep their ultimate plans secret.

“There is traditional clothing in the box.” She set the letter down and lifted the lid. “Oh, my!”

Marguerite reached in and lifted the fabric, an exquisite turquoise silk embroidered with semi-precious beads. “Oh, my, is right.”

Suri glanced over to Ravenswood, who sat reading Ravi Maurya’s letter. “How dare you!” she snatched it from his hand.

“You are not going,” he said, his words razor sharp.

She knew her jaw dropped, but she didn’t care about deportment. Unbelieving of what she’d heard, she glanced from Harry to Marguerite and to Vámbéry, who sat stroking his beard.

Vámbéry sat back in his chair and regarded her at length. “If it is the royal wedding that begins three weeks from Saturday, she should attend. We could use her.”

Ravenswood was on his feet. “Like hell!”

Vámbéry nodded to the letter in Suri’s hand. “May I?”

He studied it, held it up as though inspecting for a watermark, and then set it down. “I’ll be there as well. I can keep her close enough for safety’s sake.”

Harry swept his hand over his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do not think it wise. You won’t be allowed in the women’s quarters and who knows what could happen to her there.”

Suri tossed the lid off the smaller box and gasped at the jewels inside. It took both hands to lift them out. “Would someone please tell me what is going on? What women’s quarters? I have been invited to an afternoon wedding, for heaven’s sake.”

Ravenswood paced, Marguerite stood stock still, her eyes darting from one person to the next, while Harry sat staring at Vámbéry, who said, “You have not been to an Indian wedding, especially a royal one. Saturday afternoon is only the beginning of a celebration that will go on for days, perhaps ten. That’s why so many boxes are being delivered to your room. It seems Ravi Maurya has arranged for you to remain throughout.”

Suri stared at the jewels in her hands, spun the implications of what was being said in her head. “It sounds as if you intend to use me for something. But what?”

Vámbéry shrugged. “Nothing much. The only requirement is that you listen, especially in the women’s quarters where there will be much talk among the many wives and daughters.”

He reached for the knife and slid it Suri’s way. “This particular kind of knife comes in pairs. We would like to return this one to its rightful owner. Should you accept Ravi Maurya’s invitation, we would ask you to keep your eyes open for its twin.”

Suri’s world stood still. Had she actually heard this man right? He wanted her to attend the wedding to spy? Had he, a Hungarian posing as an Indian, a valid invitation? Her pounding heart climbed higher in her throat.

Marguerite plopped in her chair as though she’d just gained two stone. “Oh, dear. What, pray tell, is going on?”

Harry looked to Ravenswood, whose jaw twitched again. With a frown at Harry, he gave a small shake of his head. “I’ll not have her placed in harm’s way.”

“You…
you
will not have me placed in harm’s way?” Suri sputtered. “Who are you to tell me, or anyone in this room, what I shall or shall not do?”

“I’ll see to her safety,” Vámbéry said.

Ravenswood picked up the cartridge, rolled it around in his fingers. “I’ll not have it.”

Suddenly, a conviction, which ran deeper than Suri’s understanding, rolled through her. Her chin went up. She would not, under any circumstance, lose her chance to accomplish what she came here for. “I’ll do whatever you wish.”

Fury etched across the hard planes of Ravenswood’s face. He turned to Harry. “With your permission, Chatham, may I speak privately with your sister-in-law in the gardens?”

Harry’s intense gaze flickered from Suri to Ravenswood. He gave a slight nod. “Your Grace.”

Ravenswood took Suri by the arm, lifted her from the chair, and picked up the cat’s chain. “With all due respect, madam, I caution you not to resist me.”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

With a nod, John signaled the guard to open the door to the main gardens. Holding Shahira’s chain in one hand, and gripping Suri’s elbow with the other, they stepped out under the brilliant expanse of a cloudless sky.

At the sight of the cheetah invading their territory, peacocks screeched and took flight—a flurry of iridescent blue disappearing into a jungle of trees. Leaves shuddered as if struck by a wild wind. Rousted from their branches, a crimson cloud of parrots joined in the raucous declaration that a predator lurked nearby.

The cat crouched, ready to leap.

“Bloody hell,” John muttered. That was all he needed. He let go of Suri’s arm. “Wait here.”

“Who are you ordering about this time, me or your cat?”

He scowled, turned back into the house, and hooked Shahira’s leash through the handle of a chest-high urn. He pushed against its ponderous weight, deemed it sturdy enough. “Wait.”

The cat blinked, and then dropped gracefully to the floor. With a flash of her broad pink tongue, she went about the business of licking a paw.

“There’s a good girl.” He turned to the guard. “You may vacate your post for a bit. No one will get past the cheetah.”

The guard’s wide eyes flickered from John to the cat before he nodded and then disappeared, the rapid click of heels fading away.

Turning his thoughts back to Suri, John swiped a hand over his face.
Blast it all, I don’t have to look out the door to see she’s run off by now.
It probably took less than a minute for her to realize the Chathams’ central garden rivaled the likes of Hyde Park. He’d sooner find snow in Delhi than locate her. He might as well make his way to her room, pull up a chair and wait by the door. Well, whatever it took, he wasn’t about to let her walk into a hornet’s nest—or into the arms of Ravi Maurya.

An unsavory picture of the two of them wrapped in an embrace dropped into his mind like heavy stones in a pond. Anger whipped through him.
Ravi Maurya.
Sooner or later, he’d catch the son of a bitch at something. What the hell was he up to with Suri?

John leaned back against the wall beside Shahira, folded his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. He had broken one of his own cardinal rules—he’d shown his temper. What had got into him? Surely, he could manage this situation with a bit of diplomacy.

His unbridled fury at hearing her agree to attend the wedding as a spy was unlike him. But then again, perhaps it was more like him than he cared to think. Hadn’t he been carrying a silent rage these past two years while he was ferreting out his brother’s killer? And before that, the old anger, layered deeper, much deeper than the fury at his brother’s murderer. It was the worst kind of wrath—aimed at himself. He alone was responsible for Laura’s death, and that of his unborn daughter. He’d failed to protect them when he had insisted that Laura remain in Delhi.

Well, he’d not fail Suri.

Fail her? Why should he carry any emotion regarding her irrational decision beyond pragmatic concern? Oh, hell, he knew better. The moment he’d set eyes on her again, she’d crawled under his skin as if the wild imaginings of his youth had been real. The idea piled new annoyance onto the old—he wasn’t in any position to contemplate an affair.

No longer the immature second son without any purpose, he was now a peer of the realm with utmost responsibilities. He was also a spymaster, one of the best in the Queen’s Service, but when his heart was engaged, he proved the fool. He couldn’t afford any distractions on this, his last assignment.

Soon, he’d retire to England and fulfill his duties as duke. He’d see to a proper wife then, one of impeccable character and lineage befitting his station. And someone safe—a woman incapable of breaching the fortress of his carefully erected exterior. As for his heart, well, he’d bound that in chains long ago.

A grim reminder of his affair with Lady Elizabeth Houghton filled him with dour recollection. The widow had branded him with her heady lovemaking and her tender ministrations had made him more the man. But without provocation, she’d tossed him over, called him a ne’er-do-well second son and told him the only thing she’d ever felt for him was a primal urge to mate with a well-muscled and beautiful youth. A week later, she’d married a wealthy earl twenty years her senior.

His life had turned at that point. Sick of being called an ineffectual idler because of his social rank, especially from his drunken father, he threw himself into his work in the Service with fierce dedication. Unexpectedly, he’d unearthed a diamond in the rough—his keen sense for business and a master spy. In the end, he should’ve thanked Lady Elizabeth. He’d demonstrated to himself and the world he was no man to be labeled aimless. Next, he would prove himself to be as fine a duke as he was a spy and businessman.

He scrubbed his hand through his hair and lifted his shoulders from the wall. He ought to walk a while, cool his heels. He yanked the door open and stepped out. Scanning the verdant lawns sloping down to the trees and meandering pathways, his eye caught a flash of color. By the deuces! There sat Suri on a bench, under the shade of a peepul tree not a hundred yards away, a vision in pink. His heart kicked up a notch. Frustration flowed out of him like water through a sieve.

Bold peacocks, no longer intimidated by a predator, strutted in front of Suri, their elegant necks and heads glistening like sapphires, their colorful topknots bobbing like loose crowns. While some swept the grass with long, feathered trains, others danced about with their upper tail coverts held in a fan arcing wide as the corridor behind him. A hundred eyes dotting the feathers gazed hypnotically at Suri. Magnificent birds, these. He never tired of them, and wondered if this was her first sighting.

He strolled to where she sat, careful not to disturb the scene in all its reverie. He nodded to the seat next to her. “May I?”

She shrugged without glancing his way. “Suit yourself.”

He swept a couple of peacock feathers from the ground, handed one to her and sat to her right, twirling the other between his fingers. His shirtsleeve brushed against her bare arm and the choli capping her shoulder. She slid away from him a few inches, leaving her soft scent to float in the air. Every nerve in his body jumped.

“Native dress becomes you, madam.”

When she failed to respond, he boldly studied her profile. He shouldn’t have. Her bottom lip curved gently into a kissable pout that sabotaged his defenses and gave his groin a tug.

He turned his focus to the peacocks and tried to ignore the fact that she fired his blood.

What the hell should he say now? He was better off angry—heated words routinely found their way off his tongue in a cool and controlled manner. “Those are the males showing off for you.”

“Men do that.”

He laughed. “Show off for you specifically, or in general?”

She turned to him. “What do you want?”

To kiss you.
He looked away, excruciatingly aware of the punch of lust to his gut. “To dissuade you from doing something rash, not to mention dangerous.”

“To dissuade me from…don’t be a dunce. Attending a wedding cannot possibly be fraught with danger. Munia will accompany me and, for the most part, I shall remain with other women.” She went back to regarding the peacocks.

“Perhaps not dangerous under normal circumstances, but attending as a spy on the arm of Ravi Maurya is. These are contentious times. Don’t be a stubborn fool.” Good, his tongue was heating.

“I have my plans, and I intend to carry them out.”

Something in the way she said those words struck an odd chord in him. “What is it that has you so intent upon attending this wedding?”

When her mouth pursed and she refused to look his way, he said, “There’s something more than you being stubborn and foolhardy, isn’t there?” A strange foreboding crept up his spine.
Why so resolute about attending this damnable event
? “Have you heard the saying,
Dilli Chalo
, Suri?”