India Black and the Rajah's Ruby (3 page)

“Mr. and Mrs. Barrett?” he asked as he opened the carriage door. The bloke’s gaze shifted to me for a moment, then returned to Philip. Disturbing, that. Usually men who encounter me for the first time (and, it is fair to say, most of those returning to my presence) spend a fair amount of time assessing my natural attributes and paying me at least the compliment of an open mouth or a frank look of admiration. I’ve even had a chap drool. But this cove did not display the slightest interest in me. Abnormal tendencies, I reckoned, of the kind which were impervious to my, or any other woman’s, charms.

He extended a hand to me. It was as limp and cold as a dead herring. “I am James Ford, Mr. White’s secretary.” Another American, from the sounds of that flat accent, and about as talkative as Duckworth. He did not enquire after our health, or about the trip. He stepped to one side and indicated the door into the house, which stood ajar.

“This way, please. Duckworth will get your bags.”

Duckworth drove off, jaw clamped firmly shut, and Philip and I followed Ford into the house. It was clearly an old property and had been renovated a few times. An Elizabethan era dining room opened off the Tudor hall and on my right I glimpsed a parlor stuffed full of the heavy dark furniture, stuffed birds and flocked wallpaper beloved of my fellow citizens.

“Mr. Barrett, welcome,” boomed a voice from the stairs. Our host came bounding down the steps, seized Philip’s hand, and wrung it heartily. I’d been expecting one of those larger than life Americans who’d clawed and scratched their way to a fortune and I was not disappointed. White had a shock of grey hair, a seamed face, and a jaw that might have been hewn from granite. There was nothing elegant about the man. His smile was ferocious; the yellow teeth bared like a mustang’s, but there were laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and an unexpected twinkle in them. He was burly and tough and practically reeked of gunpowder and the frontier.

He clapped Philip on the shoulder. “Good to meet you, Barrett. I’m looking forward to hearing your proposition. But business later, eh?” He turned his attention to me, enveloping my hand in both of his horny ones while he discreetly evaluated my attributes. “Well, well. What a charming young lady. I hope you enjoy yourself while you’re here, Mrs. Barrett. You’ll let me show you the sights, I hope. It’s a quiet sort of place, but I hear the church is nice.”

I simpered and gushed and said that would be lovely, and I was dying to explore Ottery St. Mary and the church sounded divine (though I vowed to be lying in bed with a cold compress if White pressed the idea), and generally played the role of the not-very-bright-but-decidedly-delicious Mrs. Barrett.

A soft cough reached our ears, and White spun round. “Ah, here’s my wife. Sylvie, come and meet the Barretts.”

The lady of the manor was plump and solemn, with a lumpy complexion and small, dark eyes. She smiled nervously and offered a slack hand. I could understand why White might be tempted to wander, for his bride was as plain as custard. She was immaculately dressed, but even the gorgeous tea gown of soft rose that she wore could not disguise her origins. Common. Very common.

“Come into the parlour and meet the other guests,” said White, and Philip and I dutifully trotted after the old codger while Mrs. White fell in behind without a word. The room into which White ushered us was breathtaking, meaning that it required a sharp inhalation to ward off queasiness. The parlour was crammed with massive furniture and an assortment of
objets d’art
which were more objects than art. The Whites’ taste apparently ranged from the bizarre to the execrable. There were velvet curtains with satin swags and scalloped edges, pale watercolors with crooked castles and distorted figures, and acres of malachite, rosewood and gilt. Some taxidermist had made the mistake of stuffing a pair of squirrels, dressing them in tiny suits and ties, and seating them at a chess board. The Whites had compounded the error by buying this horror. Garish oil paintings of elderly duffers and shepherdesses and faithful dogs hung from the walls. I could barely drag my attention away from it all to meet the Whites’ guests.

Samuel Carter was a middle-aged chap with a monk’s tonsure of thinning white hair and a dusty pince-nez balanced precariously on his Roman nose. He gazed dubiously down that appendage at me and inclined his head just far enough not to be impertinent. Philip greeted him with enthusiasm and I understood why when White introduced Carter as a principal of the Merchants’ and Guilds’ Bank. Mrs. Carter possessed a hefty figure and the expression of a disgruntled sow. I expected her conversation to run to troublesome servants and dishonest tradesmen. A subdued and pallid version of Mrs. Carter stood bashfully to one side. White waved absently in her direction and introduced her as Marie Carter. The poor girl’s cheeks flamed at the mention of her name. My heart leapt joyously at the prospect of a week with these delightful people.

Then a fourth figure emerged from the gloom of that crowded room and stepped forward to make our acquaintance. Oh, dear. I might find it difficult to play Philip’s adoring wife with this bloke on the premises. He was lithe as a swordsman, with wavy dark hair, a magnificent mustache and keen blue eyes which met mine directly.

“Mr. Ashton, allow me to present Mrs. Barrett. Mrs. Barrett, Rupert Ashton.”

Ashton’s smile was almost as sleepy and attractive as Philip’s. He leaned over my hand and murmured, “It is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I trust you will permit me to congratulate your husband on his good fortune. You are loveliness personified.”

I purred at that, as I was expected to, and glanced round to see if Philip had heard Ashton’s remarks. Fond as I am of Philip, it never hurts to have another suitor throw his hat in the ring. There are distinct material advantages accruing to such a situation. And Ashton seemed like the type who’d indulge in a bit of horseplay without assuming he’d bought the mare. Oh, yes, I’d already rumbled the man. He was a rakehell, sure enough, and just the type of fellow who usually caught my eye. There was no doubt that I’d caught his. I smiled engagingly, turning to look for Philip. One glance at his expression was enough to convince me that a bit of light flirtation with Ashton was not a wise idea. There was such a look of loathing on Philip’s face that I turned quickly to see if Ashton was taken aback by it, only to find the rogue staring at Philip with an amused smile. Then Philip’s face smoothed into a mask of neutrality and he extended a hand to Ashton, who shook it briefly.

Our host had observed none of this drama and was bustling about, ordering Ford to pour drinks and be sure that ‘supper’ would be ready in an hour. Ford poured a drop of sherry into a glass and wordlessly presented it to me. I could have done with a stiff whisky; it’s deuced hard to summon up polite conversation on a teaspoonful of Amontillado.

We milled about a bit, with Philip lassoing White and whisking him away to a corner, no doubt to debate the virtues of Virginia versus White Burley tobacco. The Carters and Mrs. White held a stiff conversation by the window, with Carter droning on about the benefits of country air and Mrs. Carter questioning the lady of the house about the availability of decent cooks in such a backwater as Ottery St. Mary. Marie Carter wandered uncertainly about the room, ostensibly looking at pictures but keeping a constant eye upon Mr. Ashton who, as one might expect of a normal male of robust constitution, had gravitated into my orbit.

“Allow me to serve you some more sherry,” he said, taking my glass from my hand and being sure to graze my fingers with his as he did so.

“That’s very kind of you.”

Ford was guarding the sherry bottle but Ashton made a feint toward the whisky and when Ford tried to cut him off, he doubled back and slipped around Ford’s flank until he had an unobstructed path to the liquor. Ford pursed his bloodless lips and scowled as Ashton poured me a full glass.

“There you are. I thought you might need a double. The conversation in here hardly rivals a Paris salon, does it?” He sipped his whisky and raised a flirtatious eyebrow.

My first inclination was to bestow an alluring smile on the chap and enjoy a bit of harmless fun, but that was hardly the behavior of a dutiful wife and as I’d promised Philip I’d save my charms for White, I repressed the urge to join in Ashton’s game and instead giggled demurely.

“I think the Whites are very nice,” I said. Just the sort of inane thing a guest might say of her host and hostess.

“Oh, yes. Terrific chap, White. And his wife is the soul of kindness.”

“You’ve stayed here before?”

“No, this is my first visit. I was introduced to the Whites in London by a mutual friend.” He shifted his gaze over my shoulder at Philip and Harold White. “How does your husband know our host?”

“By reputation, I believe. Philip is in the import and export business. He’s here to arrange a transaction with Mr. White.”

“The import and export business? I see.” Ashton suppressed a smile. “How long will you be staying?”

“We’ll be here for the week. We return to London on Sunday.”

“Hmm.” Ashton stared absently at the two men. “Returning Sunday to the city, then?”

“Yes. And you? Will you be returning to London on Sunday?”

Ashton’s teeth gleamed in the soft dusk. “Rather sooner than that, I expect. I’ve some business of my own to transact with Mr. White and when that’s finished, I’ll be off.”

A hand encircled my elbow and Philip appeared at my side. “How are you, my dear?”

“Splendid. I’ve just been chatting with Mr. Ashton.”

“So I see.” Philip gave Ashton a level stare, which Ashton returned. Neither man spoke. I might as well have been watching two tigers who had stumbled upon a staked goat at the same time.

“And what have you two found to talk about?” asked Philip, breaking the lengthy silence which had developed.

Ashton grinned. “Your plans,” he said.

Philip’s hand closed involuntarily on my arm, making me jump.

“Sorry, darling. Mr. White has proposed a tour of the house before dinner. Shall we join the party?” He didn’t wait for an answer but dragged me after him.

The Carters were waiting by the parlour door with the Whites. Philip and I joined the group and Ashton ambled over and took up a place at the rear. I noticed Marie Carter eyeing him speculatively and edging closer to him. She’d obviously been invited to make up the numbers, but it was equally clear that Ashton proposed to have nothing to do with her.

I don’t remember much of that tour. One of the first things a tart learns when she enters the profession is how to distance herself from her immediate surroundings. She learns to utter flattering tripe, such as “Ooh, you’re a regular strong man, ain’t you?” and “You’re the best, Dick, you really are,” while she’s wondering if the milk in the pantry is still fresh or whether Mrs. Smith at the millinery has sold the blue silk bow yet. I practiced the same art as I paced along with the pack, up and down the corridors, listening with half an ear and feigning utter delight at the sight of ghastly porcelain nymphs and cherubs. Or were they satyrs? Hard to say, as the artists were not out of the top drawer. We’d traversed the whole bloody place twice over and gazed at a limitless number of second-rate pictures and statues of shepherds with pudgy sheep when Ashton spoke up from the rear ranks.

“I say, Mr. White. Don’t be a tease. Let’s see the Rajah’s Ruby.”

My ears perked up at that. I’d nearly forgotten Philip’s remark regarding the American’s collection of jewels.

“Oh, yes, please. We must see the ruby.” This last was contributed by Marie Carter, who was looking a bit flushed at the sight of all those nude statues of Greek gods and such.

Mrs. Carter spoke up. “Do show us the gem, Mr. White. I’ve heard so much about it.”

Her husband looked aghast. “Pay no mind to my wife and daughter, White. I’m afraid they’ve been reading the papers again. Wholly unsuitable for women to do so, of course, but I expect that’s where they’ve learned about this confounded jewel of yours.”

White smiled indulgently. “Why else do you think I bought the damned thing, Carter, if not to show it off? It’s a beauty, alright. Prettiest stone I’ve ever seen. You folks can wait in the parlour and I’ll bring down the ruby.”

Our little party trooped downstairs, with Ashton whistling tunelessly under his breath and Carter haranguing his wife and daughter about their unseemly curiosity. He was a bit rough on them, I must say, and I felt a bit of sympathy toward the two of them for having to put up with such a dry stick. I sidled up to the fellow.

“What’s all this about the Rajah’s Ruby, Mr. Carter?”

He threw a disgusted glance at his wife as if to say, “See what you’ve started,” and gave me a censorious glance which failed to faze me in the slightest. If the old weed wouldn’t tell me anything, I knew who would.

I turned a blinding smile on Ashton. “Well, Mr. Ashton? Everyone here seems to know about the Rajah’s Ruby, except for poor Philip and me. Won’t you tell us what you know?”

Philip walked stiffly to the window and stared out on the lawn. Ashton regarded his back with some amusement. “Of course, Mrs. Barrett. I don’t see why we shouldn’t discuss the matter. You heard Mr. White. He’s rather proud of his ownership of what is rumoured to be the largest ruby in the world.”

“How exciting.”

Marie Carter had been listening to our conversation and despite a disapproving glare from her father she now joined us. “It is indeed exciting, Mrs. Barrett. It’s the biggest ruby ever found! Forty-one carats! Can you believe it? And it’s right here in this house.” She clasped her hands together and I swear I heard a muted squeal of delight.

“Not only is it large, it is beautiful,” said Ashton. “It’s said to be a true, pigeon blood red ruby, the rarest kind, found only in the Mogok Valley in the Kingdom of Burma.”

“Astonishing,” I said.

“Oh, don’t forget the jewel’s
history,
” breathed Marie Carter. She put a damp, warm palm on my arm. “It’s simply
dripping
blood. It’s supposed to be cursed.”

“Enhances the value, I expect.” I nodded coolly. “What’s a gemstone without a legend? Preferably one involving untimely deaths and tragic losses. Is ownership of the ruby considered dangerous, Mr. Ashton?”