My Own True Love (31 page)

The old man had also stuck needles in him and massaged him and forced horrible concoctions down his throat. He had been faintly aware that the old man had been a doctor and that the whole regimen had been by way of a cure for his festering wound and aching lungs. The whole experience had been far more pleasant than the bleedings, purgings, and horrible concoctions he'd had forced on him during other illnesses.

When he opened his eyes the old man was bending over him, his wrinkled face very close. "Chinese,"

Lewis said. What voice he had was a rasping whisper. "I thought you were Rom. You spoke to me in Romany."

The old man straightened, and proved to be barely five feet tall. He wore long black robes trimmed in bands of scarlet and had a long but not at all impressive white beard. His smile was warm, and revealed very few teeth. "I found your mixture of languages most interesting. When you spoke I answered in an Indian dialect that you seemed to understand." He stroked his long beard. "I have taken quite a few notes of our very interesting exchanges."

"India," Lewis said. "Sara said her people came from India."

"We'll speak of this later, Lieutenant. Before you ask," he added, "I have no idea who or where Sara is." He smiled, bowed, and left the room before Lewis could say anything else.

Lewis rested his head on a pile of feather pillows and looked up at a ceiling full of naked-bottomed cherubs painted in pink and gold. It would appear he was back in the civilized world. He had to admit he didn't much care for the civilized world's taste in decorating. He felt almost too weak to run his hands through his hair, but he did anyway, and found that someone had chopped most of it off.

"Damn!" he grumbled. "Don't they know a man's strength is in his hair? Foolish
gajo,
no wonder I've been sick." He laughed weakly at'his own superstitious reaction, but he didn't like having had his hair cut.

"Sara won't like it either."

Where was Sara? He couldn't remember feeling her presence for the longest time. "Probably off playing guitar somewhere," he grumbled. If he had one rival it was the girl's blasted guitar. He smiled at the memory of watching her play. Her music had been in his dreams, but he didn't think she'd been there, playing for him in the flesh.

The Chinese doctor had said he didn't know who or where she was. "That doesn't sound promising,"

Lewis said, and threw back the bedcovers. When he tried to rise he fell back oh the pillows, weak as a kitten. "Damn!" he said, looking resentfully up at the cherubs' rumps. "Damn, damn, damn."

"Yes, well, you are still something of an invalid," a rich, familiar voice said. "Pity. Though you've been missing a perfectly splendid winter, you lucky man."

Lewis slowly turned his head to look at the man who'd spoken. He hadn't heard anyone come in. Or perhaps the speaker had been there all along, because when Lewis finally spotted him, Sir Horace Tate was standing next to a tall window. The ambassador held back the velvet curtain with one hand while he gazed out at swirling snow. Lewis became aware of the high howling of wind as Sir Horace turned and approached the bed.

"I miss India," the ambassador said. He put his hands behind his back. He gave Lewis an encouraging smile. "You've been swearing like the sailor you are for days now, that's how I knew you were going to recover."

Sir Horace was an old friend. Lewis was happy to see him; he was happy to be alive; he had no time for pleasantries. "Where's Sara?"

Sir Horace's ice blue eyes narrowed significantly. "I thought it was the fever that had you obsessed with the gypsy."

"Where—"

"How the deuce would I know? Frankly I think you should be ashamed of yourself," Sir Horace went on sternly.

"Ashamed? But—"

"I don't know what nonsense you told the girl but she came here believing she was your wife. She was in a desperate state. I had to have the butler threaten to have her beaten to get her off the doorstep."

"What?" Oh, Lord, no! Lewis struggled to sit up. Panic gave him the strength he needed. "You did what?" Sara was hurt? When? How long had he been ill?

"It was only a threat," Sir Horace went on. "The poor mort deserved better for trying to save your miserable hide but it was the only way to get her off the premises."

"Well, why the devil didn't you let her in?" Lewis shouted at the ambassador. "She's my—"

"Hold your tongue," Sir Horace shouted back. "Lie down before you faint." He put a hand on Lewis's shoulder and gently pushed him back onto the pillows. "We've more important things to discuss than your pretty ladybird."

Lewis grudgingly settled back on the bed. He closed his eyes. "I have to find her." He looked at Sir Horace again. "This is all my fault."

"It certainly is. Don't be alarmed, all this happened weeks ago. She's back with her people, and has forgotten about you, I should hope. Where's the brooch?"

"She's going to kill me, you know. She's going to be delighted I'm not dead, so she can kill me herself."

"The gypsies are a fierce people," Sir Horace agreed. "Did you get the brooch?"

"It's worse than that. You see, she has this magic ring."

"Magic ring? Lad, you're more ill than I thought."

"I'm fine. She's not an ordinary Rom."

"No?"

"No. She's from the future, you know."

"Of course she is," Sir Horace said soothingly. "Dr. Liang must have been feeding you opium. Don't worry, the delusions will go away soon."

"Things are different in the future," Lewis went on. "Not better, just different. She said that. Sara.

She's proud, and intelligent and loving—and pregnant." He sat bolt upright again. "Oh, God, the baby!"

"You got the girl with child?" Sir Horace demanded angrily.

"I think so. I know so. She doesn't want to talk—"

"You swine." Sir Horace punched a fist into his palm. "I wish I'd given her some sort of reward for bringing you in. She'll need it if she's got a half-caste bastard to raise."

Lewis seethed with anger at the man's words. He also winced with shame. "I have to find her."

"Yes," the ambassador agreed dryly. "I rather think you do. You should have taken better care in your dealings with the girl. When I received your letter saying you would be traveling with a gypsy band I was concerned you'd become friends with them. Now it seems you've done more than that."

"Friends?" Lewis repeated. He closed his eyes and let his head drop wearily back onto the pillows.

"Oh, yes," he said, groaning. "I most certainly have become friends."

"Give yourself time and you'll get over it."

"No," Lewis said. "I won't."

"Hmm. I see. What you need right now is rest. But first," the British ambassador insisted, "do tell me where you've hidden that blasted ruby brooch so I can give it to that fool of a duke."

Maybe Sara had the brooch. The ring would have wanted Sara to keep the brooch. Then he remembered how the ring was invisible most of the time. Maybe the brooch was the same. He looked at Sir Horace and said, "Bring me my vest. Or did you burn my Rom clothes?"

"The housekeeper wanted to." Sir Horace went to the door and gave orders to a footman waiting outside. A few minutes later the footman came back with a bundle of clothing. Sir Horace sorted it out.

He dropped all but the vest onto the floor, then handed the vest to Lewis.

He radiated impatience while he waited for Lewis to search the material. "I've no use for the grand duke," he admitted. "He's a creature of whims and no honor. Personally, I think his rule is as doomed at the late French king's. There's revolution brewing in the winter landscape of Duwal, but while Duke Alexander rules I have to deal with him. Having that brooch will make my job quite a bit easier. He asks about it daily. As if it were some sort of magic talisman."

"Perhaps it is," Lewis said as he found the ruby pin. He unfastened it from the vest and held it out to Sir Horace.

"It's merely a goodwill token," Sir Horace said as he peered at the jewel on Lewis's palm. "Though a fine-looking one." He took it from him. "Where the devil did you hide the thing, lad?"

Lewis supposed it was safer to ignore any reference to magic. He'd already said too much about the ring. So he shrugged and offered a sly smile. "I have my ways."

Sir Horace returned his smile. "So you do. You'd best rest now." The ambassador went to the door.

"I suppose you'll be looking for your gypsy girl as soon as you're fit enough to get about."

"Yes," Lewis said, "I certainly will."

The man nodded. "Good. I've decided I want you to keep up your contacts with the gypsies."

"Why?" Lewis asked suspiciously.

"Rumor has it that the gypsies are at the heart of the growing unrest."

Lewis concealed a rush of excitement. "Oh?" he said blandly. As if he didn't already know who was at the heart of the rebellion.

Sir Horace nodded again, then glanced toward the window. "I don't imagine you'll have any difficulty finding your Sara," he said. "The gypsies set a watch on the embassy weeks ago."

"What?"

"They haven't been subtle about it, and I'm not blind. Or deaf. Every now and then the palace guard drives him away, but he always comes back. So, when you're up to it, you can have a little chat with the gentleman who begs and plays violin on the corner."

******************

Lewis looked at him in the mirror as he finished dressing. "Duke Alexander wishes to meet you," the ambassador went on.

He was going to find Sara, and the devil with the duke. There was no use mentioning this to his amiable superior, however. He finished tying an elaborate knot in the stiffly starched whitestock before answering. "Why would the duke want to meet me?"

Sir Horace sighed. "The duke and I were discussing circus acts. The duke loves those sorts of performers even though he's outlawed public entertainments. I made the mistake of mentioning that I have a young man on my staff who was a dab hand at juggling."

Lewis's eyebrows went up. "Juggle?"

"With knives. You can still manage the feat, I trust?"

"I believe so," Lewis admitted modestly. He shook his head. "There are food riots on the docks and the duke is having another banquet?"

The ambassador nodded. "This one is to celebrate Bororavian and British goodwill. They're stringing banners as decoration from the embassy to the palace even as we speak."

"I've heard the hammering since dawn."

"As for the disturbance near the harbor," Sir Horace told him, "I suspect the rebels were merely staging a diversion so they could raid the East India Company warehouse where we're storing the arms shipment we haven't yet turned over to the duke."

Lewis whirled from the mirror. "We're supplying the Bororavian army? Did the rebels get the weapons?"

"We're dangling the weapons for some treaty concessions. And, no, the rebels failed to get their hands on them. This time," he added with an enigmatic smile. "I really dislike Duke Alexander."

Lewis was chafing to get out of the house. Sir Horace's tailor had provided him with a fine wardrobe.

He'd been offered the services of a valet but preferred taking care of himself. He knew he might not look the first stare of fashion at present, but he was presentable.

He felt fit at last, and Dr. Liang had finally given him permission to venture out. The ambassador was too wary of the duke's spies to let him send any messages while he recovered. Sir Horace had no objection to his taking a stroll to enjoy the brutally crisp air. He was going to Sara today, which was all that mattered.

He picked up the heavy caped coat he'd laid out on the bed. He put it on, then a beaver hat, not that he thought the bloody thing was going to keep his fashionably shorn head warm. A gentleman didn't worry about such inconveniences as the weather. Or so Beau Brummel, the dictator of fashion, would insist. Beau Brummel had obviously never spent a winter in Bororavia.

"I'll be off now," Lewis said.

Sir Horace nodded and opened the bedroom door for him. "Good hunting, lad."

Lewis was momentarily stunned by the cold as he stepped out-of-doors for the first time in several months. Overhead the flags of Britain and Bororavia, suspended from a strong rope, flapped sharply in the high wind. Lewis gave them a passing glance as he hurried down to the street.

He had some memory of December, but then time had disappeared in a fever haze and he was just now stepping into February. He worried about what had happened to Sara in the intervening weeks.

Time might have stopped for him, but he was sure she was caught up in the dangerous center of the rebellion.

"We'll just see about that," he said as he strode up the cobbled street to the ragged street musician who stood on the corner, sawing inexpertly on a Fiddle.

Lewis threw a coin into the hat at the man's feet as their gazes warily met. "Hello, Beng," he said. "I didn't know you played the violin."

"Vastarnyi was sick today," Beng said. As he lowered the violin he looked Lewis over critically. "I always thought you looked too much like a
gajo,
boy." Lewis flinched as Beng lunged toward him, but he was caught up in a tight hug before he could duck away. "It's good to know you're alive."

Lewis threw off his surprise at this show of affection. He stepped back from Beng's arms and asked anxiously, "Sara? Where's Sara?"

Beng shook his head. "The cossacks took her away."

Fear colder than the Bororavian winter clutched a tight fist around Lewis's heart. "Away? Where?"

Beng pointed toward the white marble edifice of the palace. "She was taken by the guard captain."

Oh, God, Lewis thought. Not just arrested, but probably arrested for high treason. Was she even alive? She must be; surely he would have felt her death wrench his soul. Besides, the duke preferred gaudy public executions. The whole country would know if she were dead.

He remembered the guard captain calmly studying him when he'd been lying sick at Mikal's. "Captain Rudeseko."

"That's the big cossack's name," Beng agreed. He touched Lewis's shoulder. "I been thinking maybe you talk to the captain. Maybe he listen to a rich Englishman."