Realm 06 - A Touch of Love (16 page)

“It is an excellent castle!” she exclaimed as she clapped her hands together. “Your castle is nearly as well done as Papa’s.” Simon liked that particular idea. From what he had seen of the duke, he thought the man quite brave. Earlier, Thornhill had spoken to Simon of how he and Simon’s father had attended university together. The duke shared tales of boyhood pranks and studies. Then he spoke of spending several months in the same military unit as Captain Warren.

“Your Papa and I were both captains,” the duke explained, “which meant we held great responsibility for the men under us. Your father was a great one for responsibility, Boy. You should be very proud of his service to England.”

The girl, who had sat upon her father’s lap throughout the duke’s tales, had said, “Mama says you met Mrs. Warren when you were with Simon’s papa during the war.”

The duke had appeared uncomfortable, as if there was a secret he would not share, and Simon had wondered what if might be. Adults always kept secrets from their children. His mama had kept the secret of his birth from everyone, and she had also not told Simon she might be dying until it was too late for him to seek out assistance for her. “Yes, Mrs. Warren followed the drum; that means she and the women like her traveled with their husbands during the war.”

“Would my real mama have followed you, Papa?”

The duke caressed his daughter’s cheek, and Simon was a bit jealous. He would never have a ‘papa’ to offer him such a gesture. “Ashmita was very brave,” Thornhill assured his child. “I hold no doubt, had she lived and had I remained under the Duke of Wellington’s command the two of us would have been among those surviving the war together.” Simon wondered why his own mother had not followed Captain Warren. Was it because she was a Jewess? Mrs. Warren had said others did not care for those who followed the Jewish ways.

From beside him, the girl scrambled to catch up the doll Mrs. Warren had made for her. “I plan to call this one Chenille; it is the name of my new mama’s mother. She will go well with Isana.” From a drawer, the girl produced an unusual rag doll with a porcelain head. The doll’s painted face held a small crescent moon painted on its forehead, along with a blue throat and a stringy braid of matted black hair. “This is a special doll. My real mama made it for me.” Sonali placed the doll reverently upon a miniature bed. “Now I have an English doll and an Indian one. They are like me, a little of each.”

“Do people say bad things to you?” he asked. “Because your skin is darker than theirs. As dark as mine.”

She reasoned, “I am a duke’s daughter, so no one says bad things anymore, but when we lived in Cornwall…” Simon cringed. He suspected several adults must have spoken unkindly of the girl. Perhaps, Mrs. Warren had spoken the truth of others not treating everyone fairly. This was a strange idea for a child accustomed to living among his family and church. The girl did not finish her thought. Instead, she reached for a small box. “These were my mother’s belongings,” she explained. “This was her favorite dress and shoes and the cloth for a sari. When I am older, I plan to wear these, and I shall not care if anyone thinks them odd. My papa says I cannot live for others.” Simon wondered again if others would accept him. In England, it seemed no one looked liked him, and if Mrs. Warren’s drawing held any truth, he held no resemblance to the late Captain Warren.

He had returned to London but three days prior. A farmer transporting sheep pelts to Oxford had discovered Carter’s untethered mount and had come searching for the animal’s owner. Carter had begged for a ride, even upon the smelly sheepskins, so he might seek out the talents of a gifted surgeon in Oxford of whom he was acquainted. The surgeon had stitched up the deep cut across his shoulder and had bandaged the wound on the back of Carter’s head, but, thankfully, he had pronounced Carter well enough to travel. His arm remained stiff, but Carter had attempted to ignore it. “What did we learn of my attacker?” he asked Van Dyke, the Realm recruit assigned to assist him with the investigation.

“We recovered the shrapnel; and you were correct. It was of the type used by the infantry units during the war. Whoever struck you broke the stock across your upper back.” Van Dyke ticked off the facts on his fingers.

Carter frowned. “Was there evidence of more than one attacker?”

“Two days of rain had muddied the area…”

It was as Carter feared: no evidence other than the vague image of the toe of a polished boot. “I want one more sweep of the area. Take fresh eyes with you. Ask more questions. Hopefully, someone took note of strangers.”

Lucinda had received a short, succinct note from Sir Carter giving her permission to proceed with whatever decorating in which she chose to participate. The note’s brevity had disappointed her. She had held some girlish fantasy the baronet might ask of her wellbeing or inquire of Simon’s taking to the country. “You are being the world’s worst fool,” she had chastised her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her hair. Lucinda had refused the maid Sir Carter had assigned to her: She would not permit herself a luxury she would be later be denied. “The viscount does not wish your friendship.”

When she had written to ask his permission to purchase several items for the estate, Lucinda had carefully described what she had planned. She had expected the baronet’s response to include his opinion of her suggestions, and from there they could regularly correspond. Lucinda was quite lonely in the baronet’s household. Only she, Simon, and the servants occupied the manor. No one had made neighborly calls beyond the Duke and Duchess of Thornhill; no one knew of her residency. It made sense for the baronet to avoid explaining turning over his home to a stranger. The local gentry would think her Sir Carter’s mistress, or worse, as the duchess had explained, think her Thornhill’s mistress. Even Simon had deserted daily her for the pleasures of Thorn Hall’s library.

However, Sir Carter’s note had dashed all her hopes of anticipating a letter from him. Try as she might, she did not understand what drove the baronet. Her failings were quite obvious, but what of his aloofness? Ironically, even in its conciseness, the note was more than she had ever received from Matthew Warren. In fact, she had never received a letter, all her own, from anyone. True, her father had included her in his, but they were truly meant for her mother.
Unfortunately for Lucinda “You have my permission to make necessary changes. SCL” did not provide her the basis for an epistolary relationship. “Just set the changes in motion,” Lucinda warned her heart, “and cease your pining for something never to be.” Lacing the ribbon about the end of her plait, she wrapped the long braid into a severe bun. It would likely give her a megrim, but Lucinda thought it justice for her fanciful musings. She was not meant for a life of normalcy.

“What do you think?” she nervously asked Mrs. Shelton. While they had awaited Sir Carter’s permission, she and the housekeeper had made detailed lists of the items once belonging to Sir Louis Levering, as well as the items sent to Sir Carter from the various members of his immediate family. From these, they had chosen several to decorate the rooms in question. Mrs. Shelton had suggested they separate the items according to color. “A palette of complementary shades,” Lucinda had agreed. “We will choose a color scheme for each chamber. Purchase small items–trays for soap and towels. Those sorts of necessities. Ribbon to trim drapes and pillows. Then we will add a vase of similar shade for fresh flowers. Nothing ostentatious. That would not be to Sir Carter’s tastes.”

“Classic lines,” Mrs. Shelton agreed. “Perfect.”

Lucinda had enjoyed the lady’s praise. She had never had the opportunity to express her eye for décor previously. It was a heady sensation to do so in Sir Carter’s name. “We should finish the rose chamber first. If all goes well, then we will have a pattern for the others.”

“Jamot has resurfaced,” Pennington announced as he entered Carter’s office. The Realm’s leader rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Carter had been daydreaming; he had read Thornhill’s latest report on Mrs. Warren and had thought to return to Huntingborne to observe for himself how the lady got on.

His face lit with the shared expectancy. “Is the Baloch still in Suffolk?”

“Yes, Mir’s man has pledged his larcenous efforts with those of a rag tag group of former soldiers. Our informants say the band is responsible for much
of the smuggled goods in the area. Part of the group serves upon a recently repaired Indian vessel believed to have been financed by Mir himself.”

Carter scowled. “That fact does not ring true. Mir is singular in his insistence that one of us has his emerald. For him to finance a scheme, which does little more than to ruffle the feathers of local authorities is not in the Baloch lord’s scope. He is a ruthless warlord, as well as an intelligent strategist. It is how he has eluded the numerous attempts by the British government to capture him for so long. Mir engages only in ‘wars’ he can win. Fighting the British government on British soil would be a losing endeavor, one the Baloch chief would never choose. It would cost him dearly to lose face among his people. It is why Mir sent Jamot and Talpur, rather than to seek out the Realm himself. If his emissaries are unsuccessful, Mir may blame his servants.”

Pennington nodded approvingly. “You have found the weakness in the report. It is always to your benefit to know your enemy better than he knows you. So, what say you is the truth?”

Carter wondered if this was some sort of test of his ability to lead or perhaps Pennington meant to tutor him in his responsibilities. If those were the two choices for this encounter, he would choose the latter. Learning everything Pennington knew of threats to England’s safety had been Carter’s desire since he joined the Realm. “More than likely, Jamot has used Mir’s name, as he has done in the past with Talpur. Jamot is lethal, but he thinks small, while Mir dwells on grand schemes. Murhad Jamot is the perfect henchman: He blames others for his shortcomings and uses his guilt to punish those he deems his enemies.”

“Interesting,” Pennington said pensively. Carter worried whether his superior meant “interesting,” as if Pennington had never considered Carter’s summation or “interesting,” as if Carter had missed the obvious. It would be another moment to replay over his evening meal, but Carter knew after four years of service under Pennington, the Realm’s leader would say little else on the matter. “I assume you will be to Suffolk within the hour.”