The Betrayal of the Blood Lily (39 page)

“It’s the red hair,” said Penelope, holding up the end of her braid to admire it. Over the past few days, she had lost enough hairpins to make any other style unfeasible. “Unmistakable sign of, er,
concourse
with the devil, don’t you agree?”

Alex scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Since that places me in the role of the devil, I’m not sure I should.”

“No,” agreed Penelope. “You’re not the one wearing the horns in this situation.”

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
She realized her mistake the moment the words were out of her mouth. She had crossed that unspoken boundary they had carefully constructed around them, blocking out the unpleasant realities of the situation. Any mention of cuckoldry was strictly forbidden. The question of adultery bothered Alex far more than it did her, even though he wasn’t the one wearing the horns.

Penelope rushed on, hastily substituting one unpleasant topic for another. “Do you really think your brother is in league with the French?”

“Cleave seems to think he is,” said her lover tersely, but Penelope knew it wasn’t his brother driving his lips into a thin line. He was having one of his attacks of conscience again.

Penelope poked him in the arm with the butt of her whip. “That’s not an answer.”

Alex twisted conspicuously in the shadow, scanning the sides of the road.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a stake.” As Penelope stuck out her tongue at him, Alex relaxed back into his saddle, looking far more like himself. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to believe that Cleave is mistaken, but the evidence all militates otherwise. Cleave doesn’t like Jack—”

“I’d say he out and out detests him,” contributed Penelope cheerfully.

“—but he wouldn’t lie about him. He’s too . . .”

“Mewlingly honest?”

“Yes, that. And Jack’s career hasn’t precisely been designed to quell those sorts of suspicions. Not that it was his fault,” Alex added hastily. “I suppose Cleave has told you about Jack’s mother?”

“About her suicide? Yes. But I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

“Daniel always was a hopeless telltale,” said Alex inconsequentially. “Even when we were little. It wasn’t her suicide that was the problem, but her nationality. According the East India Company’s laws, no one without two European parents can enter the military or the civil service. Jack was damned before he started.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, looking very tired and more than a little fed up. Penelope had the feeling he had been over this particular argument many times before. “What choice did he have but to go over to the other side? At least they didn’t turn him away because his blood wasn’t pure.”

Penelope held up an imperious hand to signal a stop. “Wait. No, not you,” she informed her horse, before turning back to Alex. “Are you saying that if your mother hadn’t been English—”

“Welsh.”

Penelope dismissed that with a shrug. Wales had belonged to England since the fourteenth century or thereabouts. Or was it the twelfth? Charlotte would have known. Whatever it was, it had been a very long time. “Same difference. If she hadn’t been, then you wouldn’t have been able to do what you’re doing now?”

“None of it,” said Alex. “Unless it was in a decidedly under-the-table capacity. There are ways around it. General Palmer’s son, William, served here, under a British commander in the Nizam’s army. Since it’s technically the Nizam’s force rather than the East India Company’s, the usual prohibitions don’t apply. But Jack went into Scindia’s army, where he came under the command of General Perron.”

“A Frenchman,” Penelope cleverly surmised. Alex’s French pronunciation was surprisingly good. She wondered if that came from his schooling, or the now-defunct French force in Hyderabad.

“The very thing. Not only a Frenchman but a banner-waving, liberty-tree-planting enthusiast for the Revolution. He changed the troop’s colors to the
tricolore
.” Alex’s expression was wry. “Jack told me he thought I should understand why the concept of
liberté
,
égalité
, and
fraternité
had particular resonance for him.”

“Ouch.”

“He’s—well, he’s had a hard time,” said Alex.

Penelope wasn’t impressed. “So have many people, and they don’t go about joining revolutionary armies.”

“It wasn’t really a revolutionary army. It was a perfectly normal army with a revolutionary general.” Alex strove for a lightness he obviously wasn’t feeling. “Otherwise, it would be just the same as if he had gone to serve for the Nizam or any other ruler in India.”

“Hmm,” said Penelope, but let it go. “You are missing something, you know. Even if your brother is a raving revolutionary, he can’t be the Marigold.”

“Why not?”

“Fiske,” said Penelope with assurance. “If Fiske is the Marigold, your brother can’t be.”

The brief glow of hope faded from Alex’s face. He shook his head. “Fiske wouldn’t be able to undertake a project of this magnitude alone. If the Marigold really is, as I’ve been told, trying to raise all of the Mahratta territories and Hyderabad against the English, it will take more than one man.” A grin lightened his dark features. “Even a man on an elephant.”

Penelope’s amber eyes glinted with shared amusement. Fiske’s triumphal entry into Hyderabad had been wonderfully ridiculous, especially with his friend Pinchingdale clinging to the side of the howdah, his face a green that boded ill for anyone walking below.

For a moment, they grinned at each other in perfect harmony, both enjoying the memory of the absurd spectacle Fiske had made.

Alex looked away first.

“And there’s something else,” he said with the air of a man determined to come clean at all costs.

“You want an elephant!” guessed Penelope.

“Do you remember that man we chased up to Raymond’s Tomb?”

She would have to be pretty thick not to remember something that had happened a mere three weeks ago.

“Vividly,” she said with a toss of her braid.

“That wasn’t Guignon. That was Jack.”

“Hunh,” said Penelope, which felt like a perfectly reasonable response at the time. She liked the way it sounded, so she repeated it. “Hunh. Right.”

She tried to remember what the man had looked like, but she had only a blurry impression of dark hair that glinted red where the sun struck it and a flurry of hooves that belonged, not to the man, but to his mount. He had a very good seat, she gave him that much. And a decidedly dashing air about him. At the time, she had ascribed that to being French, which just went to show how expectation could inform appearance.

She looked measuringly at Alex. Dashing really didn’t come into it. Reliable, yes. Competent, yes. Incredibly good company when he wanted to be, yes.

Dashing, no.

“I don’t know why I lied,” Alex confessed. “Habit, I guess.”

Penelope cocked an eyebrow, a skill that had taken ages to learn, but had paid off in spades over the years. “Are you in the habit of lying for him?”

“Not like that,” said Alex quickly. “Just little things when we were younger, food missing from the kitchen, broken bric-a-brac, that sort of thing. . . . He didn’t thank me for it,” he added.

“Then why did you do it?”

“I’m his big brother. It’s part of the job. And I knew that my punishment would be lighter than his would have been.”

He didn’t explain why and Penelope didn’t ask. She doubted it would be presuming too much to assume that the son of the deceased Mrs. Reid received a very different sort of treatment from status-conscious servants than would the by-blow of the Colonel’s concubine.

It would, she thought wistfully, be rather nice to have that sort of champion. She had had one of a sort when her grandmother had been alive, exerting a leavening presence between the dissimilarities of her parents, scolding or condoning according to her own pattern. Her father might have taken up the role, but he had been too indolent to do so, preferring to spend his time with his racing forms and his breeding books, abandoning Penelope in the end to her mother and the thousand and one boring strictures that Penelope systematically set out to flout.

Penelope straightened in the saddle. Not that she needed a champion, of course. She was perfectly capable of fighting her own battles—or unearthing her own spies, if it came down to it.

“Is there really a Guignon?” she asked, at random.

“Very much so. I have it on good authority that he’s been skulking around the province again. That’s why his name came so easily to mind.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you to lie so effectively,” said Penelope admiringly.

“You were distracted,” said Alex generously. “And on uncertain terrain. I had the advantage of you.”

In one thing, she still had the advantage of him. After an internal wrangle, Penelope said brusquely, “While we’re coming clean, I have a confession to make.”

“If you tell me you’re the Marigold, I won’t believe you.”

“I, um, found something at the tomb that day. A little piece of paper. It was a message, presumably from the Marigold, advising the recipient to await his coming for the great work to be set into motion. Or something like that. I can’t remember the exact phrasing.”

Alex scrubbed his hand against his eyes, looking unutterably bleak. “That proves it, then. Cleave was right.”

“You don’t know that Jack dropped it.” Odd to be talking about a man she had never met on first-name terms, and a nickname, at that. But, then, it would be even odder thinking about him as Mr. Reid. Lieutenant Reid? Penelope had no idea what sort of titles they handed out in Scindia’s armies.

“Then who did? The pixies?”

“French pixies,” agreed Penelope. “Back in Hyderabad without leave. Shall we stop soon? It will be dark before long.”

The real world would be with them soon enough. Penelope refused to spend their last night together on depressing reflections that could only cause one of them pain. This was their last night in Eden and she intended to make the most of it, even if the snakes were already beginning to slither about in the underbrush and half-eaten apples littered the ground beneath the tree, conveying their cursed burden of partial knowledge.

She didn’t need to explain what she meant. He knew. Without another word, he nodded ahead. “If I recall, there’s a lake not fifteen minutes from here. We can camp there.”

They plunged determinedly into mundanities: where to camp, what to eat for dinner. Alex teased Penelope about her cooking and Penelope retorted that if she wasn’t such a good shot there would be nothing for them to eat, and so the yards passed on, and with every hoofbeat, Penelope could hear echoing in her ears,
It’s over, it’s over, it’s over
.

Not yet, she told herself fiercely. Not yet.

The lake was a small one, tucked away in a copse of banyan trees, the water thick with lily pads bearing brilliantly blue lotus flowers. Penelope’s riding habit had begun its life as a similar color, but three days of dust and grime had turned it into a mottled gray.

“I smell,” said Penelope with disgust, turning her head to sniff at her shoulder. Wearing the same habit for three days in very hot climatic conditions did not do wonders for one’s personal hygiene. She wished she had thought to bring a change of clothes, or at least of linen.

Undaunted, her lover drew her to him, uttering those romantic words, “So do I.”

“Yes, worse than me,” agreed Penelope pertly, and kissed him hard on the lips, before pushing away. She yanked at the buttons on her habit. “I am having a bath, and I am having one
now
.”

Alex cast a critical eye over the dark water of the lake, made darker by the dropping dusk. “You don’t want to jump into that. You don’t know what’s in it.”

“An apt metaphor for life, I imagine.” Dropping to her knees, Penelope wiggled her fingers in the water to test the temperature. The water felt like heaven against her heat-swollen hands. “One I’ve never heeded.”

“Let me.” Taking a cloth, Alex dipped it into the water, wrung it out, and applied it to Penelope’s sticky shoulders.

“Mmm,”
sighed Penelope, tilting back her head, as the cool water trickled down between her breasts. She could feel it mingling with the sweat that already dampened her shift. “Heaven.”

Raising her hands in the air, she waited for him to peel her shift off her body. The night breeze felt heavenly on her sweaty body. The mosquitoes weren’t quite so heavenly, but Penelope was prepared to be philosophical about that. Penelope could feel her skin prickling from the air and the water and pure, undiluted anticipation. Desperately wanting his mouth on her breasts, she thrust her chest out, but perversely, maddeningly, he continued his own set course, dragging the damp cloth down the hollow of her belly, stroking across each hip, before—