The Sandalwood Princess (10 page)

“And you, miss? What do you do when you’re bored?”

She dropped her gaze to his lapel. “I’m never bored,” she said.

“I envy you. I am—
was
bored out of my wits. Apparently, it makes me ... impertinent. I have nothing to clean, because Miss Jones won’t let me. She cleans our cabin as well. I have never learned needlework of any kind and—
ahem!”

Her head shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

His countenance remained blank. “The rest was flirtatious, Miss Cavencourt. I suppressed it.”

“Oh. Are you an accomplished flirt?” she icily enquired.

“Yes, I regret to say.”

“I wonder you regret acquiring such a skill. To me it has always seemed a most difficult art to master.”

“In that case, I applaud your
instincts.”

Heat washed over her face once more.

“That blush, for instance,” he remarked soberly, “could be fatal to a faint-hearted man.”

She quickly recovered. “Pray do not put fainting into your head, Mr. Brentick. You seem overly susceptible to every stray remark, and I know you are inclined to swoon on occasion.”

“Touché, miss. Very well aimed, that one.”

“I was not
practicing,”
she said, exasperated. “You needn’t congratulate me, as though I were an apt pupil. Don’t you know a setdown when you hear one?”

“Yes,” he said. “Fortunately, I am a stoic.”

Not a wisp of a smile, only that provoking glint in his blue eyes. She ought to box his ears. She ought to, at the very least, put him firmly in his place. Yet she felt he was daring her, goading her to do so, and she refused to be manipulated. Her own eyes opened wide and innocent. “Are you indeed, Mr. Brentick? I wish you had mentioned that earlier. I might have spared my sympathy for a more needy object.
^”

For more than a week after that exchange, Philip kept a decorous distance from Miss Cavencourt. He felt certain he hadn’t misjudged. The beckoning smile he’d responded to was of a kind familiar to him. He knew what she wanted: to win him over, allay his suspicions, distract him with a bit of flirtation. He was quite willing to play. He’d played the game too often to fear distraction. His senses might respond to an alluring countenance and a slim, shapely figure. Why not, after so many months without feminine companionship? Nevertheless, his mind would remain alert, as always.

No, he’d not misjudged, precisely, merely overstepped a shade too far, moved a bit too quickly for her. Very well. He could wait. Plenty of time.

So he reminded himself as he stood at the rail, his gaze fixed on Capetown. They’d drop anchor soon, and all the port’s diversions would offer themselves to his needy senses: fresh meat, vegetables and fruit, drinkable wine, and women—scores of lively, accommodating tarts.

About damned time, too. These last few days had passed with intolerable slowness, each more provokingly tedious than the one preceding. Hardly surprising, in the circumstances. Now he’d no need to worry about Jessup, Philip’s restless mind found no other important matter to occupy it. Thus that mind had taken hold of minor matters. Such as how long he’d been without a woman.

Capetown neared, and the deck swarmed with fleet-footed seamen, while the air rang with a babel of commands. Philip smiled. These hardened sailors were as impatient as he for dry land and all its pleasures.

In a tremendous hurry to get his enormous cargo home, Captain Blayton had refused to linger long at any port. Here, however, he’d remain two days at least, replenishing supplies while his passengers tasted the delights of Capetown’s brand of civilisation.

Delight, indeed,
Philip thought happily. A proper bath and proper food... and improper women... at last. As he surveyed the deck’s activity, his glance fell upon the forecastle. There Padji stood, gazing about as well, his round, brown countenance sublimely indifferent.

At that moment, the door to pleasure and freedom swung shut with a deafening clang. Philip closed his eyes and uttered a low stream of oaths. How could he have been so stupid?

How the deuce could he think of leaving the
Evelina?
What better opportunity for the Indian but then? Padji might make off with the statue and easily lose himself in the crowds. The Indian might find it difficult, but certainly not impossible, to make his way back to Calcutta, devil take him.

Seething, Philip watched the passengers and most of the crew disembark, then stomped back to his cabin.

“You ain’t goin’ ashore?” Jessup asked, astonished.

In a few curt sentences, Philip outlined his concerns.

Jessup was affronted.
“I’m
here, ain’t I?” he demanded. “You think I’d let that scurvy Indian get anywheres near it?”

“I think,” Philip said tightly, “that scurvy Indian would have the pillow over your face and the breath crushed out of you before you could lay one finger on your pistol. We don’t have a prayer unless we’re both here—you exactly where you are, and my humble self at the door.”

Thus they spent three interminable days and nights while their fellow passengers ate, drank, shopped, and toured by day, and ate, drank, and danced by night. That Padji never came within a mile of their cabin the whole time was a circumstance nicely calculated to drive Philip into a murderous rage.

On the fourth day, the vessel once again set sail. “Should’ve gone ashore like I told you, guv, and got a woman,” Jessup said, shaking his head. “Won’t be no livin’ with you now.”

“Go to blazes,” Philip snarled. He stalked out, slamming the cabin door behind him.

As he emerged into the sun, the first person his eyes lit upon was Miss Cavencourt. She stood at her usual place at the rail, leaning on her elbows and gazing at the sea. She’d given up her bonnets weeks ago, and the wind tossed and tangled her coffee-coloured hair and whipped it against her cheeks. Philip glared at her.

The temptation to heave her over the rail was well-nigh irresistible. Unfortunately, at the same instant this prospect beckoned, the mischievous wind began gusting about her, driving her skirts up to reveal, for one devastating moment, a pair of elegantly turned ankles and slim, shapely calves. Philip’s gaze slid up to her narrow waist and on to the agreeably proportioned curves above. At that moment, the urge to mayhem gave way to one equally primitive, though less homicidal.

His glance swiftly took in his surroundings. He spied Mrs. Gales at the stern, talking with the captain. Philip’s face smoothed, his narrowed eyes gentled, and his muscles relaxed. With the unconscious grace of a stalking cat, he closed in upon his prey.

Miss Cavencourt may have sensed his approach, for she turned while he was yet some distance away. She didn’t smile this time. When he neared, she responded warily to his greeting.

“I hope you enjoyed your visit ashore, miss,” he said obsequiously.

“It was interesting,” she said. “Yet I rather wish I hadn’t gone. I scarcely got used to walking on solid land before I was back on the ship. Now I must grow used to that again.”

“By tomorrow you’ll have forgotten what solid land is like. It’s amazing how swiftly the human bod—being adapts.”
Ob, nice slip there. Try thinking with your brain, Astonley.

“I collect you decided to spare yourself that exercise, Mr. Brentick. Bella tells me you elected to remain with your master. Your devotion is commendable.”

“I perceived no alternative at the tune,” he answered. “In any case, we got along well enough by day. At night, though, when he was asleep and I came above, I felt as though I walked a ghost snip. It was so quiet—a mere handful of seamen aboard. Just the creaking timbers and the waves plashing against the hull.”

“How peaceful it sounds,” she said softly. Her eyes, focused somewhere past him, softened, too, from sunlit gold to smoky amber. “I rather envy you.”

“I thought you enjoyed Capetown, miss.”

“I found it interesting. I’m not partial to—to crowds and social gaieties. I am rather a recluse, I’m afraid.”

The teasing breeze lifted her scent to his nostrils, only to sweep it away again in the next instant.

Instinctively, he moved a step closer. “Then had you been in my place, you’d not have wished for company, as I did.”

The shadowy amber glance flickered to his face. “Solitude and loneliness are not the same thing,” she said.

“Perhaps not. Perhaps I was just bored. I think there was one mad moment when I actually yearned for a dressing down from Mrs. Bullerham,” he said ruefully.

She smiled then, disarmed. Finally. “You make yourself sound desperate, Mr. Brentick, yet I cannot believe you could sink to so pathetic a state.”

“No. What I actually wished was far more audacious. I wished I had not trespassed on your kind nature.” He dropped his voice. “Among other regrets.”

She turned away and fixed her gaze on the sea. “Is that an apology?”

“Oh.”

He saw her hand tighten on the rail. Small and slim it was, its mellow ivory deepened to burnished gold by weeks in the sun. He wanted to touch its softness. His own fingers curled frustratedly into his palm. What the devil did he think he could accomplish in a few minutes? He had a rift to mend, and that wanted a clear head. Very well. He’d already made better progress than expected. After all, she could have chosen not to understand.

“Am I pardoned?” he asked.

“That depends on what you’re apologising for.”

“For having the effrontery to flirt with you, Miss Cavencourt, and insult your intelligence by pretending I wasn’t,” he answered boldly.

To his surprise, she didn’t colour up.

“God, so that’s what it was,” she said wonderingly. “Mrs. Bullerham overset you more than I thought that day—or you are, truly, bored out of your wits.” She turned an amused countenance to him. “They say the insane have flights of genius, though, and I must say your performance— well, you are very subtle, or I am very thickheaded. But you must not do it again.”

“Oh, I know I mustn’t,” he said.

“Of course not. You would be casting your pearls before swine.”

“Miss Cavencourt, I must beg leave to protest that choice of phrase, figure of speech or no.”

“Mr. Brentick, you are all that is gallant, but if you do not dismiss yourself on the instant, I shall choke myself laughing.” She bit her twitching lip and turned away again.
What,
he asked himself crossly,
was so hilarious?

***

“But, my dear, he admitted he tried to flirt with you,” Mrs. Gales said as she knotted a silk thread. “You cannot wish to encourage him.”

“I’m certain I discouraged
that,”
Amanda said, smiling at the memory of his bemused face. “My experience of men is limited, I admit, but I’m sure they don’t care to be laughed at. Yet it seemed so funny, or perhaps I was relieved. I’d thought he’d been mocking me that day. Now I realise he was—or is—quite desperate. His days must seem to him
like solitary confinement. His sole company is a cross, recuperating invalid—whom Bella has monopolised.”

“You feel
sorry
for the valet?”

Amanda recalled the terrified muttering she’d heard one day, and the nightmare lingering in deep blue eyes. Yes, that made her feel sorry for him, but it was the restlessness, too. His inability to be at peace with himself made solitude— which she welcomed—lonely and dreary for him. She pitied as well his intolerable boredom, which drove him to flirt with an ape leader like Amanda Cavencourt.

There was more, and that she could voice. “I think he’s overbred and overeducated for his station in life,” she said slowly.

“I think he is far too handsome.” Mrs. Gales deftly guided her needle through the linen. “I expect he wreaks havoc with the maids, wherever he goes.”

Amanda grinned. “More than the maids, I’ll wager. I guessed today he’s a rake of sorts. That seemed funny, too—a rakish valet, a self-proclaimed accomplished flirt, in such desperate case as to practise his skills on
me.
I shouldn’t be surprised to learn he’d thrown one of those luring looks at Mrs. Bullerham, and that was what hurtled her up into the boughs.”

Mrs. Gales’s steady hand arrested midstitch. “What sort of look was that, my dear?” she asked mildly.

Amanda was staring into some distance beyond the cabin walls. “I once saw a painting of Krishna as a young man. He stood, surrounded by women, in a stream. He had his arms about two of them, and gazed at one in just that way. Intently.” She shrugged, and her tones lightened again, “in any case, Krishna was quite the rake, was he not? The look must be commonplace enough, if the painter knew precisely how to convey it.”

“A great deal too common, if you ask my opinion. If you catch the fellow gazing at you in such a way again, Amanda, you are well advised to box his ears.”

“For a
look
?” Amanda laughed. “I daresay the poor man
can’t help it. For a flirt, it must be an uncontrollable habit, rather like a nervous tic.”

“Amanda,” said Mrs. Gales, “overeducated, overbred, he remains a servant. Pray recollect as well, he is also a
man.
I shall say no more.”

Though she understood
well enough what the widow left unsaid, Amanda’s common sense told her the warning was ludicrous. Long ago she’d learned she was not the sort of woman men wanted. All her one beau had desired was Papa’s wealth. Thus, the following day, when the valet paused in his perambulations to greet her, Amanda saw no harm in leading him into conversation.