The Sandalwood Princess (21 page)

“That’s a pity,” he said. “I rather fancy the challenge of managing a host of lazy, untrustworthy, city-bred domestics. These Yorkshire labourers are so very conscientious,” he complained.

“That is your fault, Mr. Brentick. I left all the hiring to you. There was no one to prevent your employing a pack of idlers and thieves if you liked. If you are bored, or lonely for company...”

“I am not bored, miss. I am learning that solitude and loneliness are not the same thing.”

It was disconcerting to discover that he seemed to recall every syllable she’d ever uttered to him. Equally disconcerting was his mention of London. He had a knack for coaxing people to do precisely as he wished. He changed others’ minds as easily as he changed the wine goblets at dinner. But not in this, Amanda hastily reassured herself. She would never again, for as long as she lived, spend another Season in London.

“You understand, then, how and where I acquired my
taste for solitude,” she responded calmly. She made a sweeping movement with her hand.

“Yes, the place broods and yearns before us, dark and mute. It does not distract us with pretty, idle chatter. Yet in its own unassuming way, it is treacherous.” He glanced round and smiled at her. “For instance, if we remain much longer, mesmerised by the romantically moody landscape, you will freeze into a solid block.”

He took her hand to help her down the steep, rough incline, only to release it as soon as the way became easier. Another mile’s walk brought them into a corner of the dale sheltered from the winds’ force by rocks and a stand of scarred trees.

After investigating the rough boulders, Mr. Brentick selected a suitable resting place. He withdrew from his pockets two flasks and two linen-wrapped bundles. Then he removed his coat and, quite deaf to Amanda’s protests, spread it out for her to sit upon. The flasks, she discovered, contained cider. In the bundles nestled neat slices of cheese and thick hunks of freshly baked bread.

“You think of everything,” she said.

“I was concerned you might faint of hunger on the way back. While you are fashionably slender, miss, I could not view with equanimity the prospect of carrying you home over nearly four miles of rough terrain.”

Amanda hastily averted her gaze, and the warmth blossoming in her face subsided.

They dawdled over their meal with the easy camaraderie they’d enjoyed aboard ship, and had only recently revived during the weeks of working together in the library. Not until she’d consumed the last crumbs of bread and cheese did Amanda realise how probing his questions had become. She glanced up warily when he asked where she’d played as a child.

“Not here,” she said quickly. “I seldom ventured so far from the house, except when Roderick was home. He and I rode here often. While he was at school, though, I had to keep within the garden bounds.”

“That was wise. If you fell and hurt yourself, you might not be found for hours. I only wondered who your playmates were. You must have had to travel a good distance to visit one another.”

She snapped the cap of her flask back into place. “Roderick was here,” she said tightly. “He spent every holiday at home.”

Mentally she braced herself to deflect the inevitable questions, but none came. Mr. Brentick merely nodded, and neatly gathered up the remnants of their picnic. As they turned homeward, the conversation turned as well, she found with relief. They spoke of Kali.

One day in late November, Philip accompanied his employer and Mrs. Gales to York. Miss Cavencourt had business at the bank, she said. He fully understood she meant to visit her statue, though she’d never once uttered a word about the Laughing Princess.

While entertaining small hope she’d actually take it home with her, Philip was prepared, in the event she did, to relieve her of it. As usual, he’d devised a foolproof plan for doing so without arousing suspicion.

The plan dropped into his mental ashbin when, after half an hour, his employer left the bank empty-handed.

Nevertheless, not a glimmer of frustration ruffled his polite demeanour as, like a lowly footman, he followed her down the street and on to the bookseller’s. There he awaited the summons to carry her parcels. Miss Cavencourt spent as much on books as other ladies did on bonnets.

Philip stood by the door, his hands clasped at his back, his countenance blank and incurious as he gazed upon the passing scene. Miss Cavencourt’s general factotum did not wear livery. This doubtless explained why more than one passing lady required more than a fleeting glance to ascertain that the fellow by the bookshop door was a mere servant. Some continued gazing, even after settling this matter to their satisfaction. The butler, however, very properly reserved his acknowledging nods for females of the lower orders, who rewarded him with blushes and an occasional giggle.

He’d been amusing himself in this fashion for twenty minutes when a gentleman stopped nearby to glance into the shop window. He was as tall as Philip, his build a degree broader, yet trim and athletic. The hair beneath the elegant beaver was black, and the visage dark and rugged. Philip guessed the man’s age at near forty, though the dissolute eyes and mouth may have added a few years.

Though Philip kept his eyes fixed, ostensibly, upon the street, he was aware of the stranger’s scrutiny moving to him. At that moment, a signal flashed to Philip’s brain, eliciting a response common among the lower species when a rival male trespasses territorial boundaries. His heartbeat quickened and his muscles tensed for battle.

The stranger coolly strode past him to enter the shop.

With stiff fingers, Philip withdrew his pocket watch and stared blindly at it a moment before turning slightly to peer into the window.

The stranger, hat in hand, was speaking to Miss Cavencourt. Clutching a book to her chest, she stared at him. She appeared to answer, then turned away, dropped the book upon the counter, and hurried to the door.

She darted through the entrance and on down the street, utterly oblivious to Philip, who hastened after her. Her mysterious accoster made no attempt to follow, Philip saw with a backward glance, yet she continued hurrying down the street. She was about to cross – directly into the path of an oncoming cart – when Philip ran up and grabbed her arm. He pulled her back from the road and into a narrow alley.

Her bosom was heaving and her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. He drew her deeper into the shadows, lest curious passersby remark her agitation.

“I want to go home now,” she said quaveringly. “I want to go
home,
Mr. Br—” The rest caught on a sob.

She turned to him and pressed her hot face to his chest. Automatically, his arms went around her, to hold her as her control broke and the sobs racked her slim body.

Philip stared over her bonnet at the grimy wall opposite. He tried to make his mind blank and hard, because that must harden his heart as well. He silently prayed she’d calm soon, before he weakened.

He could not kiss her tears away, nor permit his hands to stroke her back. That sort of unservantlike behaviour would, when she was herself again, create difficulties. He’d spent too much time winning her trust, making her dependent upon him, to risk any awkwardness now. He would not let himself succumb to pity... or to the coaxing warmth of her slender body.

Drat her. If she didn’t stop soon—

To his unutterable relief, she abruptly drew back. He released her and produced his handkerchief.

“You think I’m mad,” she said brokenly into the linen.

“That’s nothing new,” he said. “I’ve always thought so.”

Her automatic but feeble attempt at a smile sent a darting ache through him.

“Who was the blackguard?” he asked.

“Nobody. One of my moth – my parents’ friends.”

“A friend, I take it, you didn’t like overmuch.”

She stared at the handkerchief she was twisting into knots. “No, I didn’t – don’t.”

“I hope he was not disrespectful, miss.”

“Oh, no, not at all. Mr. Fenthill is the very soul of courtesy,” she said tightly. “But I am not. It is very difficult for me to behave politely with people I – I dislike. Impossible, actually. And so – and so I made a cake of myself. Really, I am sorry. Now all of York will pity you for having a lunatic as your employer.” She thrust the crumpled handkerchief into her reticule.

“Not if they learn how grossly you overpay me,” he said with feigned lightness. “Are you sufficiently composed to depart this filthy alleyway, miss?”

She nodded, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Very good. Let us extricate Mrs. Gales – forcibly, if need be – from her debate with the linen draper, shall we? You will both want a cup of tea and a bite to eat before we start back.”

The night was cold, but he’d become accustomed to that. Or perhaps Philip merely ignored it, just as he’d ignored the noisome heat of Calcutta. Idly he paced the garden walkway, smoking his cheroot while he turned the puzzle over in his mind. He perceived a problem, a major obstacle, and he was certain today’s episode formed a part.

No one visited Miss Cavencourt except the vicar, who had called once only. The villagers Philip had encountered were wary and tight-lipped. The few who asked after her employed the mournful tones of those enquiring after the mortally ill. He scented scandal or tragedy of some kind, yet none of his spy’s skills could elicit the information he wanted. The villagers might gossip among themselves, but with strangers they were stubbornly aloof.

Exceedingly frustrating that was. Until he had the facts, he could not deal with the problem, and until he dealt with it, she’d remain here, hidden, while her statue remained inaccessible in the York bank.

Philip was aware of the light before he actually saw it. He glanced back at the house, his quick survey showing none but darkened windows until... ah, the old schoolroom.

“Oh, miss,’’ said Bella softly as she closed the schoolroom door behind her. “I knowed you was restless. Another bad dream, was it?”

Amanda sat huddled in a child-sized chair. She pulled her dressing gown more tightly about her. “No. At least, not tonight. It was today, and I was wide awake.”

“Miss?” Her round face creased in bafflement, Bella crossed the room to join her mistress. The abigail pulled a low stool forward, sat, and took Amanda’s hand. “Lawd, you’re cold as ice,” she said as she chafed the frigid fingers.

“I saw Mr. Fenthill.”

Bella’s busy hands stilled.

“Actually, it was more than seeing him,” Amanda said. “He spoke to me.”

“Oh, miss, how could he? But there, ain’t that just like him?” the maid added indignantly. “Never did think of anybody’s feelings but his. No wonder you come home so pale and not like yourself at all. And hardly touched your dinner, either, Mrs. Gales said. She thought it was—” Bella caught herself up short. “Well, you was working too hard, is what she thought.”

Amanda’s fingers tightened round her maid’s. “She doesn’t know, does she? I know you’d never tell her, but she may have heard from others.”

“She don’t know, miss, and she’s too much a lady to pry, so don’t you go worrying yourself. Not that you should, anyhow. Because she’s likewise too much a lady to judge you on account of what your poor ma did.”

“But it wasn’t Mama’s fault, either.” Amanda disengaged her hand, then rose and moved to the window. After a moment she said, “It wasn’t. I don’t think it was anyone’s fault.”

“Mebbe so,” was the doubtful response, “but he could of let her alone, couldn’t he? Her a married woman, a mother, and old enough to be
his
ma.”

“She could not have been a mother at the age of ten, Bella. In any case, perhaps if he had been more mature, Mr. Fenthill might have found the will to keep away.” Amanda sighed. “But that’s all ‘if,’ and Mama was all ‘ifs’ and ‘might have beens.’ If only she’d had an easier time bearing me, if only she hadn’t had the accidents . . . Lud, sometimes I think, if only Papa had let her go when she begged him. She was so miserable, and there was the opium to make everything go away. If he’d let her go, and Mr. Fenthill had taken her away and made her happy, she might have found the strength to break her terrible habit. Mr. Fenthill loved her. He might have helped her.”

“He only helped her to more of her poison, Miss Amanda, which you know as well as I do. Don’t you be making excuses for him. I declare, you’d find some excuse for the Devil himself.”

The Falcon stood
motionless by the door, his body poised for flight, his ears alert to sound on every side, even as he concentrated upon the conversation within.

So that was it, simple and sordid. Her mother an opium addict and adultress. The affair with a man ten years her junior had evidently been neither the first nor discreet A long and ugly series of scandals explained Miss Cavencourt’s firm refusal to re-enter Society.

Gad, she’d not been blessed in her parents, had she?
What had she said so many months ago? She’d told him her parents were broken. Philip understood now that financial ruin had simply struck the final blow. He could only marvel that her wretched life hadn’t broken her as well.

In the room beyond, the two low, feminine voices continued. Or rather, it was mainly Bella’s voice now, gently scolding and comforting by turns. She was quite right. Amanda was too soft-hearted. Nothing was her mama’s fault or her papa’s, or the doctors’, or even that scurvy Fenthill’s, according to her. The next you knew, she’d be inviting the filthy libertine to tea.