The Sandalwood Princess (22 page)

Why not? Her dearest friend in Calcutta had been the notorious Rani Simhi. Her devoted cook was one of the deadliest men in all India. Her butler was a master spy and thief. Amanda Cavencourt befriended the people most likely to use and betray her. She was a trusting little fool. A hard life had taught her nothing.

On the other hand, Philip hastily reminded himself as his conscience made ominous noises, she had stolen the statue. Never mind that she’d stolen it
back.
She’d been as deceitful and underhand as the rani, had even employed accomplices. Hardly the behaviour of a helpless victim.

Philip had just got his conscience in a stranglehold when he heard soft footsteps ascending the stairs. For all his bulk, Padji could tread lightly enough when he chose.
Drat the fellow!
The Indian spent most of his nights roaming the countryside. Tonight, of all nights, he’d decided to skulk at home instead.

The schoolroom was tucked into the far end of the dark hall. Padji was swiftly climbing the main staircase, which meant one must pass him to reach the backstairs.

Philip moved to the wall opposite the schoolroom and found a door handle. He opened the door and slipped inside, just as Padji reached the head of the stairs.

Philip heard the light tread approach, then pause inches away. He held his breath as the door handle moved. An instant later, he sensed the Indian moving away, then heard the tap upon the schoolroom door.

“Come out, mistress,” Padji said. “Why does the foolish maid keep you in that cold place?”

Philip heard the door squeal faintly as she opened it.
James should have oiled it,
he thought automatically.

“She doesn’t keep me,” came Miss Cavencourt’s annoyed voice. “Don’t blame Bella for my odd starts. What are you doing, skulking about the house at this hour?”

Padji answered he’d thought he’d heard intruders.

“Well, it was just us, and we were about to return to bed anyhow.”

The three passed Philip’s hiding place. Their low voices faded to a murmur as they descended the stairs.

He waited several minutes after the house fell silent again, then drew a long breath of relief. He’d not moved, had scarcely breathed the whole time Padji had stood by, for the Indian’s senses were as acute as his own.

Now that he could breathe properly, Philip found the air in the room exceedingly close and stale. He stepped back a pace and encountered a solid wall. Gad, no wonder. He’d entered a closet of some sort.

His heart was already pounding when he grabbed the door handle. It didn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing. The latch was stuck—or some part was stuck. In the utter blackness he couldn’t see, and his agile fingers played over the parts to no avail.

Fighting down panic, he reached into his coat for his trusty lock picks . . . and found nothing. He’d changed coats on his return from York, and neglected to transfer his tools.
Bloody hell.
Not even his knife. What the devil was wrong with him? He’d never been so careless before, never.

This was all her curst fault. He’d been so preoccupied with that swine in York and her hysteria—

He couldn’t breathe. Not enough air here for a mouse, let alone a grown man.
A man,
he reminded himself, as panic rose in a chilling wave. A man, not a child.

Any fool could deal with a closet door. One need simply think it through in a calm, logical fashion. He’d find a way out. He must. He would not be trapped here all night.
Good Gad, not all night!

He raised a fist to pound on the door, then stopped. He couldn’t scream for help. He wanted another deep breath to steady himself, but didn’t dare. Soon no air would remain. He’d suffocate. Better to scream and let them release him. He needn’t explain. Let her discharge him. He’d find another way. Another way, but that would take time— weeks, months perhaps, and all these past weeks’ work would go for naught

He tore his neckcloth from his throat.
He could always throttle himself,
he thought wildly. But that was madness.
Think, Astonly.

He couldn’t think. He never could when this one unreasoning terror caught hold. He couldn’t think and he couldn’t scream, and he would just die here by inches.

No, he would not. Of course he could breathe. He was trapped only. He would go mad, but he would endure.

He leaned back into the corner and slid slowly to the floor. Then he drew his knees up to his chest, just as he had so many times so many years ago, and lay his pounding head upon them.

***

Amanda gritted her teeth, set down the candelabra, and inserted the key in the lock. She had to twist it back and forth a few times before it caught properly. Then she yanked the door open, and her heart wrenched so sharply she had to cling to the frame for support.

For one chilling instant she beheld a death’s head. His face cold white and rigid, Mr. Brentick stared unseeingly straight ahead as though she weren’t there. She wanted to hug him, hold him close, and comfort him. She knew, though, she must not, for that would shame him. She knelt to meet his blank gaze and tried to pretend she found nothing out of the way.

“Mr. Brentick,” she said gently. Her hand crept out to touch his, to call him back to the world.

He blinked, and looked down in a puzzled way at her hand.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” His voice was weak, distant, a stranger’s.

“Do you think you can move your limbs? If you can, I can probably help you up.”

He pulled his arms away from his knees and slowly, with obvious pain, straightened his legs. “It’s all right,” he said. “They’ve merely gone to sleep.” He shook off whatever had seized him and managed a rueful smile. “Not rigor mortis, as I’d thought.”

“Don’t joke about such things,” she said sharply. “You’ve frightened me half to death.”

After a few failed attempts, she managed to pull him upright.

“My legs are like jelly,” he muttered.

“Just lean on me.” She caught him tight about the waist. He was practically a dead weight, but somehow she got him the few feet across the hall to the schoolroom, then onto the window seat. He slumped against the window and bit his lip. He was definitely in pain.

“Muscle cramps,” she said, making her tones firm and matter-of-fact, though she could have wept for him. Wept for him and killed the monster who’d so cruelly tortured a helpless little boy.

With businesslike resolution, she took hold of one leg and began kneading the knotted muscles.

He gasped.

“Trust me, Mr. Brentick. I’ve had years of practice. Mama suffered terrible muscle spasms. They made her scream. This always helped.”

She determinedly wrestled first one, then the other taut calf into submission. When she was done, she looked up to find him gazing warily at her.

“How did you come to rescue me?” he asked.

“I will tell you that,” she said, stepping away from him, “after you explain how you came to be in the closet.”

“I suppose it’s no good to say I was sleepwalking?”

She shook her head.

He swung his feet to the floor, but did not stand up. He simply sat there, studying the floor. She was just opening her mouth to demand an answer when he spoke.

“I was in the garden, smoking, as I do every night, weather permitting. You know I’m not a great one for sleep.”

She didn’t respond.

“I saw the light in this room. It was one o’clock in the morning, so I thought I’d best investigate.”

“I see. Padji suspected intruders as well.”

“Just so. I crept up as quietly as I could,” he went on. “Hearing only your and Miss Jones’s voices, I was about to leave, when I heard someone else coming. I was standing in front of the closet door—not that I knew it was a closet – and so, I slipped behind it, thinking to take the intruder
unawares. When I realised it was only Padji, I felt a perfect fool, hiding there. I waited until you’d all gone – then I couldn’t get the door open.”

“You should have called for help.”

“I didn’t want to alarm the household.”

“Indeed? You had rather spend the night in a very small closet?”

“Perhaps I was not thinking clearly,” he said.

She sighed. They could go on this way forever, skipping about the subject, and that she couldn’t bear.

“Padji thought you were spying on me,” she said bluntly. “He said he locked you in to teach you a lesson.”

In the tight ensuing silence she heard his breath quicken. Her heart ached for him, for his masculine pride. Yet she had her pride, too. She knew he’d overheard—perhaps intentionally, perhaps not. In any case, it was too late for pretense on either side.

“He doesn’t know,” she said, “but I guessed. That day on the ship when you fell ill, you were delirious. Without realising, you told me a secret. I didn’t entirely understand then, but tonight, when Padji told me what he’d done, I guessed that’s what your father had done and... well, I didn’t want Padji to be the one to release you.”

He turned his head away slightly, to the window. The flickering candlelight threw fitful shadows over the rigid planes of his face.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely audible.

She understood what it cost him to say that, and hastened to salvage his pride as well as her own.

“I imagine you couldn’t help overhearing tonight any more than I could that day,” she said. “I don’t know what you heard, but it must have been quite enough, else you’d not have hidden. I suppose you wanted to spare me embarrassment. You didn’t want me to guess you’d heard my—our family secret. Not that it’s much of a secret. I should have told you the truth today. I’m not ashamed, not really. I just... I didn’t want you to pity me. I’ve had enough of that to last seven lifetimes, I think.”

Another lifetime seemed to pass before he looked towards her. His mouth eased into a faint smile. “In the circumstances, Miss Cavencourt, I don’t dare pity you. You might retaliate in kind. I’ve never been pitied, yet I suspect it must be worse even than that curst closet.” He rose. “The truth is, I was an incorrigible child. A birching only made me laugh. I was afraid of nothing, you see – except, that is, being trapped in a small, closed space. It was the only punishment that worked.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said calmly, though the very matter-of-factness of his explanation made her heart ache. “I’d guessed you were a little devil. Still, that is a monstrous cruel way to discipline a little boy, no matter how wicked.”

“What would you have done?” He moved closer, and in the unsteady light she discerned a familiar, intent gaze. “I know you’d have tried to understand me, because you try to understand everybody, from the great god Shiva to Jane, the scullery maid. Still, you’d have to
do
something. What, then?”

Too easy to answer. She knew she would have covered that troubled, angry little boy’s face with kisses, cossetted him, spoiled him, loved him with all her heart.

“I should not have tried to make a scholar of you,” she said carefully. “If you were a very restless child, you’d have been happier boxing, fencing, riding. There’s discipline in sports, for both mind and body. Also, vigourous physical activity would have tired you too much for mischief. Your papa tried to make you what you were not. Children should be permitted to be what they are.”

“You think my mischief was the common sort,” he said. “It wasn’t. In addition to the usual boyish pranks, I was insolent, told lies constantly, and
stole.”

She ought to be shocked. She wasn’t. The moment she’d opened the closet door and seen his face, she’d understood. “Because you were angry and unhappy.”

He was still studying her face. “You are bound to find a kind excuse, Miss Cavencourt Can’t you believe a human being might be born bad?”

“I can believe that, but not of you. Surely that must be obvious,” she added hastily. “If I’d thought you intended any ill, I should have left you in the closet, or to Padji’s tender mercies. I know everyone thinks me too forgiving, Mr. Brentick. All the same, I do not always turn the other cheek. Martyrdom is not in my style.”

“No,” he said softly. “I realise you’re not a saint.”

His tone made her face heat. Belatedly she became aware of her bedtime attire. Despite a flannel nightdress and a robe of serviceable wool, she felt undressed and unsafe. He seemed too near, and also too much undressed. His neckcloth was gone, and his shirt had fallen open to reveal a triangle of flesh that gleamed bronze in the candlelight. She wanted to move to him, touch him. She wanted to hold him, and be held. She shivered.

“You must be chilled to the bone,” he said. He began to pull off his coat.

“No!” She quickly retreated. “I don’t need it. I’m going back to bed. You can take the candles. I know my way blindfolded.” She moved to the door. “Good night, Mr. Brentick,” she said. Then she fled.

Philip could have spent the night merely writhing in mortification, but Miss Cavencourt’s knowledge of his weakness seemed the least of his troubles as he climbed into bed.

He sat back, robbing his throbbing temples, wondering how she’d managed to make everything so deuced complicated.

Delirious, she’d said. He felt delirious now. He could not believe he’d admitted the truth, so much truth. He could have simply pretended not to understand what she was talking about. If pressed, he need only deny.