The Sandalwood Princess (7 page)

Miss Cavencourt’s low, crisp tones broke through the red fury in his brain.

“I shall speak to Padji, of course,” she said, “but it would be best if he examined your master himself.”

“There’s no need to put him to the trouble,” Philip said smoothly, “though you’re most kind to offer. I’ve told you exactly what the surgeon told me. I listened very carefully, you may be sure. My master does need to eat something and—and I can scarcely get him to swallow water.”

He felt her studying gaze upon him then, even as he watched the Indian out of the corner of his eye.

“I see,” she said, her tones less frosty. “You are very anxious, Mr.—Brentick, isn’t it?”

“Yes, miss.”

“I shall ask Padji to prepare something as quickly as possible, and he’ll send for you when it’s ready.”

***

Except for the sentry, the forecastle was deserted. Nonetheless, Amanda took no chances. In Hindustani she repeated Mrs. Gales’s revelations and voiced her own suspicions.

Padji shrugged. “What did the servant want of you?” he asked.

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Mr. Wringle, who was hurried on board in the dead of night—the night I was robbed—works for the Marquess of Hedgrave, who happens to be
Richard Whttestone.”

“What did the servant want of you?”

“Gruel—broth—I don’t know. Something for that wretched, thieving master of his. Did you poison him, too?”

“A healing broth. I see. I shall make it now.” Oblivious to Amanda’s look of outrage, Padji turned and descended into the galley. She followed.

The brick-lined space was as hot as Hades. Padji promptly began crushing herbs. Amanda perched on a cask and glared at him.

“You can’t poison him, you know,” she said. “I’m not saying I’d object if you did, but you can’t. You’d be the first suspect, and you’ve nowhere to hide.”

“Why should I poison this man? He has done me no ill.”

“It’s obvious what happened. The Falcon turned the statue over to Mr. Wringle, who hastened aboard the first ship bound for England.”

Padji shrugged.

“There’s no need to get inscrutable with me,” Amanda said irritably. “You said yourself the Falcon stole my statue, and the more I’ve considered your explanation, the less sense it makes. He always steals for
someone else.”

“May you cut out my tongue for contradicting, mistress, but I know nothing of that. He’s a thief.”

“He’s a professional—or one of a group of professionals—and you know as well as I that the services are hired out.”

“I am but an ignorant servant, O adored one. I know nothing,” Padji said imperturbably as he mixed the herbs into hot liquid.

This approach, obviously, would lead nowhere. Amanda considered. “I see,” she said after a moment. “You know nothing, ask no questions, merely follow orders. Is that correct?”

“Such is my lowly ability, O daughter of the moon.”

“Then who ordered you to poison the cook, you deceitful creature? I know you poisoned him, so you needn’t waste breath denying it. I know, in fact, precisely the mixture you used. Did your mistress not tell me of her old family recipe? A fungus, is it not, which grows on—”

“It is unseemly for the mistress to speak of these matters,” Padji cut in reprovingly. “They are the concern of the lowly slave.”

“Is it seemly to tease and mock your mistress?” Amanda retorted. “Is it honourable to keep secrets from me, when I risked my honour and that of my family, to save you? Did I not tell monstrous falsehoods on your behalf?” She drew out her handkerchief and wiped her perspiring forehead. Then, recollecting her irritating sister-in-law’s methods, she dabbed at her eyes. “This is my thanks for taking pity on you,” she said in a choked voice.

“Aiyeeee,” Padji wailed softly, pushing the bowl aside and gazing at her in anguish. “She is the true daughter of my mistress. With a word she stabs at my heart.”

“Your own mistress would have cut out your heart by now, if you so vexed her,” Amanda answered. “But you know I am soft-hearted and sentimental, and so you take advantage of my weakness and mock me.”

Instantly, Padji dropped to his knees. “No, beloved, no mockery. It is not so. Ah, I am a man torn between two lionesses. ‘Protect her from all danger,’ my princess orders me, and so I do my lowly best. Yet her too-wise daughter sniffs trouble and wishes to throw herself into it. What is to be done with such women?”

Amanda withdrew the handkerchief from her eyes. Trouble, he’d said. Then she was right.

“For a start,” she said briskly, “you might tell me the truth. The rani left something out of the story, did she not? The value of the statue, for instance. Why should the Falcon steal a piece of carved sandalwood? And
will
you get up?”

Heaving a great sigh, Padji rose. He would tell her, he said, and she would not believe him, but he was a man beset on all sides.

Miss Cavencourt expressing impatience with a brisk tapping of fingers upon the cask, Padji hurried on to offer what he called his humble theory. He was unaware of any great monetary value to the statue. Still, he knew someone wanted it. Offers had been made, thefts had been attempted. These were all quashed, of course, for Anumati’s wishes must be consulted, and the goddess had not at that point named the heir.

“Never mind that,” Amanda said, disregarding dreams and visions and settling to facts. “Who wanted it?”

“What other but the man she told you of?” Padji asked sadly. He shook his head. “Why will they not leave each other in peace? He abandoned her. I might have killed him and put an end to it, but she will not have an end to it. She puts a curse upon him and writes the curse down in a letter, that he will know who has done it. He took her heart, she writes in this letter, and so she takes in return the new life from his loins. He shall sire no sons, and his name will be forgotten, as he’s forgotten her.”

While this threw an interesting light on the rani’s response to seduction and abandonment, it hardly answered the question.

“That was a suitable curse, I admit,” Amanda said, “but what has it to do with the statue?”

“He has no sons, and his wife has been dead five years now. Perhaps he wishes to wed again,” Padji answered.

Amanda stared at him. “Are you trying to tell me he wants the statue back because he thinks it will undo the princess’s curse?”

Padji nodded. “Did she not tell him in her letter that he had left the thing of most value behind? Did she not say he would know nothing of true happiness until—” He stopped short, his brown eyes wary, his stance alert. “No more, he whispered. “These matters are not for others’ ears.”

His hearing must be prodigious acute. Hard as she listened, a long, tense moment passed before Amanda could hear the approaching footsteps over the noise of the crackling stove and the endlessly creaking timbers. A moment later, the ship’s surgeon descended the steps into view.

As soon as he spied her, Mr. Lambeth’s heavy features knit into a frown. “Galley’s no place for ladies, Miss Cavencourt,” he growled.

With slow dignity, she rose from the cask. “On errands of mercy,” she answered coolly, “one regards the errand first, and the surroundings not at all.” In a few crisp words, she informed him that she’d come to compensate for his neglect of the ailing solicitor. While she lectured, Amanda covered the bowl of broth and set it on a platter.

The surgeon’s countenance darkened. “The man’s done for,” he answered defensively. “My time’s better spent with those I can help.”

“Indeed. Attending to Mrs. Bullerham’s indigestion— a permanent condition, as all of us who know her will attest— is of far greater importance than attempting to make a dying man’s last hours endurable.”

On this self-righteous note, Amanda took up bowl and platter and stalked out.

Not until she’d marched halfway across the deck did she recollect she was to have sent for the valet. Just as well, she told herself. She wanted a look at his master, didn’t she?

The door opened immediately in response to her resolute knock, and the tall form of Mr. Brentick promptly blocked it.

“Miss Cavencourt,” he gasped.

A mere fraction of a moment passed before he schooled his features to polite blankness, yet that was time enough. She spied the sorrow and anxiety in his countenance, and simultaneously recalled the edge of bleakness in his voice earlier when he’d asked for help. He was genuinely distressed about his conniving employer. Amanda experienced an irrational twinge of guilt. She promptly smothered it.

“Padji had the broth ready while I was there,” she said. “It seemed foolish to let it cool while someone came to fetch you, especially when I was returning this way. Or nearly this way,” she amended with strict regard for accuracy. Her cabin was at the stern, well-lit, large, and luxurious. This, she saw as she peered past the tall, dark-coated figure, was a tiny, dark cell.

That was very kind of you, miss.” Mr. Brentick tried to take the broth from her, but she held fast and raised one autocratic eyebrow in perfect imitation of her brother. The valet retreated to let her pass.

“Oh, dear, the poor man,” she said softly, involuntarily, as she approached the invalid. He looked ghastly. “No wonder you are so alarmed.” She looked up to meet a stony blue gaze.

Amanda decided to disregard Mr. Brentick’s facial expressions. “Can you prop him up a bit?” she asked. “If you will hold him, I can feed him.”

The valet hesitated, his face stonier yet.

“It wants two people, Mr. Brentick,” she said impatiently. “While you dawdle, the broth grows cold.”

Under the stiff mask, he seemed to struggle with something, but it was a brief combat. Then, his piercing blue gaze fixed on her as though in challenge, he moved to the cot to do as she asked.

Before she’d left the cabin, Amanda had promised to send Bella on the same errand in two hours. Mr. Brentick had protested, citing the needless trouble to herself and her servant, and he had got an unpleasant glint in his eyes. Amanda had firmly ignored both words and look, and in the end, she’d won the skirmish.

She waited until Bella was gone before taking Mrs. Gales into her confidence. Then Amanda quickly outlined the rani’s tale, her own suspicions, and the information Padji had so reluctantly offered.

Mrs. Gales listened composedly, throughout occasionally interjecting a calm question. When Amanda was done, the older woman shook her head.

“Five years in India may have disordered my reason,” she said. “On the other hand, it has taught me to accept the possibility of such mad goings-on. Once one has seen a man—of his own free will—swinging from a hook, which has been inserted into the flesh of his back, one is prepared to see or hear
anything.”

“Then you do believe it’s possible Lord Hedgrave hired the Falcon to steal my statue?” Amanda said with some relief. She had feared Mrs. Gales would think she’d taken leave of her senses.

“It’s possible.” Mrs. Gales took up her needlework once more. “I will not pretend to understand the Rani Simhi,” she went on. “She is an Indian, and therefore incomprehensible. She most certainly ought not have told so lurid a tale to an unmarried young lady. On the other hand, at least she did not pretend to virtue, and one must respect her honesty. As to Lord Hedgrave, I’m obliged to admit I would not put
it past him. My late husband had dealings with him, as did many of his colleagues. When the marquess wants something, he goes after it with all the inexorable force and disregard of obstacles as the Juggernaut. Whatever or whoever lies in his path is simply mowed down.”

“Would he go to such lengths for a wooden statue?” Amanda asked. “That’s what bothers me most of all. It hardly makes sense, does it?”

Mrs. Gales hesitated, her usually smooth brow knit. After a moment, she said, “In England, more than one gentleman has paid a large sum for the privilege of lying in Dr. John Graham’s Celestial Bed. If they believe a bed will instantly correct their inability to beget offspring, why should not Lord Hedgrave believe in the efficacy of a wooden statue? I suppose a marquess might be as superstitious as the next man. When it comes to these matters, my dear, otherwise sane and sensible men can prove amazingly irrational.” She smiled faintly. “What an extraordinary woman the rani is. Her letter must have acted on him over the years like slow poison. One ought not admire her, to be sure, yet it is so seldom a woman can achieve so effective a revenge for ruination. With words only. How very clever of her! Wicked, of course, but clever.”

“I should say lucky, rather,” said Amanda. “If he had produced an heir, her curse would have been a joke.”

“I daresay she’d have found some other means of torturing him,” Mrs. Gales answered dryly. “In any case, they are both quite wicked creatures, which makes it difficult to choose between them. Still, my sympathies naturally incline to my own sex, and it
is
your statue. I do not see why Lord Hedgrave should have it. The idea! To set a murderous Indian thief after a British subject—an innocent young lady, no less.”

“If the theft is Lord Hedgrave’s doing,” Amanda reminded her. “We don’t know that for certain, any more than we know Mr. Wringle’s got my statue. But I mean to find out. I’ll speak to Padji again, tomorrow.” Her colour rose slightly and her folded hands tightened in her lap. “I expect we shall have to be underhand, but I see no alternative. Mr. Wringle comes with a deal of influence. Randall Groves himself, no less, escorted him on board, and all the Marquess of Hedgrave’s power looms behind him.”