The Tiger's Lady

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

Cover Art design by Amber Anderson of ADK Designs, LL
C:
http://www.adkdesigns.biz

Originally published as THE RUBY

Copyright ©
1992 and 2013 by Roberta Helmer

First Dell Publishing Edition: 1992

First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2013

Sincere thanks to L. Somi Roy for reviewing the terms in the glossary and to Gerard Raymond for generously sharing so much information about Sri Lanka.

And thanks as ever to Peggy Kulp—for making the deadlines painless.

London, England

December 1864

His face was cast in shadows.

But even the darkness could not conceal the fury that twisted his features.

Damn the cursed woman! He’d warned her. He’d more than warned her.

But they never listened. All they did was whine and simper. Or cry. That was the most irritating of all.

How he hated them. Their slack, wet mouths. Their quick, cunning eyes. Their false passion when they pretended to arch and shudder beneath him in their pleasure.

They never deceived him, of course. But money could buy many things.

And of course he needed them. Even though he hated that shameful need of his most of all.

His hooded eyes narrowed as he studied the chaos of the small, dark room. Tangled sheets. Fallen hairpins. An untidy litter of female clothing scattered over the floor.

The misshapen lump that did not move upon the bed.

His thin lips pursed with distaste. He’d told her what he wanted at the very first. She’d agreed quickly enough when he’d flashed his gold. But at the end she’d balked, just as they all did.

He drew on his damask waistcoat in silence, his fingers slow and precise. Next came his black silk top hat. Last of all came the fine French merino cloak to conceal his pristine black frock coat.

It wouldn’t do for him to be seen in formal evening dress in a sordid place like this. That would raise questions, and he was not a man who cared for questions.

At the door he stopped, a diamond stickpin glinting at the folds of his snowy cravat. Slowly he scanned the room one last time to be certain he hadn’t missed anything.

Only then did he afford the motionless figure under the quilt a direct glance. A pity, he thought. Once her face had been tolerably pretty.

Not now. Oh, not at all now.

But this one, at least, would never bother him again.

And when he had the ruby in his hands at last, everything would change. Then
none
of them would ever bother him again.

Part One

London

Tell Me, O Swan, your ancient tale. From what land do you come, O Swan?
to what shore will you fly? Where would you take your rest, O Swan, and what do you seek?

~
from
Tagore,
Songs of Kabir

She gasped in pain and exhaustion. She’d have to stop.

But she couldn’t, not while they were so close.

Suddenly the road began to blur and a loud whine filled her ears.

Sweet heaven, what would a few seconds matter?

To rest, to forget. How sweet…

Yes, what harm could there be in just a few seconds?

Frigid air lashed Barrett’s cheeks as a hansom cab thundered past at the gallop. She wobbled forward out of his path.

“Get outter the bleedin’ street!” the coachman bellowed, shaking his fist as he hammered past into the darkness.

Barrett stumbled on, the ground spinning dizzily before her. The next moment she tumbled headlong onto a wrought iron railing pierced with griffin heads, their jaws fixed in a cruel leer.

Pain ripped through her fingers. Beneath the black lace veil, beneath the ebony curls which spilled forth in wild disarray, her chiseled face bled white.

Little could be seen of that face in the chill gloom of the London night—only the barest sweep of high cheekbones, a firm chin, and an upswept nose.

It was the eyes that were extraordinary and entirely unforgettable. Wide-set and long-lashed, they stared fiercely out at the world, their odd depths swirling and changeable, azure shifting to teal and then copen blue with every change of emotion.

Eyes as vivid and changeable as the woman herself; eyes a stranger would not soon forget.

And right now they began to glint with tears, which she quickly thrust away with a dusty fist.

No time for tears
, she told herself.
No time for weakness, either
.

She had to summon all her wits about her. She’d been wandering the dark streets for hours now, dizzy with hunger, uncertain where she was.

Surely she must be close to Fleet Street. Or was that the City before her, beyond a narrow, pillared gateway?

Barrett’s haunted eyes closed for a moment as black despair swept over her.
So much running.
It seemed as if she had been running forever.

Perhaps she had.

Trembling, her fingers tightened on the cold railing. They were somewhere out in the night, she knew, hiding in the dark tangle of London’s streets. Soundless and inexorable, they watched and waited. Only yesterday, as she left her shabby rented room in Fenchurch Street, one of them had nearly caught her, seizing her from behind.

Without warning the greasy cloth had come down over her face. Only her wild struggles had saved her—along with a fierce jab from the little silver fruit knife she always carried with her now.

She could still hear the man’s hoarse curses as he fought to gag her. As if in a dream, she’d seen the long fingers jerk open, splashed crimson by her wild thrust. Then by some stroke of fate a constable had rounded the corner and her pursuer had fled back into the bleak corridors of smoke and fear, back into the dark underbelly of London.

But they had not given up, Barrett knew.

Nor would she.

Teal eyes flashing, she pulled her cloak tight about her shoulders and set off into the night.

Across the quiet square a tall man with rounded shoulders flattened himself within a darkened doorway, while his sharp eyes swept the street.

There
—
just by the last crossing!

His thin lips twisted in an ugly slash of a smile. She was weakening!

He inched beyond the doorway, and as he moved, his elbow brushed against the metal frame. Pain jolted down to his fingers. He cursed under his breath, cradling his hand as he recalled his victim’s unexpected ferocity in attacking him the day before. More than a hat pin the little bitch had had. She must be carrying some sort of knife now.

Oh, he’d make her pay for that and pay well
, Thomas Creighton swore silently.

He sniffed the air. Crisp. Damp. Snow soon, unless he missed his guess. That would make his job even easier.

Grinning coldly, he pulled his hat down about his face and slipped out into the wind.