The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) (9 page)

“Besides,” Calla continued, sweeping his objections away with a wave of her hand,  “neither you or Inspector
Nevins know what the boy looks like. How could you possibly find him?”

Once again f
eeling like a prize idiot, Derek’s gaze shot to Nevins. The inspector had drifted off to the far end of the room, endeavoring to give them some privacy during their heated exchange. He stood with his hands folded behind his back as he studied a framed landscape, attempting, without much success, to convey the impression of a man who had not been blessed with a sense of hearing.

“Inspector,”
Derek clipped out. “I assume the
Ariel’s
bosun was able to provide you some description of the boy.”

Nevins
removed a small leather-bound book from his pocket and flipped through the pages as he strode toward them. “Yes, here it is. Native of India. Medium height, slender build, brown skin, dark hair and eyes.” He looked up and grimaced. “Very helpful, indeed. I think that description would answer to nearly every native in London, if not all of England.”

Derek grit his teeth. “Mrs. Singh—”

“Never met Ram,” Calla finished for him. “She was hired as my chaperone a week before our ship departed.” She worried her bottom lip, then looked up at Derek, her gaze soft and imploring. “Ram’s only crime was coming to England in hopes of providing a better life for his family. Just as I’ve done. If our situations were reversed and I was threatened or in trouble, I have no doubt he would do anything he could to help me. I couldn’t live with myself if I did nothing to help him.”

And there it was. Nicely done.
His new wife, he belatedly realized, was a formidable opponent. Blithely ignoring the typical weapons in a female arsenal—tears, hysterics, and shrill pleading—she had used intelligence and stubborn logic to prove her points, and when that had failed, appealed to his chivalry and sense of justice. Her last words were particularly hard to ignore. The image of Calla, alone and in danger in London, bothered him more than he cared to admit. If Ram could be depended upon to come to her aid, honor dictated that they help the boy.

That did not mean, however, he was pleased with the turn of events.
But short of passively allowing Ram to be found and hurt or possibly killed, it was their only logical move.

Derek held her gaze for a long, silent moment, then cocked his head in the direction of the doorway.
“Bellowes!”

Bellowes
, seemingly unperturbed by the strident summons, entered the parlor and gave a deferential bow. “Yes, my lord?”

“Have Thomas ready the carriage. Lady Keating and I
have need of it this morning.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Calla’s face lit up. There was no other way to describe it. She drew in an excited breath and clasped her hands to her chest, as though she’d just been promised some thrilling adventure, rather than a trip to the East End slums to search for the boy. Her plush, kissable lips parted in a broad, dimpled smile. Her eyes
sparkled
, for God’s sake.

“Thank you.”

Pushing aside the ridiculous temptation to bask in the glow of her approval, he sternly admonished, “You will recall what I said earlier. This undertaking is both dangerous and unseemly. You are entirely unfamiliar with the operation of the docks, the Custom House, and the shipping trade. Therefore, I will expect you to defer to my judgment on all matters pertaining to the search for Ram Daas.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Yes, my lord. Ha. What utter bollocks.
Derek saw her response for what it was: a blatant attempt to allow him to save face in front of the inspector, as well as a stab at restoring domestic harmony. She needn’t have bothered.
The meek, submissive expression looked laughably out of place on her face. The woman didn’t have a single meek or submissive bone in her body.

Which was, he realized with a jolt of surprise, perfectly all right with him.

On the heels of that thought, came another. It was his task to guide his new bride through the subtle nuances of London Society, not dangle her as bait in a deadly game of Custom House thievery. The woman might not know any better, but he did.

All of which led to one single, essential question:
What in hell had gotten into him?

Nevins
collected his hat and gloves. Derek accompanied him to the front foyer, where the inspector paused. He studied Derek unguardedly, as though satisfying some inner curiosity. “It is my understanding, Lord Keating, that you don’t normally concern yourself in native affairs.”

“No,” Derek returned flatly.
“Never.”

“
In that case, I am most grateful for your assistance.”

“I expect you know how fruitless this exercise will be.”

“Perhaps.” The inspector shrugged on his overcoat, adjusted the brim of his hat, pulled on his gloves. His eyes met Derek’s. “The boy will have many enemies searching for him. That much is certain. I thought it only fair that Ram have a few friends looking for him, as well.” He deposited his card on a sterling salver. “I am available day or night, should you need to reach me.”

Derek
bit back a sigh. He wasn’t much of a gambler, but he’d taken enough turns at the table to recognize when the odds were stacked against him. Thousands of Indian seamen arrived annually on England’s shores. Ten thousand or more had permanently established residence in London. And their task was to locate one lone boy who didn’t want to be found?

Impossible.

Chapter Nine

India
. Well, not exactly India, but likely as close as Calla would ever find in London. Since her arrival in England, she’d seen the “better” parts of the city—St. James, Mayfair, Hyde Park, even the shops of Piccadilly. But nothing compared to what she saw now. Derek had instructed his driver to deliver them to the Shadwell district of London’s East End. Here the dark, dusky faces of lascars, the Indian sailors who manned the ships, swarmed through the streets.

As
she alighted from the carriage, an icy breeze whipped around her, stinging her cheeks. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes and peered around her. For a moment, she could only gape as she tried to absorb it all.

The sounds.
All of it loud and raucous. Coarse, cockney English. The musical Hindi of her youth, liberally mixed with Punjabi, Persian, Cantonese, and a broad assortment of languages and dialects whose names she could only begin to guess.

The sights.
Everywhere she looked, motion. Bustling carts, wagons, and drays. Ramshackle warehouses and dilapidated tenement apartments. Fighting dogs and feral cats. Women and children of every race and nationality poring over the flimsy goods offered in dim little shops and rickety market stalls.

Then there were the smells.
She’d acquainted herself with dozens of new scents since her arrival in London—both pleasant and unpleasant—but here the fetid, marshy odor of the Thames was finally overtaken. Calla breathed in the sharp tang of tea, combined with the heady aroma of spices, wines, and incense. Layered beneath that, the pungent mixture of unwashed bodies, alcohol, cheap perfume, burning coal, and horse dung. The stench of piles of refuse untended and left to rot.

“This way.” Derek took her elbow and guided her down the street.

Calla cast him a glance from beneath her lashes as they walked. He surveyed the busy scene not with the wonder she felt, but with an expression of grim purpose.
So this, too, was marriage
, she thought. She’d won the battle, pushed to have her way, and as a result she’d created a rift with her husband she didn’t know how to mend.

“Are the
streets here always this crowded?” she asked, barely matching his pace as they jostled through the teeming population.

“No.”

“That’s good.”

“
They’re worse in the spring.”

So much for polite, conciliatory banter. She sighed. “You’re angry with me.”

He gave a brief shake of his head, but didn’t slow his step. “The fault is mine, not yours. A gently bred young woman does not visit the likes of High Street—or anywhere else in the East End, for that matter.”

“Even if you’re accompanying me?”

He gave an abrupt, humorless laugh. “Especially if I’m accompanying you.”

“What does that mean?”

For the first time since they had exited his carriage, his gaze settled on hers. He drew her to his side in the middle of the busy sidewalk. She was afraid they might obstruct traffic, but they barely impeded the flow. Pedestrians streamed around them on both sides, barely sparing them a glance.

“Aside from the obvious danger,”
he said, “in the estimation of London Society, your presence here will serve to demonstrate an appetite for the dark and depraved—an appetite I not only indulge, but encourage. Rather than protect you, I’m leading you deeply astray.”

She brushed
away his concern away with a dismissive shake of her head. “How fortunate for me that I don’t care a whit for Society’s approval.”

“That’s a rather reckless approach to establishing your reputation as Lady Keating.”

She felt a small, defiant smile tug at the corners of her lips. “If you wanted a better woman, you should have married her.”

His expression
sobered. Calla instantly regretted her flippant remark. Her words had been meant as nothing but a glib repetition of what he’d said to her, but perhaps she’d pushed him too far. Her mother and sisters accused her of being too outspoken. Too confident and headstrong. What men wanted in a wife, they told her, even more than grace and beauty, was a demure woman who was eager to bend to her husband’s will. Perhaps, she thought, she’d already ruined any chance they might have had for marital contentment. But to her profound relief, his next words put her at ease.

“
But then I wouldn’t have you,” he said.

The moment stretched between them. In the span of a single heartbeat, what had begun as a mere exchange of words turned strange
ly physical. Calla was suddenly acutely aware of her body. Her nerve endings sprang to life. She felt every bump and jostle of the passing throngs, as well as the vibration of a nearby door slamming shut. She swore she could even feel the pounding of the horses’ hooves echo through her bones. But most of all, she felt a firm, sharp tug deep within her belly, as though an invisible string was pulling her to Derek.

She battled a nearly overwhelming impulse to
lay her hand on his broad chest and soak up his heat, his masculine strength, right there, in the middle of the sordid lane in which they stood. She wanted to feel his lips against her skin. She wanted to continue what they’d begun in the breakfast room.

He was right. She was a reckless woman.

He released his grip on her elbow and tilted his head toward the tea shop to his left. “I thought we’d start our search for Ram here.”

Calla blinked,
jerking her thoughts back to the task at hand. “Of course.”

Their search carried them from the coffeehouses on High Street, to the lodging houses on
Commercial Road, and the churches of Brick Lane. They ducked into shops, chatted up grocers, put in a friendly word with local couriers, bakers, cobblers, and smiths. They didn’t enter any pubs—Derek firmly refused to allow her entrance to those establishments—but everywhere they went the result was the same. No one had heard of a boy named Ram Daas. By the time the late afternoon shadows stretched across the muddy streets, Calla reluctantly acknowledged they’d done as much as they could for one day.

She said as much to Derek. He nodded in agreement, but instead of
leading her back to their carriage, he turned and directed her through a set of brightly painted green doors. If the crowded streets, raised voices, crude tenement buildings, and poorly clothed beggars reminded her of the worst blight of India, the
Shah Jalal
was a veritable oasis, the other side of the same coin. Calla was instantly transported to colonial India, for it was very much the sort of welcoming establishment she might have visited with her mother and sisters.

S
he took the room in with a brief, sweeping glance. Bamboo chairs, highly polished teak tables, vibrant rugs, and finely draped mosquito netting at the windows. A British flag hung behind a makeshift bar, flanked on both sides by paintings of various Hindu gods and goddesses. The tables were empty, it being too late for a midday meal and too early for supper.

A squat Indian man came out from behind a set of doors
that presumably led to the kitchens. Upon seeing Derek, he broke into a smile nearly as broad as his belly. The two men exchanged warm greetings in Hindi, then the proprietor showed them to a table.

Calla
sunk gratefully into her chair. She hadn’t realized until that moment just how badly she needed a respite. They had taken tea in every coffeehouse they’d entered. Now she felt waterlogged and jittery. Her feet were sore, her body chilled, and her head pounded from breathing in the sickly-sweet tobacco fumes from the omnipresent hookahs. She needed a bite to eat to settle her stomach before the long carriage ride that would take them back to Derek’s estate.

She
removed her gloves and settled them in her lap, listening without comment as the discussion moved to suggestions for their meal. Once the proprietor left, Derek turned toward her, his expression both amused and curious.

“
I didn’t realize you were capable of that.”

“
Of what?”

“
Relinquishing control to someone else.”

She managed a
small smile. “A rare lapse. Once I’ve rested and eaten, I’ll no doubt return to my high-handed ways.”

A pretty
native girl emerged from the kitchen and placed two tall, frosted glasses of
lassi
before them. Outside the temperature was rapidly dropping, but somehow the thick, chilled drink was incredibly soothing, a welcome alternative to tea, and just the thing to restore her rattled nerves. A steady stream of savory dishes followed, all meant to be eaten in the traditional Indian style, using only their fingers. They did, without the least bit of embarrassment.

“Earlier
this morning,” Calla said as they ate, “Inspector Nevins used two terms that were somewhat confusing. I wonder if you could clarify them for me?”

“
Certainly.”

“
A
lascar
refers to any Asian seaman, but particularly those recruited from India.”

“
Yes.”

“
But the inspector called Amit Gupta, the man who was murdered, a
serang
. What’s the difference?”

“
Essentially, a he’s the head lascar. He acts as intermediary between the British officers and the Indian crewmen. I suppose one could call the ship’s serang a boss or a foreman. He’s responsible for recruiting the natives who serve on the ship, monitoring their duties, seeing to their well-being, and collecting their pay, among other things.”

Calla
swallowed a bite of fried cod and nodded thoughtfully. “That’s why the serang was the one the Custom House agents targeted. He held the lascar’s pay.”

“In all likelihood, yes, that’s why.”

“
There’s one other thing I don’t understand,” she said. “Anyone raised in India has seen poverty, so I’m not shocked by it. But it doesn’t make sense here. If boys like Ram were encouraged to leave India and serve on British ships, how did they end up living in conditions like we saw today, reduced to threadbare clothes, sweeping the streets for a few pence and begging for food?”

“They’re natives,”
Derek answered with an indifferent shrug. “They mean nothing in London. Less than nothing. Captains hire them en masse in India because they’ll accept wages at a rate of one-fifth of what a British sailor would demand. They’re cheaper to feed, cheaper to clothe, and can be worked mercilessly during a voyage. Once they reach British shores they can be turned off the ship without any recourse, simply disposed of as the captain sees fit.”

“Only to have any pay they might have earned forcibly taken
by the Custom House men,” Calla murmured softly. “How dreadful.”

“As I said, they’re natives. In
England, they rank just slightly below women and dogs.”

Calla shot him a withering glare
. “Thank you for that highly edifying remark.”

“There it is—the fire I was hoping to see.”
Derek gave an approving nod and settled back in his chair. “My apologies,
jaanu
, but that conversation was veering dangerously close to maudlin for my taste.”

“You feel no sympathy for those men? No pity?”

“Pity?” Derek released a harsh laugh. “What good would pity do them?” Pushing away his plate, he turned and conveyed an order to a serving boy. Then he focused again on Calla. “Rarely is anything taken from a man that he’s not willing to give up. Men make choices—what they’ll accept, what they won’t. A man either fights for the life he wants, or accepts the life he’s given. There’s no in-between.”

“
That’s a rather stark view.”

“Merely
a realistic one.”

She hesitated, studying him curiously.
“Has the Custom House ever targeted your ships?”

“Once.”

“What happened?”

“What do you think?”

Her gaze traveled slowly over his features, taking in his broad intelligent brow, chiseled cheekbones, square chin, imperious nose, and the masculine line of his lips. He had loosened the knot of his neck cloth, allowing her a glimpse of the rich mahogany skin at his throat. His ebony hair looked tousled and windswept, an effect that came naturally to him, but Calla could easily imagine many a dandy spending hours in front of a looking-glass in a vain attempt to mimic the style. Even now, sitting in a coffeehouse in London’s worst slum, wearing an unremarkable charcoal wool suit, he emanated wealth, power, and an unstoppable force of will.

“I think,” she said slowly, “they regretted testing you.”

Derek inclined his head. “I protect what’s mine.” It wasn’t a boast, just a simple statement of fact.

She made a noncommittal sound.
“Perhaps,” she allowed. “On the other hand, it seems you’ve known for years that the lascars were being abused, yet unless it occurred on your ship, you let it continue.”

One dark brow arched toward the ceiling.
“You would hold me responsible for the fate of every Indian who lands on these shores?”