“I thought you enjoyed Capetown, miss.”
“I found it interesting. I’m not partial to—to crowds and social gaieties. I am rather a recluse, I’m afraid.”
The teasing breeze lifted her scent to his nostrils, only to sweep it away again in the next instant.
Instinctively, he moved a step closer. “Then had you been in my place, you’d not have wished for company, as I did.”
The shadowy amber glance flickered to his face. “Solitude and loneliness are not the same thing,” she said.
“Perhaps not. Perhaps I was just bored. I think there was one mad moment when I actually yearned for a dressing down from Mrs. Bullerham,” he said ruefully.
She smiled then, disarmed. Finally. “You make yourself sound desperate, Mr. Brentick, yet I cannot believe you could sink to so pathetic a state.”
“No. What I actually wished was far more audacious. I wished I had not trespassed on your kind nature.” He dropped his voice. “Among other regrets.”
She turned away and fixed her gaze on the sea. “Is that an apology?”
“Oh.”
He saw her hand tighten on the rail. Small and slim it was, its mellow ivory deepened to burnished gold by weeks in the sun. He wanted to touch its softness. His own fingers curled frustratedly into his palm. What the devil did he think he could accomplish in a few minutes? He had a rift to mend, and that wanted a clear head. Very well. He’d already made better progress than expected. After all, she could have chosen not to understand.
“Am I pardoned?” he asked.
“That depends on what you’re apologising for.”
“For having the effrontery to flirt with you, Miss Cavencourt, and insult your intelligence by pretending I wasn’t,” he answered boldly.
To his surprise, she didn’t colour up.
“God, so that’s what it was,” she said wonderingly. “Mrs. Bullerham overset you more than I thought that day—or you are, truly, bored out of your wits.” She turned an amused countenance to him. “They say the insane have flights of genius, though, and I must say your performance— well, you are very subtle, or I am very thickheaded. But you must not do it again.”
“Oh, I know I mustn’t,” he said.
“Of course not. You would be casting your pearls before swine.”
“Miss Cavencourt, I must beg leave to protest that choice of phrase, figure of speech or no.”
“Mr. Brentick, you are all that is gallant, but if you do not dismiss yourself on the instant, I shall choke myself laughing.” She bit her twitching lip and turned away again. What, he asked himself crossly, was so hilarious?
***
“But, my dear, he admitted he tried to flirt with you,” Mrs. Gales said as she knotted a silk thread. “You cannot wish to encourage him.”
“I’m certain I discouraged that,” Amanda said, smiling at the memory of his bemused face. “My experience of men is limited, I admit, but I’m sure they don’t care to be laughed at. Yet it seemed so funny, or perhaps I was relieved. I’d thought he’d been mocking me that day. Now I realise he was—or is—quite desperate. His days must seem to him like solitary confinement. His sole company is a cross, recuperating invalid—whom Bella has monopolised.”
“You feel sorry for the valet?”
Amanda recalled the terrified muttering she’d heard one day, and the nightmare lingering in deep blue eyes. Yes, that made her feel sorry for him, but it was the restlessness, too. His inability to be at peace with himself made solitude— which she welcomed—lonely and dreary for him. She pitied as well his intolerable boredom, which drove him to flirt with an ape leader like Amanda Cavencourt.
There was more, and that she could voice. “I think he’s overbred and overeducated for his station in life,” she said slowly.
“I think he is far too handsome.” Mrs. Gales deftly guided her needle through the linen. “I expect he wreaks havoc with the maids, wherever he goes.”
Amanda grinned. “More than the maids, I’ll wager. I guessed today he’s a rake of sorts. That seemed funny, too—a rakish valet, a self-proclaimed accomplished flirt, in such desperate case as to practise his skills on me. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn he’d thrown one of those luring looks at Mrs. Bullerham, and that was what hurtled her up into the boughs.”
Mrs. Gales’s steady hand arrested midstitch. “What sort of look was that, my dear?” she asked mildly.
Amanda was staring into some distance beyond the cabin walls. “I once saw a painting of Krishna as a young man. He stood, surrounded by women, in a stream. He had his arms about two of them, and gazed at one in just that way. Intently.” She shrugged, and her tones lightened again, “in any case, Krishna was quite the rake, was he not? The look must be commonplace enough, if the painter knew precisely how to convey it.”
“A great deal too common, if you ask my opinion. If you catch the fellow gazing at you in such a way again, Amanda, you are well advised to box his ears.”
“For a look?” Amanda laughed. “I daresay the poor man can’t help it. For a flirt, it must be an uncontrollable habit, rather like a nervous tic.”
“Amanda,” said Mrs. Gales, “overeducated, overbred, he remains a servant. Pray recollect as well, he is also a man. I shall say no more.”
Chapter Seven
Though she understood well enough what the widow left unsaid, Amanda’s common sense told her the warning was ludicrous. Long ago she’d learned she was not the sort of woman men wanted. All her one beau had desired was Papa’s wealth. Thus, the following day, when the valet paused in his perambulations to greet her, Amanda saw no harm in leading him into conversation.
She soon learned he’d been a soldier, and had spent most of his service in Central India. He treated her to a few military anecdotes, and she found him both witty and surprisingly knowledgeable regarding Indian ways.
When he joined her at the rail the day after, the discussion continued where it had left off. Every day thereafter they met at the same place, at the same time, and talked. By the end of a week, their half-hour conversations had stretched into an hour, and even that time began to seem far too short.
Mr. Brentick was clever and very amusing, yet she’d met scores of clever, amusing men. The difference was that he appeared to find her so, too. When she lapsed into Hindu philosophy, one of her pet topics, he seemed fascinated. He asked intelligent, perceptive questions, and never hesitated to debate if he questioned her opinion. Amanda was accustomed to blank stares or, worse, condescending indulgence of her unwomanly and most un-British interests.
She found Mr. Brentick not simply superior to the common run of manservant, but a superior, rare species of man. Most important, she felt she’d found a friend. At the end of a fortnight, she felt as though they’d been friends all their lives.
Amanda was on her way to the upper deck when the door to the Bullerhams’ cabin opened, and Mrs. Bullerham, leaning heavily upon her cane, lumbered through. Her mind elsewhere, Amanda didn’t notice the massive figure emerging until she was upon her. Then she stopped short, missing a collision by mere inches.
“This isn’t a race course,” Mrs. Bullerham announced in booming tones, “though one should not be required to remind you that ladies do not run. Did your mama not tell you it was unseemly?’’ Moving farther into the passage and thus blocking it, she boomed on, “But I forget. Your mama was ill-equipped to oversee your education.’’
Amanda’s face set and her heart began to pump with hurt and rage, but she said not a word, only waited for the detestable woman to move out of the way.
“I am, of course, aware of your awkward situation,” the heavy voice went on. “You are not entirely to blame for your ignorance. I’d hoped Mrs. Gales would drop a word in your ear, but she, evidently, is preoccupied with the captain. I have held my own tongue out of pity. But it will not do.”
“I have often found that holding one’s tongue does well enough,” Amanda answered tightly.
“You are
pert, miss, as I have remarked before.”
“Then I wonder you wish to speak with me at all.”
“Duty calls louder than personal feelings. As it should in your case,” Mrs. Bullerham rumbled. “Your brother is a peer as well as a justice. Whatever your mother was, noble blood runs in your veins. Even if you are without self-respect, you ought to consider your family.”
“I would appreciate it, ma’am,” said Amanda, “if you would step aside and permit me to proceed.”
“So that you may hasten to your rendezvous? Are you afraid the tit’s valet will make off with your maid if you dally?” came the taunting reply. “Have you no pride?”
“Too much, ma’am, to respond to ignorance.” Amanda turned away.
A fat hand clamped upon her arm. “Don’t be a fool, girl. You’re no beauty, but you can’t be so desperate. Certainly you don’t wish others to speculate that you are so starved for masculine attentions you must stoop to dallying with servants. You will become a laughingstock.”
Amanda reached up and pried the fat fingers loose, then jerked her arm away. “I trust you are finished.”
“I’m not, Miss Impertinence - not by—”
“Ah, Mrs. Bullerham,” a cool, deferential voice interposed. “Did you wish assistance ascending the steps?”
Amanda’s head whipped round, and her face flamed as she saw Mr. Brentick striding towards them. The blaze in his blue eyes seemed to crackle through the dim passage.
“Or had you rather,” he went on in more ominous tones as he neared, “return to your cabin to rest?”
Mrs. Bullerham opened her mouth. Mr. Brentick took one step closer. Mrs. Bullerham shut her mouth, turned, and scuttled back into her cabin.
The blazing blue gaze fell upon Amanda then, and her heart seemed to clench into a hard little fist. She couldn’t breathe.
“Miss Cavencourt, may I invite you above, to relieve yourself of the string of oaths burning your tongue?”
He’d heard. What burned then was her face.
“It seems the Devil also makes work for idle tongues,” Mr. Brentick said as they reached the rail. “Mrs. Bullerham has the true instinct of a killer.”
“It would be more gallant to pretend you’d heard nothing,” Amanda said, forcing a smile.
“I thought that would be cowardly. I’m already disgusted with myself for not intruding sooner, but I was caught between Scylla and Charybdis, you see.”
She was far too hurt, bewildered, and mortified to see anything at the moment, and her smile felt like a hideous facial contortion. Looking away, she inhaled deeply of the brisk salt air.
“I thought at first that if I dashed to your rescue, it would make matters worse,” he continued. “I didn’t realise my presence was unnecessary to accomplish that.”
“If you will not be gallant,” she said, “then please don’t be kind, either.” She swallowed, and made herself meet his sympathetic gaze, “Is it true? Is that what others think?”
“As you told me a while ago, Miss Cavencourt, her mind is poisoned. It was all venom.”
She shook her head. “No, and that’s the worst of her. However venomous, there’s always truth in what she says. What enrages everyone is that she’s insensitive enough to say it. It is what others think, isn’t it? That I’m so desperate—”
“Why would anyone but a miserable, dyspeptic old cow think anything like that? Her mind is as sick as her infernal liver,” he answered angrily.
“Do you think it?” she asked.
He stared at her a moment incredulously, then, to her confusion, he smiled. “If you’ll pardon the impertinence, miss—are you mad?”
“What do you mean?”
“She said you were at your last prayers,” he answered with the excessive patience usually offered the mentally enfeebled. “Whatever other twisted ‘truths’ she may have uttered, you cannot be so overset as to credit that.”
Amanda stared at him blankly.
He returned the stare. “You aren’t,” he said. “It’s quite impossible. Do strive to collect your wits.”
“I wish you’d collect yours, Mr. Brentick. I most certainly am at my last prayers. I am six and twenty.”
“And?”
She coloured. “And—and I have a looking glass.”
“If you can’t gaze into it in a rational manner, I can’t imagine what possible good it does you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I hope you are not trying to persuade me I am some sort of femme fatale?”
“I should not presume, miss.”
“If that is your notion how to appease my wounded dignity, I must point out you are altogether off the mark.” As she met his expressionless gaze, another suspicion arose. “You aren’t—you aren’t flirting with me again, and pretending you’re not, are you?”
His eyes opened very wide. “I wouldn’t dream of it, miss.”
“I should hope not. You did promise you wouldn’t.”
“If memory serves, I said I mustn’t.”
“And so you mustn’t,” she said, growing flustered in quite a different way. “It makes me most—most uncomfortable.”
“I’m painfully aware of that, miss. It is most provoking.” His tones were aggrieved, but a devil danced in his blue eyes.
She answered the devil. “Oh, I nearly forgot. No doubt you fear your skills will grow rusty from disuse.”
“That is not what concerns me,” he said. He paused a moment. “I perceive a refreshingly independent spirit abruptly cowed by the perverted utterances of a foul-minded rhinoceros. I do all in my humble powers to distract you, and you do not attend. Instead, your beautiful eyes dart about; as though you were a hunted creature. It is provoking.”
She caught her breath. “My what?”
“Of course there’s no point reminding you your eyes are beautiful, because you’re irrational. Your abigail has probably told you a hundred times, not to mention your beaux, but all those sensible voices are drowned out by the noise of that squealing sow.”
No. He didn’t realty think she was... no, certainly not. He spoke so out of kindness, because he pitied her or felt obliged to smooth her ruffled feathers. Or it was mere habit. I daresay he wreaks havoc with the maids.
“Do you wreak havoc with the ladies’ maids?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s why Mrs. Bullerham claimed it was a rendezvous, you know. Because you’re so handsome,” she said brazenly. She was rewarded. The mask of assurance faltered. She had disconcerted him. “And also, probably, because there’s a devil in your eyes, Mr. Brentick.”
His confusion lasted but an instant, and he flashed a wolfish grin. How white his teeth were, gleaming in his lean, tanned face.
“Your recent ordeal has overheated your imagination,’’ he said. “She’s made you see evil everywhere.”
“No, not evil,” she answered thoughtfully. “Krishna, rather. Are you familiar with the Hindu deities?”
“I know some of the thousand names, though I can rarely keep them straight,” he said, obviously puzzled by the abrupt turn in the conversation.
“How long were you in India?” she asked.
Philip remained nearly another hour at her side. Never had they conversed for so long a time. More important, this was the first time the talk ventured near the personal, and what he learned was puzzling and troubling. He’d experienced niggling doubts before, but in recent weeks, they’d swelled to daunting proportions. He listened to her today, and watched her expressive face, and wondered whether it was possible she knew nothing, had made no connexion at all between him and the man who’d robbed her.
He considered the evidence again later, when she’d gone. She hadn’t let Jessup die, for one. Furthermore, after four months, Philip was still alive. To eliminate him without awakening suspicion would be difficult, he admitted. Still, the task was not beyond the wily Indian’s powers.
But nothing. Not even a glimmer of recognition. That left a few alternat
ive interpretations. For instance, Padji may have latched onto Miss Cavencourt for his own purposes. The Indian may have played on her kind nature and convinced her to take him to England.
He could have several reasons for doing so. Fear of the rani’s rage when she learned of the theft was one excellent reason, although it needn’t drive him all the way to England. Another, more in character, was a vow of revenge upon the rani’s true enemy, Hedgrave.
Philip knew the Laughing Princess was not worth fifty thousand pounds, let alone the additional thousands previously expended to retrieve it. He was aware the Falcon represented no more than a very expensive tool in an ugly game: two vicious children squabbling over a toy each wanted only to spite the other. He could not be greatly shocked to discover the game had become deadly.
In that case, Miss Cavencourt may not be, as he’d originally believed, a cunning disciple of the ruthless Rani Simhi. She might be merely another tool, though an innocent one. Or was that simply what he wanted to believe now, because he’d been trapped too long on this damnable ship? Had the long months of abstinence twisted his reason? Was he making excuses for her simply because he desired her? How absurd. He didn’t need to like her to want to bed her—or any attractive woman.
Yet she’d played havoc with common sense from the start, hadn’t she? She’d aroused him when he’d attacked her that night in Calcutta, and found himself grappling with a she-cat. Only recently, however, as he’d come to know her better, had the memory returned to haunt his dreams: the swish of silk and the tinkle of thin golden bangles... the scent of patchouli mingled with smoke... darkness... and a fierce struggle with a warm, slender body, lithe and so pleasingly curved.
He’d thought she was a native, until she’d cursed him in those crisp, well-bred accents. He smiled wryly. The unladylike epithets had aroused him as well. He’d known one fleeting, utterly mad urge to return, to join battle with her again... and conquer.
That, however, was four months ago. Now? Now, he admitted silently and with no small self-mockery, she was driving him crazy.