The Golden Leopard (6 page)

“But I don’t believe in your gods, Shivaji. And I can’t say that I’ve any of my own. None who have ever given me the time of day, at any rate. I
am
sure that no self-respecting deity would send the likes of me on a quest, even a piddling one like this. Bloody hell, man. We’re talking about a statue of a
cat!”

“And what is a banner but a scrap of cloth? Yet men follow it into battle, do they not? A symbol can unite a nation. It inspires courage and endurance. Alanabad is threatened from every side by neighboring princes and foreign merchants. Within its borders, a traitor gathers followers and prepares to strike. My country relies on tradition to lend it strength. Without the Golden Leopard, which has stood guard over its fate for centuries, Alanabad will fall.”

“But you have a perfectly good substitute in hand. Why not take the replica back and pass it off as the real thing? You don’t need the original leopard, and you sure as hell don’t need me.”

“I do not expect you to give credit to my convictions. You are a man without faith. But I do expect you to follow my instructions, however foolish they may appear to you.”

“Fine.” Duran waved a careless hand. “I’ll look for your precious leopard. I won’t find it, you’ll kill me, and that will be that. But while the search is on, I intend to go about it my way.”

“You will take an oath not to attempt an escape?”

Duran rubbed his eyes. Dammit, even a gazetted reprobate sometimes kept a particle or two of honor salted away, if only to prove to himself that he could. His took the form of giving his word only when he meant to keep it, which was why he took care never to give it. Almost never. The last time he’d been talked into an oath was six years ago, and he’d never ceased to regret it.

“Put a gun to my head and I’ll say whatever you like,” he admitted with a grin. “But I’ll be lying.”

“Then I must see to it your efforts fail.” Rising, Shivaji took the empty glass from the table. “Sleep now. In the morning you may explain your new plan.”

“Wake me early,” Duran advised. “I have an appointment with a lady.”

From the entrance to the dressing room, Shivaji cast him a somber look before disappearing inside.

Duran waited until the door had closed before pulling himself upright and tottering over to the bed. He still had to find a place to hide his money. Under the pillow for the night, he decided when no better location presented itself. Tomorrow he would return the folded banknotes to the pair of narrow inner pockets concealed near the flap of his trousers. He had sewn them there himself, using needle, thread, and a patch of fabric filched from his tailor. Although Shivaji skimped on the accommodations, he had agreed that his prisoner required a fashionable wardrobe to move about in Society.

Chuckling, Duran began to unbutton his trousers. Perhaps Jessica could be persuaded to take custody of his funds. And if he had his way about it, she would retrieve them from their provocative hiding places with her own hands.

Except that—

He patted the two spots where his money was stored. Had been stored.

With increasing alarm he stripped off the trousers and checked the pockets again. Empty.

He examined the floor, in case the money had fallen out. His linen drawers, in case the money had slipped inside them.

But the money was gone. All seven hundred pounds of it gone, taken while he was being stripped down to shirt and trousers by his murderous valet.

And he hadn’t felt a thing. Not a bloody thing.

“Oh, one hideous parlor is much like another. And I am generally alone in my own house, you know. When Papa wrote, asking me to play hostess at his shooting party, I could think of no reason to stay in Dorset. But I should have done, I suppose, because I am perfectly useless here. My sole duty is to wait in the parlor until the gentlemen have drunk their port, at which time I pour coffee and tea for them. Then I make my escape and keep well out of their way until the next evening. Mind you, it is not at all unpleasant with only five guests in residence. But the house will be overflowing before the week is out.”

“Oh dear. The Glorious Twelfth.” Jessica stripped off her gloves and slapped them against her skirts. “Drat. I must be off again as soon as possible.”

“What’s this? What’s this?” The earl bustled into the parlor, his belly preceding the rest of him, his nose flushed with drink. “I’ll hear nothing of the kind. You will not be off, young lady. You’ve only just arrived.”

“And at a lamentably bad time, I’m afraid.” Supposing that she ought to make a gesture of some sort, Jessica dipped into a respectful curtsy. “I cannot imagine how I forgot the first day of grouse season.”

“Too long in the city, that’s why. Most important day of the year. I always said it was a pity you never took to shooting. You’ve got the single-mindedness. You’d have been a fine shot. Demned fine.”

Startled, Jessica could only attribute that compliment—a high one indeed from the hunt-mad Earl of Sothingdon—to an evening of tippling with his cronies. It was always Aubrey he had pressed to join him, acutely disappointed when his only son took no interest in slaughtering rabbits and birds. “As if you would have included a mere female in one of your shooting parties,” she responded with a grin.

“Well, I don’t expect I would have. But I’d have liked to see you at it, and that’s a fact.” To her astonishment, he came directly up to her and clasped her in a stiff embrace. “It’s good to see you, Jessica,” he mumbled into the side of her neck. “Demned if it’s not.”

It was the first time he’d taken her in his arms that she could remember. The sensation was both agreeable and uncomfortable. Not certain what to do, she patted him on his broad back as he continued to hold her, his breath reeking of tobacco and wine.

“Do return to your guests, Father,” she said, carefully withdrawing herself and resisting an urge to put distance between them. “Let’s have a long talk in the morning, shall we?”

“Yes. Yes, indeed.” He cleared his throat, fumbled with the knot on his cravat, and made his way indirectly to the door. One hand propped on the casement, he looked over at Mariah. “Never you mind the coffee and such. Go help your sister get settled, that’s a good girl.”

Jessica watched him leave, still trying to order her thoughts after her father’s decidedly unusual conduct. He generally steered a wide berth from the disobedient daughter, the rebel child who had cut up what little peace was to be found at High Tor.

Mariah appeared at her side, wraith-like in her plain gown of unflattering gray, her brown hair sleeked back and twisted into a tight chignon. Her skin was abnormally pale, even in the golden candlelight, and dark shadows made little quarter moons under her eyes. “Shall we go upstairs now?” she asked, her voice tentative. “Or wait for your maid to unpack your things?”

“By all means, let us go.” Jessica heard the impatience in her tone and was sorry for it, but Mariah’s shy deference never failed to put her out of temper. She led the way to the second floor and down the passageway to the farthest end of the west wing.

When old enough to leave the nursery, she had chosen for herself the most remote room in the house, the one where she had discovered the priest hole. It was connected to a steep, narrow staircase that ran alongside the chimney all the way to the cellars. From there it opened to a tunnel that wound its way to a trapdoor concealed in a copse of oak a quarter mile from the house. She had often used the tunnel to escape the house unseen and explore the wildest places on the moor.

When she arrived at the bedroom door, two footmen were lowering a copper bathtub onto a tarp they had spread over the carpet near the fireplace. Her luggage was stacked in one corner, and a large tray holding a teapot, cups and saucers, and several dishes filled with biscuits, tarts, and small sandwiches lay on the side table.

Geeson bowed when she entered the room. “I have been unable to locate your maid, Lady Jessica.”

He had been waiting to express his disapproval. “That’s because Dorothy is still in London, I would imagine. And yes, I traveled all this way without a silly young girl to lend me a semblance of propriety. She is to accompany my secretary, who will join me within a day or two. Meanwhile I am perfectly capable of fending for myself.”

“Very good, madam.” He eased past her to the door, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You will advise me if you require assistance.”

When he was gone, Jessica turned to her frowning sister. “It’s a game we play. He means no insult.”

Mariah shivered. “He terrifies me. But almost everyone does. I can never think how to explain myself when I do something wrong.”

“But then, you never do anything wrong. You are nearly as proper as Aubrey, who hasn’t set a foot off the thorny path to heaven since first he levered himself upright. How is he, by the way?”

“About to become a father again. Harriet is due sometime in October. Didn’t you know?”

Jessica shrugged. “We do not communicate. I expect four children keep him too busy to write, and I have been preoccupied with my business.”

“Yes.” Mariah went to the sideboard, her back to Jessica as she strained tea into the cups. “I saw the announcement of your reception and exhibit in the
Times.
It arrives days late, of course, but I always enjoy reading news of you. And this time, an entire quarter page! What was it the headline said? ‘An Exclusive and Unparalleled Collection Personally Selected by Lady Jessica Carville.’ My own sister, singled out in such a way by the newspapers. But what with the delay, I sometimes become confused about dates.” She glanced over at Jessica. “Am I mistaken, or was not your auction on for today?”

Jessica, amazed by such naiveté, decided not to explain about the costly advertisement. “It wouldn’t do for me to hover about Christie’s like a shopkeeper, you know. I never intended being there for the actual sale.”

“But don’t you want to know what happened? I cannot imagine why you chose to leave at such a time.”

“It wasn’t planned,” Jessica said, glad for the chance to speak three honest words. With deliberate nonchalance, she joined Mariah at the tea tray and plucked an almond biscuit from a saucer. “Last night after the exhibition I felt uncommonly energetic. Sleep was out of the question, but I couldn’t bear to do
nothing,
and there was nothing for me to do. Helena was to attend the auction and supervise the details, so I took it in my head to set out for High Tor and await the outcome here.”

She nibbled at the biscuit, wishing Mariah would look at her. Or say something. But she went on chipping sugar from the block with fierce concentration, and Jessica found herself rushing to fill the silence. “I’d a case of nerves, I suppose. The heat was truly oppressive. But the storm had let up—did I mention the storm?—and if I left right away, I could avoid the morning traffic. Then, once on the road, I could not help but travel straight through. You know how I am.”