The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (31 page)

He bowed and watched her hurry off, amused by her new passion for horticulture and wondering if it would be abandoned as rapidly as the various hobbies which had preceded it. The arbour she'd indicated was at the end of the little winding path they'd been following. It was a pretty spot, roofed by trellised wisteria and provided with three stone benches. He'd been walking for over an hour, and was quite willing to sit down for a short while.

He propped his cane against the bench, thinking that whoever designed this arbour had placed it in an ideal spot; especially for a pair of sweethearts. It was quiet, away from the crowd, and the trailing sprays of blossom provided a nice degree of privacy. Just such a spot as he'd been used to take Marietta in the gardens at Vauxhall before—

“You will be so good as to accompany me, sir.”

Vespa started. There was no one in sight, but the male voice had been clear, and the words spoken with the careful precision that so often marks the well-educated foreigner. He said, “Who's there?”

“This way, Captain. The lady awaits.”

A man appeared at the side of the arbour, holding back the shrubbery and smiling invitingly. He was tall and dark-skinned, with hair of jet, eyes almost as dark, and finely chiselled features. He wore Western dress, but Vespa judged him to be a well-born Indian. Taking up his cane, he stood and looked along the path uneasily. “Is something wrong? Mrs. Stokely said she'd come here.”

“Yes, but there has been trouble. She asks that you come quickly, please. It is quicker this way.”

At the mention of trouble Vespa started forward instinctively. The other man nodded, and pulled the shrubs farther apart. Slanting a quick glance at him, Vespa saw a gleam of triumph in the dark eyes, and a warning bell sounded in his head. He drew back and tightened his hold on the cane. “Wait up! We'll go this way, if you please!”

“Ah, but we don't please, sahib! Do as you are told!”

Another Indian had appeared as if by magic, and the small but deadly pistol in his hand rammed into Vespa's ribs.

“Devil I will! You'd not dare fire that thing in here!” Vespa sprang clear and swung his cane hard.

The second man uttered a muffled howl as the pistol was dashed from his grasp. Vespa whipped around to face the first attacker, and levelled him with a flashing upper-cut. The exhilaration of hand-to-hand combat, the knowledge that his strength was returning, made the blood seem to race in his veins. He whirled again, caught a glimpse of a club coming at him, ducked, then lashed out hard.

“Idiots!”

It was a new voice, and even as he turned to face the additional threat, he was blinded by a cloth that was clamped over his face. He struggled madly, but strong hands came from behind to grip his arms. A sickeningly sweet smell was choking him, making it hard to breathe … his bones were melting away. Someone was swearing … those had to be oaths, spat out in such rage in a fading and unfamiliar tongue.…

“I did not wish this.” A pleasant voice this time, quite different to the other. Soft and feminine. “I told you not to hurt him.”

A man said indignantly, “Perchance, mem, you should have told him not to hurt
us!
This Captain fights like two tigers!”

“Had I known it would take three of you to overpower an invalid, I'd have sent my grandfather along to assist you!”

The sally amused Vespa. He opened his eyes, and the hand that held an icy rag to his face was withdrawn. He blinked dazedly as his vision cleared. The lady was tall and slender. She wore a sari of rich turquoise silk embroidered with gold and royal blue thread. Shining black hair framed great dark eyes and delicate features and was loosely coiled into a thick silken rope that hung over one shoulder. A jewel glittered between softly arching brows. The dusky skin was clear, with the faintest blush highlighting her cheekbones. Perfectly shaped lips curved into a wistful smile. He realized he was holding his breath.

The Indian lady of Preston Jones' sketch said in her soft, purring voice, “How may I apologize to you, Captain Vespa? My people have been unforgivably clumsy and foolish, and treated you brutally, but—alas—the responsibility is mine own. Are you feeling very ill?”

He felt sick and dizzy and his head was throbbing again, but the most annoying symptom was that he couldn't seem to recall why he was here. “I've felt better, certainly,” he said.

“No, no!” The rings on small, long-fingered hands sparkled and she pushed him back as he strove to sit up. “You must lie still or you will feel very much worse.” She spoke in her own language over her shoulder, and somebody hurried away.

Vespa tried to pull his wits together and take note of his surroundings. He must have been unconscious for some time, for lamps were lit in the room. And what a room it was. The tiled floors were spread with richly coloured rugs. Overhead, great billows of pink and purple satin swept from a gilded circular mirror in the centre of the ceiling and were caught up at the tops of the walls to create a tent-like atmosphere. Deep sofas and the chaise-longue on which he lay were magnificently carven, their scarlet velvet cushions trimmed with braided and tasselled gold. There were tall teakwood cabinets embellished with intricate paintings, and little mosaic-tiled tables were set about, atop one of which a miniature jade temple emitted pungent smoke that wreathed slowly into the warm air. In one corner a great golden many-armed statue soared majestically, a large ruby winking in the forehead, an expression of remote indifference on the gleamingly classic features.

He returned his gaze to the lady who sat beside him. She was turning away to accept a glass handed to her by a manservant, and in profile he thought her even more lovely. The man frowned and murmured something that annoyed. The result was startling. For just an instant her lovely mouth hardened, the corners pulling down, the soft lips curling back from bared teeth as she snapped a response. The man looked alarmed, and withdrew. The lady turned, her gentle smile restored, but Vespa had glimpsed what the artist had seen: the ruthlessness hidden beneath that beautiful exterior.

A servant came to assist him to a sitting position and prop him with cushions. The glass was offered, with the information that the contents would soon reduce the effect of the drug. He hesitated only momentarily. If she wanted information from him, there'd be no point in putting him to sleep again. The drink was thick and tasted of cinnamon, and after a few mouthfuls he set it aside. He felt steadier, and said firmly, “Now I want to know to whom I speak, and why I was attacked and brought here.”

“Of course, Captain Vespa,” her voice seemed to hold a caress. “Ah, but you are angry, and understandably so. I am Nilima Sutanati, but you may call me Mrs. Nilima. I desired only to speak with you, but my servants tell me you misunderstood and became violent. You will say that I could have called on you, but that is not possible.” She gave a forlorn little shrug. “I am a stranger here. My appearance causes great curiosity, especially among country people. I am stared at; sometimes laughed at. So I do not go out. You will understand? It is not—comfortable for me. And this is a most delicate matter. If I had written, it would have been not easy to explain.”

“This is not comfortable for
me,
” declared Vespa coldly. “I am not a wealthy man, and I cannot think what I have that would justify your taking the risk of being arrested for kidnapping.”

A wariness came into those velvety eyes. “I will explain, and you will comprehend.” She adjusted her sari, her hand drawing his eyes to the shapeliness of her breasts as she fingered the pearl necklet she wore. “My father,” she said slowly, “is a Maharajah. A very powerful man in my country. I am his favourite daughter, and he sent me to England to be educated. Always, however, from the time I was a young girl, even until today, I am to have my ayah—my chaperone—beside me. But, you see,” she smiled confidingly, blindingly, “I am no longer a young girl. I met a most charming English gentleman. He is not of great wealth, but he has travelled widely, and has many interests. He has a passion for the work of one particular artist, and he taught me to love this man's work also.”

‘Aha!' thought Vespa.

“One day,” Mrs. Nilima went on, “my friend and I slipped away from my ayah, and we came down to this part of your southland. We visited the great artist, and while my friend was admiring some paintings, I spoke to the artist secretly and ordered from him a snuff jar. He was reluctant, for he did not like very much to work in cloisonné, but he agreed. I was worried that the ayah might report my absence, as she was paid to do, and it came to me that if I ordered a suitable gift for my father also, his anger might be appeased.”

“I see. So you ordered a jar for your—er, friend, and—”

“And a fruit dish for my father. I told the artist to paint a landscape on the jar, and he said he would use a similar scene on the dish, which was a good size. But he demanded a great deal of money. Payment in advance, he said, because this work would prevent his taking any more commissions for a while.” She sighed, and said sadly, “You will think me a very silly lady. But I had little experience of the world.”

“Do you say this artist did not live up to the bargain?”

“I know he made the dish and the jar, but then the poor man died, and I never received either piece, nor was my money refunded. My father sent word he was coming to England and that he was most displeased because he had been told I had gone away—alone—with a man. You cannot know what a sin this is in my country, Captain! If he learns I was here in Dorset, so far from London, and alone with my friend, I shall be utterly disgraced, and no one will ever marry me.”

“Not even your friend?”

“My friend,” her eyes fell, “has betrayed me, and is wed to another lady.”

“Ah. But if you were to confess to your father that you came here only to buy a gift for him, surely—”

“Alas, I cannot prove that. I sent agents to the artist's family and they deny all knowledge of such a commission. My people made enquiries at the galleries that handled the man's work, and they do not know of it, either.”

“Dear me,” said Vespa politely. “I am very sorry, ma'am. But if the artist is dead, and your friend now married, how will your father know you were down here? You could surely bribe your ayah, and there is nothing to prove—”

“But there may be,” she interpolated, wringing her hands despairingly. “The artist, you see, was in the habit of sketching people who interested him. I am told he made just such a sketch of me. My ayah is terrified that if she lies to protect me, and my father learns of the existence of such a sketch, her very life would be in peril! And I promise you, in my country the life of a female servant does not count for much.”

“Hum. But, surely, Mrs. Nilima, the artist might have seen you anywhere, and would certainly remember such a lovely lady? You could tell your sire he must have caught a glimpse of you in London, for instance.”

“No, no! I thought of that, but it will not do. The artist hated towns. He never went to London, or indeed to any city. Which would mean he could only have seen me here. And the other servants
know
my ayah never was here!”

“I see. You're in rather a predicament. But how on earth can I be of assistance? I presume your artist is, or was, Mr. Preston Jones, who lived near my estate. Unfortunately, I know nothing of art.”

“But you've become interested in it, Captain, have you not?” She leant closer, half smiling. “No, do not tease me. I know you went to the gallery in Salisbury, looking at his works. And that you are acquainted with his family.”

He drew back and watched her, saying nothing.

“I have been honest with you,” she said. “Now, I beg you will be honest with me, Captain Vespa. My only hope is to find the pieces I ordered, and to ensure that there is no sketch of me in existence. I implore you— Help me!”

“My dear ma'am, the chances of my finding such articles are remote and—”

“Do not take me for a fool, Captain!” Her voice and eyes hardened. “Preston Jones did much of his work on your estate, as I very well know. He often used your house as his studio.”

“Even so, I have no right to his works, and anything I chanced to find would be at once turned over to Mr. Jones' family.”

“I see.” She sighed. “If I cannot appeal to your gallantry, then I am willing to pay, sir. Handsomely.”

“You have wasted your time, ma'am,” he said, standing. “I cannot help you.”

She was on her feet in a swift, supple movement, her dark eyes blazing at him. “You mean you
will
not! Why?”

“Good-day, ma'am.”

“You are not wealthy, this I also know.” She darted to intercept him as he turned towards the door. “I heard you have been denied the lady you once hoped to marry. Perhaps you've found another, eh? Five hundred pounds would buy a grand new bridal suite for your old house.”

Astonished by the offer of such a sum, he stared at her.

She laughed softly. “That changed your mind, did it not? Come now, Captain. I
know
a sketch of me exists! I
know
my jar was in your possession, but has now vanished! Why—”

“How could you know such things, unless—” His temper flared. “Good God! It was
your
men who broke into Alabaster and tried to murder Miss Jones!”

“Why would my people try to kill the silly girl?”

“For the same reason, perhaps, that they murdered her father! Did you really think to hoax me with that involved gibberish about your threatened dishonour and the Merciless Maharajah? You'd do better, ma'am, to tell me what you're really up to. I might be interested, if the stakes are high enough.”

She frowned at him for a long moment, then gestured with one slim hand and said softly, “What do you suppose I am up to, Captain?”