Chapter Five

They were sharing a postcoital dinner and conspiratorial winks. Susannah had managed to wriggle into a corset‑not the dangerous one‑and fasten her dress by herself. The candlelight hid her faint air of disarray, she hoped. Out by the back door before the servants returned and in by the front door when they were about the house, Carlyle was soberly dressed and impeccably groomed, the picture of upright manliness once more.

In more ways than one, she reflected, looking at him adoringly. He had not reached climax as she had, preferring to wait and putting her from him when she protested, saying with a laugh that there would be time enough for that. But he had let her explore his nakedness as much as she wished once she agreed not to arouse him too much, and she had taken her time about it, not knowing when she would have the chance to do so again.

He was attacking a chop at the moment. Something about the vigorous use of knife and fork told her that the physical frustration bothered him rather more than he would admit to her. Still, Susannah appreciated his self‑restraint. Was there ever a virgin who had felt so satisfied in the history of the world?

His suggestion‑that she wait and see which man she wanted‑was simply absurd. There was no other man. She only wanted him. Susannah wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

Carlyle was gnawing on the bone of his chop almost ferociously and looking at her with the same tenderness he had shown in bed. She half expected him to growl just to make her laugh‑and he did.

Susannah nodded to the maid, Molly, who brought in the next course, a puddinglike lump of something that could have originally been potatoes, perhaps mashed up with beets. It was dark red, blotched with brown. “Thank you. That looks delicious.”

Molly set the dish on the table and withdrew.

“It looks terrifying,” Carlyle said, poking it with a fork. The lump emitted a blast of steam. “English food is dreadful. Perhaps we should hire an Indian cook.”

“I would be happy to move back.”

“You cannot.”

She permitted herself a pout. “If you say so. But I might move somewhere else. Italy is warm.”

He took a bite of the puddinglike lump and made a face, putting down the fork. “Hmm. You seem to like countries that begin with I. What about Ireland? I believe that they do not treat potatoes as badly as this in that country.”

“Cold and damp.”

“Go to Ifrica, then. Or Istralia. Very warm, both of them. And there is always Imerica.”

“You are being very silly.” She laughed. “And I don’t want to go alone. Do keep in mind that we are not married.” Carlyle gave her a fond look, as if that fact made him happy. Beastly of him‑but he was still the beast she wanted.

He rose from his chair and tossed his napkin on the table. “I only wish to grant you the freedom you seem to want so much.”

“Bah. I want‑” she blushed‑“more of what you‑what we‑just did.”

Carlyle came around and put his hands on her shoulders, glancing through the open door to the hall to make sure they were quite alone before he slid his hands over her bosom. He caressed her breasts in a way that brought back every single sensation she had experienced in bed with him. “Do you now?”

“Yes.”

“Not tonight, my darling.” He bent to kiss the top of her head. “But soon. I don’t know when.”

She turned in her chair to look up at him. “That is not the answer I wish to hear.”

“The empress has spoken,” he said mockingly. “Well, you are in your domain. Remind me to pick up a few peacocks. You can give them orders.”

Susannah got up, wrapping her arms around his waist and standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the chin. “They would look good in Dr. Josephus’s garden.” She pulled him over to the window and he went with her without a trace of reluctance.

Holding each other in a loose embrace they looked down at the maze and the quince tree at its center, which had shed its blossoms and leafed out fully. A moving shadow beneath it made her draw in her breath. “Did you see that?” she said softly, drawing him back from the window. Carlyle only nodded. “We are being watched.”

He let go of her and moved to one side of the window, looking out without seeming to. “So we are.”

Susannah felt sick, her body tight with tension and‑she had to admit it‑a measure of fear.

He studied the shadowy garden and seemed to come to some conclusion. “He will not come out into the light. And there is not much of that in any case. I must deal with this now, Susannah. And the servants must not know.” He sighed. “It is a good thing your drainpipes are in excellent condition. Make sure that Mr. Patchen locks all the doors tonight.”

“He always does,” Susannah replied in a miserable whisper. “But the servants will remark upon your sudden absence.”

“Are you not an empress? Ignore them. And stay away from the windows.”

“Yes, of course.”

Carlyle waited a few moments more, and she watched his eyes follow the movements of a predator she could not see, drawing her own conclusions when Carlyle looked up through the window and in the direction of the garden’s back wall, shrouded in darkness. The man, whoever he was, had undoubtedly gone over it

Carlyle didn’t waste a minute. He lifted the window, put one long leg over the sill, grabbed the drainpipe, which clanked, and swung the rest of himself out.

It was three in the morning when he returned. Susannah had stayed in the same room, waving away Molly, who thought she had fallen asleep in the armchair. The English girl had been easy enough to get rid of, but not Lakshmi.

Lakshmi noticed the slight disarray of her mistress’s attire‑and more important, the agitated state Susannah was in. But Susannah had sent her away too.

“Never mind, Lakshmi. Please go.”

The Indian woman had obeyed, but with obvious reluctance.

Susannah eventually did fall asleep in the armchair and wakened with a little scream when she realized Carlyle was standing over her.

“Hush,” was all he said.

She looked at his face and gasped. “Oh‑what happened?”

His eye was black and a bloody scrape extended from his ear to the front of his chin.

“I became involved in a rather delicate negotiation. But in the end I prevailed.”

She rose and looked about for a handkerchief to soak and wash his face with. The cold cup of tea on the small table by the armchair would have to do for balm. “Who was he, Carlyle? What did he want?”

Carlyle shrugged. “A hired brute. His name is not important. He meant to frighten us.”

Susannah dipped the handkerchief in the tea and pressed it carefully to his face. Carlyle flinched. “He hurt you.”

“Indeed he did. And I hurt him back.”

She cleaned away the drying blood. The task was made more difficult by the short whiskers that roughened his jaw. “Why? You should have‑”

“Should have done what, Susannah? Notify the police?”

They would not understand the complicated matter of the gems. “No.” She inspected his skin, seeing for the first time the faint purple bruise underneath the blood. “But should you see a doctor?”

He shook his head, looking at her wearily before sinking into an armchair. “We must keep the gems in a safer place than this house. Do you know, I had thought of putting the corset into a safe deposit box at the bank, but I could not get Lakshmi to let it out of her keeping.”

“She has been so frightened, Carlyle.”

He sighed. “She has reason to be, now more than ever. But there may not be much time. Where are the rubies and sapphires?”

“In the toes of my evening shoes. I took them out to have Mr. De Sola appraise them, but it seemed like as good a hiding place as any so I put them back.”

“Females,” he said with irritation. “Why do all of you squirrel away valuable things inside your clothes?”

“Because God did not see fit to allow women to do our own banking,” she replied tartly. “A divine law to that effect is undoubtedly somewhere in the Bible, although I cannot cite chapter and verse at the moment.”

Carlyle laughed under his breath. It was obviously painful for him to do so.

She softened her tone a little. “Imagine the questions I would get if I asked my father’s banker for a safe deposit box. And do not forget that I had nothing to do with smuggling those damned stones in the first place.”

Susannah came over to his chair, saddened that the glow of their evening together had been obliterated. She put a hand upon his shoulder and he patted it. “We must not fight. I have had enough of that for one night. I nearly killed the fellow.”

“Why?” she said.

“He was in your garden. He confessed to following you.”

Susannah raised an eyebrow. “And what did you do to encourage that confession?”

“I punched him in the belly and he went down. But that was after he slammed me into a brick wall.” Carlyle rubbed his chin. “I shall not shave today.”

“Tsk. Surely nothing is worth that. The gems be damned. We should throw them in the Thames. We can live without them, surely, and so can Lakshmi. I suspect the carpet‑seller’s son would take her off our hands. I shall marry her off.”

“It seems to be de rigueur in Albion Square,” Carlyle said wryly.

Susannah looked down at him. “What happens now, my love?”

He didn’t answer right away. “What did you just say?”

“What happens now?”

He craned his neck rather stiffly to look up at her. “I de‑camp before the servants wake up. And then, my love, we shall see.”

The next night…

Carlyle had extracted the name of the fellow who had hired the brute before he dropped him on his head in a Soho alley, so chasing him down had been worth it. The brute had even been persuaded by a well‑placed kick to mumble a relevant address.

He raised the lion’s‑head knocker and let it fall. It sufficed to bring a doorman, who let him in with a silent nod when he said his name and went inside a room to the left to announce his arrival. Carlyle waited in the hall.

“Mr. Jameson.” The doorman returned and accompanied him to the room on the left. He withdrew as Carlyle entered.

He had no clue to the identity of the man sitting in front of the fire, other than his Indian name: Tagore. The high‑backed chair made it impossible for him to see the fellow.

“Good evening, Mr. Tagore,” he said.

The man rose slightly, hands on the padded arms of the chair, and looked over the back. He wore thick spectacles and his black hair was parted in the middle like a school‑boy’s. His face was almost cherubic‑except for the considerable intelligence that shone in his dark eyes. “Good evening, Mr. Jameson. Please sit down.”

Carlyle chose the matching chair and they sat side by side in clubby warmth. But there were no other members present. Considering what they were about to discuss, that was just as well. One did not talk casually of rubies and sapphires and diamonds without expecting every ear in the room to twitch inquisitively.

“I understand you and Jack had a bit of a scuffle last night. Oh‑” he peered at Carlyle’s bruised jaw and black eye‑“I hope you are healing nicely. How unfortunate. Jack is quite a one for fisticuffs and mayhem.”

“That was why you hired him,” Carlyle said.

“Of course. But you were more than a match for him,” Tagore said cheerfully. “Boxing is a wonderful sport, but I prefer cricket. More mud, less blood, you know.”

Carlyle was feeling rather worse than he had last night, when his injuries were fresh. “Mr. Tagore, if you could get to the point, I would appreciate it.”

“Of course, of course, of course. Let us begin at the beginning. We know that you and Miss Fowler came into possession of some very interesting gems, by means which may not have been entirely illegal, but nonetheless resulted in the removal of said gems from the vicinity of Rajasthan‑”

“The point,” Carlyle reminded him. “You must have one.”

“The maharajah wants them back.”

Carlyle suppressed a yawn. He was not trying to seem indifferent, but he was utterly exhausted and feeling rather like he had been run over by a horse and wagon. “I see. I mean, I think I do. Perhaps I should not admit to a thing.”

“Ha‑ha. You are making a joke and I appreciate it. We meet as friends. But our position is that none of them belong to you or Miss Fowler.”

“You are entitled to your opinion, Mr. Tagore.”

The other man hesitated and tried another tactic. “Produce them at once.”

Carlyle regarded him through his good eye. “I just might, if I had them.”

Tagore relaxed, but looked at him narrowly. “Are they on your person?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “If they are, I cannot take them from you. Be reasonable, Mr. Jameson. You of all people know what a maharajah can do. His sword is swift. His reach is long.”

“Then kill me,” Carlyle said wearily.

“A rash action. It is our feeling that the Queen’s ministers might take it amiss. Although you are replaceable. Another man will quickly take your place. We know every British secret agent in our country.”

“India is a thousand countries, Mr. Tagore,” Carlyle said. “And they seldom agree. We are keeping the peace as best we know how.”

Mr. Tagore scowled fiercely. “That is a subject that might be better left alone. But let us get back to the diamonds.”

“What about the rubies and sapphires?”

The other man waved dismissively. “Valuable as they are, the maharajah feels that it was fated for you and Miss Fowler to have them. In memory of her father, his dear friend, he has decided to give them to you as a wedding gift.”

Carlyle’s eyebrows shot up. “But we are not going to be married.”

“According to the palace astrologer, you are. Perhaps not soon, but it will be an auspicious coupling. The maharajah extends his congratulations. He says that a good wife is a joy.”

“He should know,” Carlyle muttered. “His eminence has quite a few of them, as replaceable as I am. Whatever happened to the favorite?”

“She lives now in the house of the maharajah’s auntie, who sees to it that she is unhappy. But being unhappy is better than being dead.”

“Perhaps it is the best that could be hoped for.” Carlyle sat up straight and his voice strengthened. “Then thank him for his kind thoughts regarding me and Miss Fowler. And thank him for his gift. Every new household should have an adequate supply of rubies and sapphires.”

Mr. Tagore laughed appreciatively. “I enjoy your sense of humor, Mr. Jameson. I forgot to mention that the maharajah says you may also keep Lakshmi.”

“In England she is a free woman.”

The other man only nodded. Carlyle rubbed his aching chin with a light hand, thinking over the offer. It was more or less what he’d expected. It had been only a matter of time before someone caught up with them, and now that it had happened, he felt an odd sense of relief.

Susannah had not empowered him to answer for her, of course, but he might as well. Mr. Tagore was right enough in saying that none of the gems belonged to her. The maharajah could have his gigantic diamonds back‑if the old fellow wanted to give them the lesser stones for old times’ sake, who was Carlyle to say no?

“Mr. Tagore,” he said at last. “Tell me what you think the rubies and sapphires are worth. We may not need so many.”

The Indian man calculated the sum in his head, then named it.

“That will do very well,” Carlyle said with a smile. “On behalf of Miss Fowler, I accept the maharajah’s gift.”

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 589