“Abha, you cannot come. India is your home.”
He halted and looked over his bulky shoulder. “As it is yours, memsahib.” He disappeared around the side of the house.
Lal landed on Tavy’s shoulder and pressed his tiny hand against her cheek.
“You smell of rosewater.” She stroked him beneath the chin. “You have been in our neighbor’s kitchen, after all.”
He clucked his tongue.
“Lal, will you come to London and stay with me when I become Lady Crispin?” Tavy’s gaze strayed to the wall between the garden and the neighboring villa. Vines twined around the gate, especially thick where they tangled about the rusted latch. Her heart beat hard and fast. “You see,” her voice dimmed to a whisper, “except for Abha, I will not know anybody else there.”
Chapter 2
To IMPRESS. Where no other adequate mode can be substituted, the law of imperious necessity must be complied with.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine
Cavendish Square
“I have no need to hear the details, Creighton.” Benjirou Doreé, Fifth Marquess of Doreé, set his elbow atop the broad mahogany desk, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose between a manicured thumb and forefinger. “Indeed, I would rather know nothing about it at all.” He looked up and lifted a single black brow. “As I have told you ten score times. No, I must correct myself. Twelve score. But perhaps your memory fails.” His smooth voice seemed unperturbed.
His secretary knew better than to trust in that tone. While the marquess remained deceptively calm, his black eyes saw everything and his mind never rested. It had been this way ever since Creighton came to work for him seven years ago. A man of Lord Doreé’s wealth and power had no other choice, even if he liked to pretend otherwise.
Of course, everyone knew of that wealth, but few in English society knew of the power. For the sake of the projects the marquess pursued, that was best.
“My lord,” Creighton murmured, “I would review the matter with Lord Ashford were he here. But he has not yet returned from France—”
“And damn him for it and leaving this to me.”
“Very good, sir.”
The marquess glanced at his secretary’s poker face. He had, after all, hired Creighton after a night of cards in which the fellow won a pony from a veritable sharp.
The tug of a grin loosened the knot in Ben’s jaw, but the tension in his shoulders persisted. He rolled his gaze to the massive, gilt-framed canvas across the chamber. Afternoon sunlight striped his study in lines of gold and shadow, like the great beast depicted in the painting. But the portrait of the tiger remained fully in the dark. As always.
“Have you already inspected this—” He glanced at the papers Creighton laid before him. “—Eastern Promise?”
“Partially. The master was off visiting his family, and the quartermaster wouldn’t allow us belowdecks.”
“You suspect they are hiding something. Faults in the hull, or cargo?”
“Either.” Creighton’s brow crinkled. “Or neither. The pratique-master gave it a clean pass.”
Ben flashed his secretary a look suggesting his opinion of the honesty of quarantine officials. “A man has no need to protect himself from prying eyes when he has nothing to hide, Creighton.”
“Quite so, my lord.” Creighton’s puddle-brown eyes glimmered and his narrow chest puffed out. Ben nearly rolled his eyes again. He should never pontificate; his secretary enjoyed it far too much. Devoted fool. Excellent employee.
“Sir, atop I did see some evidence of human—”
“Enough.” Ben took up his pen and scratched his signature onto a bank check. He pushed it across the desk and stood. “Take Sully with you.” Creighton was a tough man of business, but the former dockworker and his crew of miscreants who served Ben’s interests in other capacities were tough in quite another manner. “Allow the quartermaster no more than thirty minutes to clear out his crew and their personal effects.”
“But, sir, don’t you wish to see the vessel for your—”
“No.” Ben’s voice was unyielding. “If you find illegal goods aboard her, incinerate them. If she proves unseaworthy, scrap her for materials and find another vessel to serve our current needs.” He gazed steadily at his secretary. “Now, Creighton, leave before I become inordinately displeased that you have disturbed my leisure in this manner again.”
One corner of Creighton’s mouth quivered, but nothing more. Wise man.
“Right, my lord.” Creighton pulled an envelope from the collection of papers in his satchel. “This arrived at the office today.”
Ben barely glanced at the sealed missive before slipping it into his waistcoat pocket. He picked up the sword he’d set upon the table when he entered his study, hands perfectly steady despite the familiar uneven rhythm of his heart.
Every three months like clockwork such a letter arrived, brought across half the world along the fastest routes. A punishment he willingly self-inflicted, it was the sole remnant of the single reckless moment of his life. A moment in which he had lived entirely for himself.
Gripping the hilt of the épeé, he strode through his house. A liveried footman opened a door into a broad, high-ceilinged chamber.
“Bothersome business matters. My apologies, Styles.” He drew on his fencing glove.
The gentleman standing by the rack of glittering swords chuckled, a sound of open camaraderie.
“I wish I had that particular bother.” He took a weapon from the collection. “How much did you net this quarter, Doreé? Ten thousand? Fifteen?”
“You know I never concern myself with that.”
“You merely live lavishly on the proceeds.” Styles gestured to the elegant fencing chamber Ben had converted the ballroom into after he succeeded to the title six and a half years earlier and had the whole house gutted. His father had been enamored of India, and his town residence reflected that. Just as his third son did, in his very person.
The opulent style had not suited Ben.
“Just so,” he murmured.
“Come now, give over,” Styles cajoled. “We have been friends far too long for you to continue denying your extraordinary influence at India House. And I think it’s about more than all those manufactories and plantations and whatnot you own over there. Your family connections give you an unfair advantage over the rest of us struggling traders, don’t they?”
Not the advantage any of them imagined.
“I am a mere proprietor in the East India Company, just as you. No particular advantage to speak of.” Ben studied his former schoolmate from behind lowered lids. Walker Styles came from an old Suffolk family ennobled in the era of Queen Elizabeth. His aristocratic pallor, blue eyes, and narrow, elegant frame were proof of it. The latter also happened to make him a devilishly fine fencing partner. And his sharp competitive edge kept Ben on his toes.
Ben swiped his blade through the air.
The baron cocked a brow beneath an artfully arranged thatch of straw-colored hair. “Are you certain you don’t thoroughly control those fellows over at Leadenhall Street, despite your lack of apparent involvement?”
“Good God, quite certain,” Ben lied as smoothly as he had been taught as a boy. “There are those at Whitehall and Westminster who would be horrified at the mere suggestion of such a thing.”