In front of her sister’s house, Marcus handed her out of the phaeton and kissed the back of her hand. Tavy tried not to squirm. She declined his escort to the door.
Lal met her with a relieved chirp and leaped onto her shoulder. His tail curled around her arm in a caressing gesture, soft clucking sounds in the back of his mouth. Tavy removed her bonnet and placed her reticule on the table.
Abha stood in the corridor.
“He was not content in your absence.” His comfortingly foreign rumble met her ears like warmth. Tavy missed hearing the music of Indian voices all about her. She missed the bazaar and the port overflowing with ships, and the heat, and her veranda. “You went away too soon after your return from the country. He did not understand.”
Tavy studied her longtime companion.
“Abha, how are you getting along in London?”
“Well, memsahib.”
“Really?”
He shrugged a heavy shoulder. “One city is like another.” He wore the same loose cotton trousers, shirt, and tunic that he always wore in Madras. His beard and the small hat topping his hairless head were as neat as ever. He looked perfectly at ease.
“Not really,” she said. “But you do not mind it here?”
“You do, memsahib.”
Tavy chewed on her thumbnail, then plucked it out of her mouth and went to the foyer table. Lady Constance’s calling card rested upon the silver tray.
“I enjoyed being in the country again,” she murmured for Abha’s benefit. Constance was back in town already, and calling upon her. If Lady Fitzwarren had seen something between Ben and her at Fellsbourne, then Constance must have as well. But if Constance cared for him in that way, she would not pursue their friendship in this manner.
“Abha, what do you know of the Marquess of Doreé?” She replaced the card on the salver. “I suspect you must know at least a bit more than everyone else in Madras, if not a great deal more. You always know everything.”
“Not everything. I do not know why you ask me about him.”
“Clever. Obviously I have just spent a week at his home, which—I note the extraordinary—shows absolutely no hint of India whatsoever.” Not even his bedchamber. “Extraordinary, you know, when every Englishman I have met in London who has spent two days upon the subcontinent practically wears turbans and smokes the hookah. Isn’t that a curiosity?”
Abha shrugged again. His usual taciturnity did not sit well with her now.
“You have not changed your clothes to look like one of the other servants here.”
“I am not an English lord.”
“He is a great deal more than an English lord, and you know it.” Her cheeks were wretchedly warm. “And there is a very good chance that you and I are amongst the few residents of London who understand to what extent.”
“Do you understand?” His deep-set eyes questioned. It was unusual for him, this man of few words and fewer queries.
“I spent the better part of seven years listening at knotholes and cracks in the walls of bazaar stalls to find out. I should think I do.”
His mouth curved into a grin.
Tavy chuckled. “You and Lady Fitzwarren are quite a lot alike.” Her mood sobered. “Now I must write a note. I need you to deliver it to the marquess’s house here in town. Please make certain that he receives it directly from your hands. If he has not yet returned to town, bring back the note and we will try again tomorrow.”
His brow drew down, but he said, “Yes, memsahib. I will make certain.”
“How do you like the new furnishings, Doreé? More lush than all those years ago when you came here as often as I.” Styles waved his whiskey glass in a gesture that took in the entire dimly lit drawing room of Hauterive’s. “Must be the elevated clientele these days. See over there the Duke of Avery, hoping to entice Abigail Carmichael into his bed. But she still has her cap set for you.”
Ben had no interest in these sadly debauched members of the beau monde. Not in their petites affaires du coeur, in any case. Styles surely kept the conversation light for his benefit.
But Ben had had enough of this brief trek into his sordid past. He hadn’t heard anything useful in hours of card play and drinking while Styles rambled on about the petty misbehaviors of his set. Nothing concerning Nathans or Crispin, and certainly nothing about that other matter he had kept in a corner of his mind over the past fortnight, the mystery Creighton had shown him.
“You’ve got that look like you are bored to death and past ready to leave,” Styles said.
“Have I? How bothersomely transparent I must be to you.”
“No, Ben, you are not your brother in that. I could always tell what Jack was thinking. Never made a fellow wonder.” Styles’s bright blue gaze met him fitfully. “But you don’t like a man to know what you have going on. Do you?”
“You have had far too much to drink, Walker.”
“Then tell me one of your secrets, Ben. Prove me wrong.”
“If I must engage in such childishness to soothe your spirits. Perhaps you will give me your thoughts upon the matter.”
Styles settled back in his chair.
Ben swiveled his brandy. “I purchased a ship recently from a Frenchman. A fine vessel, but with the most intriguing mystery attached.”
“What sort of mystery?”
“The sort stuffed into a corner of the planking.”
“Illegal goods?”
“Hair. A great deal of it.”
Styles’s brows rose. “Peculiar, rather than intriguing. Did you instruct your man to take it to market? Human hair takes an excellent price, of course.”
“And those are the thoughts I sought from you? You have indeed drunk too much. Which suggests it is far past time I am going.” Ben stood.
A heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder.
“Doreé, is that you?” The gentleman came around him, releasing his grip only to take Ben’s hand in a snug shake. “Is you, I’ll be. They said you used to carry membership here. Never thought I’d see it. Glad to come across you like this, though.” The man’s eyes were glassy, but then, Fletcher James’s eyes were nearly always glassy with some substance, at least in the past four years.
“Sir.” Ben bowed. “I am just now on my way out. If you will excuse me.”
“I’ll go with. Got something to say to you, don’t you know.”
The burly footman gave them their effects and they stepped into the rustling, whistling midnight of London’s hells. Music and light spilled from the gin house five doors down, the same to which Ben had fled the night after Lady Ashford’s party. It seemed much more than a fortnight ago, before he had held Octavia in his arms again.
“Need a ride?” James gestured toward a hackney coach.
“Thank you, no. My horse is stabled across the street.”
“But wait on there. Told you I’d something to say to you specifically.” The man swayed, but his florid face looked earnest.
“Say on, sir.”
He blinked hard. “S’not so easy now I’ve come to it, don’t you know. Makes a fellow downright uncomfortable t’admit he was wrong.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“Got the notion of it, don’t you?” His eyes narrowed. “Knew it was you that helped me out of the bind with that sharp three years ago.” He shook his head. “Should’ve thanked you then, but didn’t like the idea of it. Now I’ve got to.”