He gave her what she wished. His gaze did not alter, unreadable in the candlelight, and he did not speak.
Now she must make a choice, disentangle herself from his web of silences or remain within it indefinitely. Her head argued one side of the debate, her body the other. Her heart, that obstreperous organ, clearly believed it could hover in both camps.
Dropping her gaze, she went past him and across the chamber. She paused at the door, her knuckles white around the frame, and ducked her head. “This is your reminder.”
“What reminder?” His voice sounded tight.
“You told me once to remind you to ask me for a warning. A warning when I would let you win.” She looked over her shoulder. “The next time, Ben, I think you will win.”
“I do not wish to win against you, Octavia.”
“I don’t know that you have any choice in the matter now.” She left.
Ben stared at the empty doorway. He seemed to be fated now to watch her leave him, to see her walk away without giving him what he wanted most. The flavor of her lips upon his tongue worked like whiskey in his senses, dizzying him. He needed her, had come here tonight to know the truth, and yet he would leave again less satisfied than ever. Less certain.
She was still betrothed to Crispin. Still harboring secrets. Or ammunition?
He could not believe it of her. Nothing gave evidence of that except the battering weight of betrayal swirling through him now. Honesty came through her kiss and the touch of her hands, so foreign to him. More foreign than anything else he had known, and more so now.
He bent his head and passed his palm over his eyes. On the table beside him a heavy book lay open, its pages marked with pen along the margins.
Ben recognized the marine dictionary. He’d read it as a boy, and Creighton kept a copy of Falconer’s book in the office at Blackwall. The hand in the margins was Octavia’s, the same as the single line of script she had sent him days ago, neat and clean with a playful flare to the capitals. Her notes seemed scattered, some lengthier, most impressionistic, place names and brief descriptions of sites and people, sometimes quoted phrases.
Despite all, he smiled. It did not surprise him in the least that Octavia used this book in this manner. When he first met her she had been a girl full of life and freedom. Now she was more subdued, but that spark of vivant still lit her warm eyes.
His fingers pressed back the journal clippings tucked in the crease to follow a note twining like a vine down the center of the page, then he halted. His name stared up at him.
He drew the three, yellowed scraps out, each from The Times.
The first clipping was painfully familiar. Only four days ago in his office he had read again his brother and father’s obituary, alongside the notice of his own preferment to the title. The second was a snippet of a gossip column mentioning the completed renovations of his Cavendish Square house, and musing on when he would finally make his Scottish fiancée its mistress. The third, dated more than three years later, was an article from the Board of the Admiralty listing ship owners operating out of the Port of London, followed by a catalogue of vessels, highlighting one of his own as a particularly excellent example of mercantile craftsmanship.
Ben laid the clippings on the book and worked to draw air into his lungs. She had followed news of him more than three years after he left India. Three years.
His gaze shifted to the door again, and the hot, insistent certitude that she had spoken only truth washed up and against him, then through him—despite her betrothal, despite his fears—like a monsoon wind.
He moved across the chamber into the foyer and stood paralyzed at the base of the stairs, staring at the landing above. He could go after her. But he did not know if he would be able to discern the truth if he heard it now.
His hands fisted. When he had not found Octavia at home earlier, he went to see Ashford, to ask advice of the only person who might give him good counsel concerning Styles. But Steven was still abroad and Ben hadn’t time to wait for him to return from Paris. He must confront Styles now. Then he would be free of this ache of doubt. And of obstructions.
Nearly free.
A presence stirred in the foyer behind him. He turned and met Abha’s heavy gaze.
“I will ruin Crispin.”
Abha smiled.
Chapter 19
DEAD-WIND. The wind right against the ship, or that blowing from the very point to which she wants to go.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine
Crispin could not be found. The doors of India House had closed for the day, and the baron was not at his club or his flat. Nor was Styles, but Ben knew where to find his old friend tonight. He rode home, scribbled a note to his secretary, and sent it off with Samuel.
His valet met his demand for formal attire with enthusiasm.
“Which pin would you prefer, my lord?” Singh stood with his hand poised eagerly over the dressing case as Ben folded his starched cravat into a simple arrangement. “The blue diamond, perhaps? Or the ruby crescent?” Singh’s turban sported a tiny emerald, his loose cotton shirt fastened with freshwater pearl buttons. Ben suspected his valet spent a great deal more time with his jewels than he did.
He did not fault him for it. Old sailors loved swag, and Ben trusted Singh as he trusted Creighton, Samuel, and all his employees. A great deal more than he trusted his peers.
“The fire opal,” he replied.
Singh produced an octagonal cut jewel the size of the flat of his callused thumb, of brilliant apricot shot through with golden strands, and affixed it within the fall of Ben’s cravat. In the mirror, Ben stared at the jewel he had bought from a Mughal prince just before leaving India seven long years ago. Cut for a queen nine centuries earlier, the gem was precisely the shade of Octavia’s hair.
“Off to Lord and Lady Savege’s ball tonight, my lord?”
Ben nodded and headed toward the door.
“My lord?”
Ben paused.
Singh placed his palms together and bowed at the waist. “May the blessings of the universal god be upon you.”
Ben lifted a brow. “Thank you, Singh. Any particular reason why today?” He could certainly use blessings at this point. His muscles were clenched, his stomach tight as though he anticipated a fencing match or horse race. Styles would be at the Saveges’ fête.
“Upon this day five years ago, sir, you took me from that fearful galley and gave me freedom.” The former slave bowed deep again and did not rise. “I am most grateful.”
Ben stared at the top of his valet’s linen-wrapped head, at Singh’s hands rough and dark as earth. Something in him unwound. Across the chamber in the glass, a reflection of the shimmering jewel in his cravat winked.
“You are quite welcome, Singh.” He turned and went from his house.
The Earl and Countess of Savege’s home was not far. Head full, Ben walked the distance without knowing the direction he took or the time elapsed. His hostess met him in the foyer.
“Lord Doreé, what a great pleasure to see you.” She offered him a broad, generous-mouthed grin, her eyes sparkling as though she meant her welcome. It worked into Ben’s fraught senses like Singh’s words, with insidiously warm, familiar fingers.
The countess leaned toward him, grasping his hand as she had on that night five years earlier when she accosted him in an alleyway, seeking the truth as Ben did now. Then, he had known so little of himself.
He feared he still knew little. His world seemed to be turning around him, spinning more swiftly with each moment and each partially answered question. For years he had sought to trap the past behind him, locking its pain and turmoil behind bars. A quiet soul by nature, he had never sought the unrest his uncle thrust upon him, nor the hazards. Now they reached out to him, telling him they were his lot and he would be content with them. Not only content, but justified. Complete. Happy. If he could but understand whom to claim as allies, whom as foes.