The Sandalwood Princess E-Book

Loretta Chase

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 354

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1991

Beschreibung

Winner of the RITA Award for Best Regency"Live the Romance. Read Loretta Chase." –Christina DoddA charming, traditional Regency romance from New York Times bestselling author, Loretta Chase!Capable, clever Amanda Cavencourt is retuning to England, from exotic India, where she has been managing her brother's household. With her, she brings a treasured memento -- a beautiful statue, carved in sandalwood -- a gift from her friend, a noted Indian princess. When the statue is snatched from her, Amanda is determined to recover it, and discover why the culprit, a dashing, notorious rogue known only as the Falcon, who is renowned for his dangerous skills in political intrigue, would want such an object. Amanda vows to steal the statue back-- but she may end up stealing the Falcon's heart instead! Or maybe it's her heart that's about to be stolen...

Leseprobe

THE SANDALWOOD PRINCESS

LORETTA CHASE

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Sandalwood Princess

Copyright © 2009 by Loretta Chekani

ISBN: 9781617508561

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

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http://www.nyliterary.com

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Also by Loretta Chase

About the Author

To my husband, Walter

PROLOGUE

1811

Though the house Hemu had so nervously entered was finer than any he could aspire to, it seemed at first far too modest for the powerful woman who dwelt here. Yet perhaps her secluded abode did suit the Rani Simhi. She was the princess of secrets. Even her true name was no longer spoken. The great Lioness, the most dangerous woman in all India, might live precisely where and as she chose. So her humble messenger Hemu meditated as he stood, head bowed, patiently awaiting her pleasure.

Moments passed. The fan her large manservant held swayed languorously over her head, and the smoke of her hookah curled and shuddered in the lazy current.

At last she spoke. “You bring me news, Hemu.”

“Yes, princess.”

She gestured to him to speak.

“My master but two days ago composed a letter to his friend in England,” Hemu said. “My master expressed his sorrow that the friend’s wife is no more.”

The rani raised her index finger a fraction of an inch. Instantly, every servant vanished from the room, except for the great, hulking man who continued dragging the fan back and forth in the heavy air.

“Is it the name I gave you?” she asked Hemu.

He produced a piece of paper on which he’d painstakingly copied the English letters: Hedgrave.

The princess glanced at the paper, then up at her servant. “This is an intelligent man, Padji,” she said. “We will give him five hundred rupees.”

Hemu’s jaw dropped.

“You see the advantages of literacy,” she told the messenger. “You are a rich man now. I advise you to leave your master.”

As she spoke, the fan stopped moving. Padji drew out a bag of coins and gave it to the stunned Hemu.

Hemu left, showering hysterical blessings upon the wise and generous rani whose life, he prayed, would continue a thousand years. When his footsteps died away, the rani rose.

“Padji,” she said, “we go to Calcutta.”

1814

In England, in the richly furnished study of Hedgrave House, the Marquess of Hedgrave trembled with fury. “It is incomprehensible to me,” he raged. “At last the she-devil comes out of hiding, and you tell me we can’t touch her.”

“Politically, her timing was perfect, as usual,” Lord Danbridge answered. “Ranjit Singh is bound to capitulate, sooner or later, and he’s not above selling his supposed allies. She had sense enough to move before he did. She knew Bengal would be a deal safer than the Punjab for her, especially with the Company’s protection. Rightly so, I must say. Whatever you think of her, the Rani Simhi’s invaluable. The Ministry could do with a few more minds like that. Why, her spies—”

“I know. The whole damned subcontinent’s infested with them.” Lord Hedgrave stood up and stalked to the fireplace. Glaring into the flames, he said, half to himself, “I had them offer her twenty-five thousand. It’s mine, curse her, but I was willing to pay. I might have known that wouldn’t work. She knew who wanted it. Who else knows she’s got it but the man she stole it from?”

Hedgrave had always had a bee in his bonnet about the Indian woman, his friend thought. In the years since Lady Hedgrave’s death, however, the thing had grown into an obsession. Masking his concern, Lord Danbridge said gently, “Maybe she hasn’t got it any longer. It’s been a long time.”

“Then what’s she hiding?” his host snapped. “You sent the news yourself. Six different agents assigned. Three now incapacitated, two mysteriously vanished, one dead.”

“India can be a dangerous place.”

“Precisely.” Lord Hedgrave turned back to his guest “That is why I want you to contact the Falcon.”

As Danbridge opened his mouth to protest, the marquess shook his head. “I know what you’re going to say, Danbridge. Don’t waste your breath. I happen to know he’s working for us.”

“I merely wished to point out that this is not the sort of enterprise he’s accustomed to undertake.”

“He’ll undertake anything, provided the reward is high enough. You may offer him fifty thousand pounds—in addition, of course, to expenses. He’ll get his money as soon as he puts the object into my hands.”

“Here?” Danbridge asked incredulously. “You want him to come to England?”

“Into my hands. We’re a long way from Calcutta, and the woman’s fiendishly clever. Too much could go wrong along the way. I won’t have him passing it on to anyone. He is to get it—I don’t care how—and put it into my hands,” he repeated, as though it were an incantation. His blue eyes glittered with an odd light.

Lord Danbridge looked away uneasily as he considered his friend’s demand. Certainly, Hedgrave had, when required, moved mountains. Dealing with India—which was to say, the East India Company—was generally a case of moving mountains: Board of Control, Secret Committee, Directors, Council, Governor-General, and General Secretariat, not to mention Parliament itself. A lot of stubborn men, precious few of whom truly considered the well-being of the vast subcontinent England now reluctantly managed, thanks to Clive and Wellesley and their ilk.

Except in this one disturbing matter, Hedgrave at least acted disinterestedly. He was one of the few who truly grasped the difficulties of overseeing India’s internal affairs and strove to accommodate the contradictory demands of the British and the many differing cultures of India.

Considering Hedgrave’s unstinting political labours, one could hardly begrudge him a favour in return.

The Indian woman had apparently stolen from him an object of considerable value. Now that she was out of hiding, Hedgrave wanted it back. Given the previous failures, the Falcon was their only hope. In any case, he was the only man Danbridge could rely on not to get killed in the attempt.

Lord Danbridge met the feverish blue gaze. I’ll contact him,” he said, “but it will take some time.”

“I’ve waited thirty years,” was the taut answer. “I can wait a little longer.”

CHAPTER1

1816

There were worse places to live in Calcutta, and better. Here in the crowded quarter, as elsewhere, the streets flooded in the monsoon season and the price of a palanquin soared in consequence. Fever, too, struck here, just as it did in the great palaces of Garden Reach and in the meanest slums.

The place stank, as all Calcutta stank. Indoors, the odour of ghee blended sickeningly with the reek of bug flies. Out of doors, the stench of death overpowered even that of animals and refuse, as the smoke of funeral pyres on the Hooghly riverbank thickened the broiling atmosphere. Incense only added to the miasma. In the near one-hundred-degree heat of midday, the noisome compound curdled and churned like some foul sorcerer’s brew. All the perfumes of Arabia would not sweeten this place and make it fresh again, had it ever been.

All of India was not like Calcutta, Philip knew. Places existed where the breezes blew sweet and pure. He had long since learned, however, to close his senses to what could not be mended or amended. Fifteen years in India had taught him, if not an Oriental patience, then a sufficient Occidental stoicism. The climate, the stench, were beyond his control. Thus he simply accepted them. As to the neighbourhood—admittedly, one might have lived more luxuriously, but then, not so anonymously.

His rented stucco cottage suited his current role as a hookah merchant. In this busy quarter, his comings and goings aroused little interest. His command of the language was flawless, as was his grasp of etiquette. The fierce Indian sun had darkened his complexion, and an application of nut oil did the same for his fair hair. Even the blue of his eyes did not betray him. Eurasians were scarcely rare in this place.

Calcutta’s founder, an Englishman named Job Charnock, had married a Brahmin lady. Like Job, the British who came in earlier times mingled freely with the natives. One found their progeny not only throughout the subcontinent, but at Eton and Oxford as well.

Thus Philip Astonley, youngest son of the Viscount Felkoner—blue-blooded and unequivocally British—easily passed in India as a mongrel. This was no great transformation, in Philip’s opinion. In the process of ejecting his youngest son from the family, his lordship had called the eighteen-year-old an ungrateful cur. Philip perceived small difference between Nameless and Anonymous. In any case, if he ceased at present to be anonymous, he would very likely cease to live.

The thought was not an idle one. As he turned the corner into the narrow street, his finely tuned instincts stirred in warning. The street was deserted, as it usually was in the sweltering afternoon, when most of Calcutta slept. Yet he’d caught a movement, a glancing shadow at the opposite end of the street. His steps quickened.

He had the house key in his hand when he reached the door. Before he opened it, Philip glanced about once more. The street lay empty and still. In the next instant, he’d slipped through the door and locked it behind him. The small house, shuttered against the glaring sun, was dark, but not altogether quiet. From the room beyond came a strangled moan. Silence. Then another moan, higher pitched.

Philip drew out his knife and crept noiselessly to the bedroom. A wail of agony tore through the stillness, and he saw a man on the floor beside the bed jerk convulsively. Muttering an oath, Philip hurried forward, and dropped to his knees beside his servant’s knotted body.

His face was hot and soaked with sweat, his pulse frenetic. As soon as Philip touched him, Jessup jerked spasmodically and began to babble. The words, half English and half Hindustani, spilled in a steady, chattering stream, punctuated by strangled cries of anguish. It looked like fever, but it wasn’t.

“Damn you,” Philip growled. “Don’t you die on me, soldier.”

Grasping the servant under the shoulders, Philip hauled him onto the bed. The body twisted and trembled, then knotted up once more in pain. The hysterical litany—of scorpions, cobras, bits of the Book of Common Prayer, fragments of battles, women’s names, oaths—was broken by choked wails of agony.

The poison evidently acted slowly, bringing hallucinations as well as pain. Without knowing exactly what sort of poison, Philip dared give his servant nothing, not even water.

He squeezed Jessup’s hand. “I’ll have to leave you for a minute, old man,” he whispered. “I’m going for help. Just hang on, will you? Just hang on.”

The old woman Philip sought lived across the way. Silently praying she’d be home, he threw open the door.

He found her waiting on his doorstep.

He was not altogether surprised. The aged Sharda was the local midwife and doctor. She could probably smell illness and death.

“My servant, mother—” he began.

“I know,” she said. “You have great trouble, Dilip sahib.”

Sabib? Though Philip bowed his head respectfully as she entered, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Jasu—” he began again.

She gestured him to be silent. “I know,” she said.

In the room beyond, Jessup screamed, then subsided again into demented babbling. The latter was worse than the screams. Philip gritted his teeth. It was all he could do to keep from dragging the old woman to the sickbed. She had her own ways, however.

He felt her gaze upon him.

“I will go to him,” she said. “Have patience.”

She studied the small space which served as kitchen, living room, and dining room. A plate of pastries sat upon the table. She took one, broke it in half, stared at the fruit center, then sniffed it.

“Figs, you see,” she said, pointing to the dark paste. To add another sort of seed is not difficult, and the flour, I think, was tainted. He has terrible visions?”

“Yes,” Philip said tightly, “and pain. Yet I hesitated to give him anything.”

“Opium we can give him for the pain,” she said. “The other must run its course, I fear.”

Her examination confirmed the preliminary diagnosis. Accordingly, she measured out a dose of the laudanum Philip handed her. After what seemed an eternity, Jessup began to quiet somewhat. He still babbled, but more like a drunken man, and the spasms and strangled cries ceased. Perhaps he would sleep, Sharda told Philip. At any rate, the servant would not die, though he may wish it. His recovery would be very long and very painful.

“A fiendish mixture it is, to bring both madness and maddening pain,” Sharda said as they left the sickroom, “and no relief of death. But it was not meant to kill him.” She patted his arm in a sad, kindly way. “Only to cause great suffering, so that you would heed the warning.”

He had known, hadn’t he? He’d felt it as he’d entered the street, and seen it in the vanishing shadow.

While the old woman was examining Jessup, Philip had put on water to boil. Now he courteously offered tea, and made himself wait until she was ready to enlighten him.

She sipped and nodded her approval. Then she looked at him.

“A little while before, a man brought me a message,” she said. “I must tell the blue-eyed merchant he is known, as is his intention. And so, he will die if he does not depart Calcutta before another day passes.”

Not only known, but his mission known as well. Gad, the woman was incredible. “And this, I take it,” Philip said calmly, nodding towards the sickroom, “is what I might expect?”

“You know of whom we speak. Your death will come slowly, only after many times Jasu’s sufferings. Go away, as you are told, and live.”

Philip Astonley was not a reckless man. He never underestimated his adversaries. If the Rani Simhi said she’d kill him, she’d do it, and, naturally, in the ghastliest way her evil imagination could devise. He’d known she’d penetrate his disguise sooner or later. He had not, however, dreamt this would occur quite so soon. What had it been? Less than forty-eight hours. Still, he should have been prepared. It was his fault Jessup lay in the room beyond, mad with pain and hallucination.

He met Sharda’s anxious gaze. “I will heed the warning,” he said.

Minutes after, her grandson, Hari, set off with a message to Fort William. Two hours later, Hari returned with the Honourable Randall Groves. A trio of servants and a pair of palanquins followed them.

Every window and door in the street promptly filled with curious onlookers. This was perfectly satisfactory. The rani would speedily receive word the merchant was departing.

Philip was already packed when Groves entered, looking exceedingly put out. He grew even more put out when Philip led him into his own room and quietly explained what was expected of him.

“Confound it,” Randall snapped. “This is your specialty, ain’t it? How the devil do you expect me—”

“However you can,” Philip said. “Bribe, lie—I don’t care. The Evelina is scheduled to sail tomorrow, and Jessup and I have to be on board.” He thrust a packet of papers into Randall’s hands. “Don’t use them unless you have to. I’d rather not bring his lordship into this, and he’d rather I didn’t as well, for obvious reasons.”

“Philip, the ship’s loaded to the limit, and Blayton don’t even want the passengers he’s got. The Bullerhams, Cavencourt’s sister, Monty Larchmere, and all their servants. You expect me to throw a couple of ‘em overboard?”

“If you must I’d talk to Monty first. He’s a greedy devil. For a hefty bribe, he’ll probably agree to wait through the monsoon season for another ship.” While he spoke, Philip was winding a turban about his head.

Randall stared at the turban a moment. Then a horrified understanding widened his eyes. “Good grief,” he said. “That’s why you sent for me. You’re still meaning to do it, ain’t you? For God’s sake, Philip, the curst woman knows who you are!”

“Exactly. As I so carefully explained, she means to kill me if I’m not gone by tomorrow, so I’d better work fast, hadn’t I?”

Philip slipped his knife into its sheath and fastened it to the sash he wore under his long muslin kurta. With the loose shirt he wore muslin trousers. For the evening’s endeavour, these would be less encumbering than the dhoti’s complicated draping. His toilette complete, Philip returned his attention to the now grim Randall.

“Don’t mope, Randy,” he said. “I don’t plan to get killed. The lady wants me gone, and I will oblige her. But I’m damned if I’m leaving without it. I’ve never failed yet, and a man must consider his reputation.”

“You’re mad,” said Randall.

The blue eyes flashed. “Have a glance in the other room, my lad,” Philip said in a low voice. “Have a look at what the witch’s done to Jessup. I can’t pay her back as I’d like, because the curst female’s too precious to our superiors. But I’ll repay her as I can, that I swear.”

The Rani Simhi resided in a vast mansion on the banks of the Hooghly at Garden Reach. Though the English had built these Pauadian palaces exclusively for themselves, the Indian princess was an exceptional case. The Governor-General, Lord Moira, had personally overseen the previous resident’s eviction, in order to provide the enigmatic Indian woman a domicile befitting both her status and her usefulness to His Majesty’s government.

This night, she celebrated her fifty-fifth birthday. The palace was packed with guests both British and Indian. She appeared briefly, to receive the company’s good wishes, then, according to her custom, retired to her private rooms. Though in so many ways unlike other native women, she chose to imitate them in leaving the responsibilities of hosting to her sons.

Since the party was held in her honour, she might have lingered if she chose. This night, however, she had one visitor whose company she wished to enjoy privately. So she explained to Amanda Cavencourt when the latter voiced regret about keeping the princess from her guests.

“You leave tomorrow for England,” said the rani. “We may never meet again. Besides, they are all idiots, and tiresome.” She made a slight gesture with her hand, and a large, jewel-encrusted hookah was brought forward.

“Your brother, for instance,” she went on, as she examined the mouthpiece. “Generally not a stupid man, but he has married foolishly an ignorant woman. If she were not so ignorant, she would love you. Instead, she hates you, and drives you away. I detest her.”

“Two women cannot rule one house,” Amanda said calmly. “My presence is a constant irritant. Or perhaps embarrassment is more like it. My ways aren’t hers and never will be, so there’s always friction. You understand,” she added.

The rani studied the silken-clad woman who sat cross-legged opposite her. “I understand she would fly into a rage, could she see you now. I am told she considers the sari indecent.”

Amanda grinned as she took up her mouthpiece. “She’d certainly drop into five fits if she saw me smoking this.” She gave a defiant shrug, and drew on the hookah with practised ease.

She knew her erratic attention to deportment merely aggravated her sister-in-law’s dislike. In time, Eustacia might have nagged her wayward relation into more acceptable behaviour. Unfortunately, no lessons, no reminders, however regular, could change Amanda’s appearance.

Her light complexion resembled too closely the mellow ivory lightness of the natives of the northern Ganges. Glossy dark brown hair, rippling in duck waves, framed the oval of her face. Thick black lashes fringed large eyes of a peculiarly light, changeable brown. The bones of her countenance strongly defined, the nose straight and well-modeled, the mouth wide and overfull, Amanda’s face was far too exotic for European beauty. More mortifying to Lady Cavencourt, both Europeans and natives regularly mistook Amanda for an Indian.

“I comprehend well enough,” the older woman answered, “but I object. We will speak no more of her. She is tiresome. I have a story for you, much more interesting than your foolish new sister.”

Nothing could be so pleasurable as this, Amanda thought. How she would miss the sultry Calcutta evenings spent with the fascinating princess... the languorous clouds of smoke and incense that filled the room with shifting spirit-shadows ... the rani’s clear voice, smooth as a running river, coiling through the twists and turns of ancient legends. Amanda forced back the tears filling her eyes.

The rani smoked silently for a moment. Then she raised a finger. All the servants scurried from the room, save the large Padji, who stood still as a statue by the door. When the rest were gone, she began:

“Tonight, I tell you of the goddess Anumati, she from whom the childless women of my native kingdom besought sons and daughters. When she answered their prayers, the women would bring her gifts, as rich as their means permitted. But whether rich or poor, the new mother must always bring as well a carved figure.”

From the cushion beside her, the rani picked up a small wooden statue. Amanda had seen it before. Normally it stood upon a shelf, along with other statues and talismans in the rani’s vast collection. It was about ten inches tall, a beautifully carved sandalwood figure of a smiling woman whose belly was swollen with child.

“Many lifetimes ago,” the rani continued, “such figures filled Anumati’s temple, and precious stones adorned her magnificent statue. In her forehead was set a large ruby, and in her right hand an immense pearl in the shape of a tear. These were the gifts of a prince and princess of ancient times. The ruby, from the prince, symbolized the blood of new life: the son Anumati had given the previously childless couple. The pearl, his wife’s gift, represented the tears of happiness she’d shed at her son’s birth. This stone, more rare than even the ruby, was called the Tear of Joy.”

By the doorway, Padji shifted slightly, and threw his mistress a glance. Her eyes upon the statue, the rani went on.

“Many lifetimes later, marauders came and ransacked the rich temple. The chief of them must have the greatest jewels, of course. With difficulty, he removed the ruby. The pearl, however, was more deeply set. To get at it, he must break the hand from the statue. He beat upon it with an altar stone and at last the arm began to crack. At that same moment came a great rumbling. The temple walls shuddered and the ground beneath trembled. His terrified companions fled, some dropping their loot in their haste. He remained, still struggling for the pearl. Just as he broke the hand away, the temple roof collapsed.”

“Anumati was very angry,” Amanda murmured. “I don’t blame her.”

“Her revenge was greater than that. Mere hours after the temple’s collapse, several of the marauders returned. The new leader, as greedy as his predecessor, determined to have the two great stones. They dug through the rubble— a tremendous task—and at last, by the next day, found the chief’s crushed body. The ruby lay in his hand. The pearl was gone.”

She looked at Amanda. “What do you make of that?”

The logical explanation is that the pearl was crushed to powder,” Amanda said thoughtfully. “Yet Anumati’s worshippers would probably conclude she took away her treasure because, instead of Life and Love, death and destruction filled her temple.”

The princess nodded. “It was said Anumati had abandoned the defiled place and taken all joy with her. The temple grounds were considered accursed. My people followed the advice of their priests, and did not attempt to restore either the temple or their ravaged town. Instead, they built new houses a safe distance away.”

Gently she stroked the figure’s forehead. After a moment she said, “Now I come to my own lifetime.”

From the doorway came a long, drawn-out sigh. The princess affected not to hear it

“I was many years a younger woman than you when a Punjab prince conquered my father’s kingdom,” she said. “When this conqueror investigated his new domain, he made two discoveries. One was myself. To strengthen his political position, he took me as his wife. He also discovered the temple ruins. His greed being far greater than his fear of curses, he ordered the temple excavated. Thus he unearthed all the treasure the robbers had left behind in their terror. Also, he found the skull of the chieftain, and within it”—she paused briefly—”the Tear of Joy.”

Amanda stifled a gasp. “In the skull?” she asked incredulously. “How did it get there?”

The rani shrugged. “Who knows? There it lay, undamaged after nearly a century. My husband gave it to me, before all the town. He was a pig, but politic. Before them, he gave it to me. In private, he took it back—for safekeeping, he said. He permitted me to keep a few baubles, and this figure, the only one which had not been destroyed in the temple’s collapse. I was not pleased,” she added with a faint smile.

There came a loud sniff from the doorway.

“What ails you, Padji?” the princess asked.

“Nothing, mistress.”

“Then be silent.” She turned back to Amanda. “Once and only once in my life have I loved,” the rani said. “I speak not of ordinary love, which I have possessed in abundance. I speak of a great, all-consuming love, such as most persons merely read of or see performed in drama, but never experience in their lives. In your legends, it is the love of Tristan and Isolde. In mine, it is that of Krishna and Radha.”

After a moment’s consideration, Amanda said softly, “You mean sinful love, I think.” She blushed as she spoke, not for any missish reason, but because to speak of sin to the rani was... oh, absurd, really. Her morality was not defined by the Church of England or English society.

“Yes,” the Indian woman answered calmly. “Sinful love.” She lazily drew upon the waterpipe.

While she awaited the rest of the story, Amanda gazed about her, trying to memorise her surroundings, for it would be the last time, perhaps. Thick with smoke and incense, these chambers would have frightened the ladylike Eustacia, and most gently bred British ladies. They would have perceived the place as a den of iniquity. Certainly it fit their image of the Rani Simhi as a dangerous woman whose history comprised one long career of sin.

Perhaps it was sin, Amanda reflected. Nonetheless, the princess’s world was fascinating, and Amanda had been happier here than anywhere else she could remember. Whether legend or history, the universe her Indian friend revealed was a dream world, captivating as a fairy tale. It was also just as safe as one, for Amanda could never enter its pages.

A light breeze wafted from the garden, carrying the scent of flowers and the fresh fragrance of the carved vetiver entryway. Something else, Amanda thought, drawing an appreciative breath. Agarwood?

“My husband became one of the most powerful princes in India,” the rani continued. “Thus the British soon arrived, to persuade him to accept their protection rather than that of the French. Among them was one, tall and fair. In his hair gleamed the golden light of the sun, and in his eyes the glistening sea. I saw him and love consumed me. This passion caused me to risk death, the punishment for adultresses. Richard Whitestone became my lover, and in time, I ran away with him.”

Padji cried out, “Oh, mistress, would that I’d cut out the dog’s heart!’’

“Hold your tongue,” said his mistress. “My friend does not wish to hear your ignorant babbling.” She turned back to Amanda. “He is like a child sometimes. He thinks everything may be resolved by cutting out hearts. One cannot explain to him. He is not a woman.”

Amanda’s gaze slid from servant to mistress. She understood. “Your lover betrayed you.”

The princess shrugged. “Men are easily confused. One night I awoke, and found my lover gone.”

“He took everything,” Padji growled. “The jewels-”

“He took from a thief,” his mistress corrected. “Merely to abandon my husband was insufficient payment for his selfish cruelty. I stole from his treasures, took what he held truly precious, gold and jewels. Yet this was not entirely revenge. My lover and I must live on something, and he was not a wealthy young man.”

“Still, he took everything? Abandoned you and left you destitute? Whether you’d stolen the treasures or not, that was a despicable thing to do,” Amanda said indignantly.

“There is more to be unfolded,” the rani answered, “as it was unfolded to me. I later learned my husband had persuaded the Englishman to seduce and take me away.”

Amanda’s mouth fell open.

“My husband had grown to fear my influence. He was eager to be rid of me, but dared not kill me, for fear of an uprising. If I committed adultery, however, my own people would pursue me and put me to death, while he stood by, innocent, the injured spouse.”

“Good heavens.”

“As I told you, he was politic. Still, he also betrayed his English ally. He’d promised Richard Whitestone a considerable reward, which he failed to deliver. Thus my lover took his payment from me.”

“That hardly excuses him,” Amanda said, rubbing her forehead. “I know you believe each matter also contains its opposite, but all I see in this is villainy.”

“So it is, memsahib,” Padji solemnly agreed. “I might have caught and killed him, but my mistress would not permit it. Even then—”

“I was betrayed. What of it?” the princess interrupted. “Women are always betrayed. Yet I prospered. Did not this Englishman show me the Fire of Love, which so few experience? Did he not release me from my husband and carry me to safety? Within months my husband lay dead of fever—and I was spared the sati. Instead of burning on his pyre, I was free, many miles away. Did I not find another husband, worthy and loving, who gave me strong sons and showered me with wealth?”

All while she’d spoken, her voice calm and cool, the rani had continued stroking the statue.

After a moment’s silence, she said, “Though he took all else, Richard Whitestone left me this figure. One night, as I lay weeping for him, Anumati came to me in a dream. In time, she said, I would discover the meaning of this suffering, and its end. The one object my lover had left me was her gift to me, which she would fill with all her blessings. This was her promise, and she kept it.”

She must have observed dissatisfaction in Amanda’s face then, because she laughed. “Ah, my young friend, the matter of love still troubles you.”

“You speak as though you forgive him,” Amanda said, “yet he behaved abominably in every way. He behaved like a—a prostitute. Then he stole all you had.”

“Merely the acts of a desperate man. Yet I have no doubt he loved me. Such passion cannot be feigned. Perhaps that made him most desperate of all, for ours was the love that is madness and rapture at once.”

“If it is a sort of madness,’’ Amanda said reflectively, “then no wonder it is treacherous. As you said, most of us only read about it—yet the stories are always tragic, as yours seems.’’

“What tragedy?” was the cool response. “I found happiness after.”

“But destructive, at least,” Amanda argued, without quite knowing why she needed to argue. “I don’t know about Krishna and Radha, but what about Tristan and Isolde? What about Romeo and Juliet?”

“Ah, yes,” the princess said. “Romeo and Juliet. I have read this work of your great poet many times. A fine scene, that in the garden. She calls to her lover, as I called to mine in my sorrow and loneliness.” In English, then, she quoted as she gazed towards her own garden, “‘O! for a falconer’s voice, / To lure this tassel-gentle back again.’“

The Rani Simhi was still a beautiful woman. As she softly uttered the longing words, her face softened, too, and for an instant, Amanda saw in her profile the young girl who’d known rapturous passion. For that instant, Amanda almost envied her. Almost.

“Would you lure him back?” she whispered.

The princess’s gaze, dark and liquid, came back to her. She smiled.

Padji shifted restlessly.

“We bore Padji beyond his little patience,” his mistress said, her voice brisk again, “and I keep you overlong with my tales. Yet he understands,” she added, throwing her servant a warning look, “that you must know the story, because now the statue belongs to you, my dear friend.” So saying, she held the sandalwood figure out to Amanda.

Stunned, Amanda took it.

“Anumati’s is a woman’s gift, to be passed from mother to daughter. I have no daughters of my blood, but you have become the daughter of my heart. Thus I pass the Laughing Princess to you. May all her blessings enrich your life, as you have so enriched mine, child.”

There was no holding back the tears, a monsoon flood of them, so that Amanda scarcely saw the heap of gifts Padji began piling before her, barely comprehended the rani’s affectionate words of farewell. Silks, kashmir shawls, perfumes, and incense—a rajah’s treasure. In vain Amanda protested this largess. The princess waved away all objections.

“If you remained with me, my daughter, thus would I adorn you,” she said. “Also, I would find you a fine husband, tall and strong and passionate. Unfortunately, I could find no one worthy in time.”

Amanda gave a watery giggle. Indian women were often wed at puberty. At six and twenty, even by English standards she was at her last prayers.

“That is better,” the rani said. “We part with smiles.” She embraced Amanda, then added, “If I find you a husband, I shall dispatch him to England, never fear.”

In the flurry of gift giving and leave taking, they did not hear the soft rustle in the dark garden beyond or the feather-light footsteps fading into the night.

CHAPTER2

Amanda thoroughly loathed the palanquin. She objected on principle to human beings used as beasts of burden. However, the rani always provided a palanquin to collect her English friend and bring her home again. Rather than professional bearers, who were notoriously untrustworthy, four of the rani’s own sturdy, well-armed servants carried it.

They made their way speedily through the dark streets, Padji at their side to terrify any prospective evildoers with his muscular hulk and monstrous sword. Amanda doubted even Queen Charlotte’s safety was so well provided for.

All the same, Amanda had never travelled with so much wealth, and the jewels in the lacquered box made her anxious. Still, who could know what she carried? Spies. Spies lurked everywhere. Not to mention that everyone by now had heard of the master thief, the Falcon. His vision, it was claimed, penetrated stone walls.

Roderick called the stories typical native nonsense. Certainly, he admitted, India abounded in cutthroats and thieves. Nonetheless, no man could turn himself into the night breeze and slip through keyholes. No man slithered into gardens in the guise of a snake, or flew through windows in the form of a dove. That, supposedly, was how the Falcon had made off with one woman’s ruby necklace, and another’s diamond bracelets. More likely, Roderick told his sister (when Eustacia was not nearby), the women had bestowed the jewels upon their lovers, and accounted for the missing gems as supernatural thefts. Lately, everything was blamed on the Falcon.

Yet Amanda had heard other tales—of documents, letters, political secrets bought or stolen, then sold. Always, one name was whispered: the Falcon. Only one name, but she little doubted it comprehended a vast network of spies and mercenaries, as likely controlled by the East India Company as by an Indian mastermind.

She sighed. She would miss India, but not its atmosphere of suspicion and treachery. She had grown accustomed to the stench, heat, and din of Calcutta, yet she would not miss those, certainly. Apart from the rani, her one friend, what would she miss, really?

A cry sheered the night, like a dying bird song, and the palanquin halted. Amanda heard Padji’s voice in sharp Hindustani: “What message?”

“For the woman,” an unfamiliar voice answered in the same language.

Amanda peered through the shutters.

In the darkness she made out Padji’s immense form, then a flash of metal, whistling as it swooped to his neck, so swiftly she had no time to cry out a warning before the gleaming blade lay upon the servant’s throat. Amanda blinked. That must be Padji’s own sword, because his hand hung empty now. How had the man done it?

“Lay down your weapons,” the strange voice commanded the bearers, “or he dies.”

“Run, fools!” Padji cried. “Take her away. I die for—”

“No!” Amanda cried, before the bearers could move. “Do as the pig says.”

“A wise woman,” the voice said softly. “Down on your knees, my elephant,” he told Padji.

“I kneel to no thieving pig. Cut my throat, then, fool, and the others will fall upon you.”

“No!” Amanda screamed.

Too late. Silver gleamed as it swept through the air, and Padji crumpled to the ground. Instantly, the bearers set down their burden. To Amanda’s amazement, the intrepid attacker fled, pursued by four shrieking avengers.

Amanda pushed open the palanquin shutters and scrambled out. She stared at the dark heap on the ground.

“Oh, Padji,” she whispered. Shaking in every limb, she crept towards him. Gingerly, she reached out to his shoulder, then jerked her hand back. What was she thinking of? The thief must have cut his throat. He’d be covered with blood ... sticky ... ghastly.

She scuttled back hastily, struggling to control the spasm of nausea. One ... two ... three deep breaths. Then she looked about her, while her heart seemed to pound in her ears. She was not far from home. Even if she could have endured touching the body, she certainly could not carry it with her. She returned to the palanquin and quickly collected her belongings.

The robber had chosen the site well. Large gardens sprawled on either side of the dark, narrow passageway’s high walls. The houses’ inhabitants were too far away to hear cries for help. Normally, the gates at both ends of the passage were kept locked. Tonight, though, with virtually all Calcutta’s upper crust at the rani’s celebration, it must have been more convenient to leave the way open. Or else the thief had broken in. Alone? Amanda glanced anxiously about her. A risky business for one man, wasn’t it?

She held her breath, but the only sounds she made out came from a great distance: hoofbeats and voices. Nearby she heard only her own heart thundering.

Clutching her awkward bundles to her, she hiked up the skirts of her sari, ran blindly to the end of the passage, and turned the corner.

A dark form swept out of a gateway, a hand covered her mouth, another wrapped round her waist and dragged her backwards into the shadows.

“Drop it.”

To her shock, it was the same voice she’d heard only minutes before.

She dropped the lacquered jewel box, then drove her elbow into her attacker’s stomach and tore away from him. A foot shot out, tripping her. She stumbled, and the packet of silks slid out from under her arm. Still tightly clutching the Laughing Princess, Amanda regained her balance, only to be hauled up against the robber’s body. The hand closed over her mouth again, choking her.

“Drop it, curse you!” he gasped.

Amanda squirmed, frantically trying to break free of the suffocating embrace. One strong hand pressed painfully over her mouth. The other crushed her rib cage. She stomped on his foot, pushed, kicked, and elbowed, all the while clutching the sandalwood figure as though it were her firstborn. That was all she wanted. Why wouldn’t he take the rest and let her go? But he was pulling at her hands now.

Again she jammed madly with her elbow. This time he abruptly released her, and her own force unbalanced her. She fell against him, felt him dropping with her. They crashed to the ground . . . and she found herself pinned beneath him.

“Foolish woman,” he said, panting. While the weight of his hard body held her down, he began prying her fingers loose from the figure.

“No!” she shrieked, as he wrenched the statue from her grasp. “You bastard! No!”

There was a heartbeat’s pause, and Amanda realised she’d cried out in English.

“A thousand pardons, memsahib,” he said.

Then he leapt to his feet... and vanished into the night with the Laughing Princess.

White hot, it churned round her, blinding her: Rage. Amanda dragged herself up onto her knees and screamed, “You filthy bastard! You bloody, thieving swine!” Silence answered. She pounded her fists into the dirt in impotent fury.