Shadow Play (46 page)

The rumors reached Sarah again of a stranger from Brazil, and while she might have done her best to ignore them, this time the reference was more shocking: the stranger had asked about her. She was drinking tea at the residence of Norman's cousin,

Lady Rees, when another guest said, "I was approached yesterday by a gentleman who said he was from Brazil. He asked me if I was familiar with Sarah St. James, and of course I told him I was."

Gripping her cup and saucer unsteadily, Sarah replied, "Did he, perchance, tell you his name?"

The woman's mouth pursed in concentration. "Yes, I believe he did. What was it now? Oh, dear, it seems to have slipped my mind."

Sarah calmly took a sip of her tea. "Could you describe him, do you think?"

"Tall. Yes, he seemed very tall, and sinister, if you ask me. But then that's the way of his type, I suppose. Living among those savages and all, one could hardly remain re- fined in those circumstances. Still and all, he was an odd chap. Peculiar. He spoke briefly of his plantation in... let me see..."

Wetting her lips with her tongue, Sarah said, "Japura?"

"Why, yes!" the lady exclaimed. "That's exactly it. Japura He wore white. All white. I commented on his suit and he said that women and men wore white in Brazil because it was much cooler in the equatorial sun than dark colors."

Realizing that the teacup and saucer had begun to rattle, Sarah put them on the table. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to ask, "Did you by chance tell him where I live?"

⁴
'He already knew. He seemed to know a great deal about you."

"I.. .see."

"My dear, is something wrong? Sarah?"

She had exited the house before realizing that she had failed to bid her hosts a proper

good-bye. The fresh air did little to clear her mind of its tumult, and she had

walked halfway back to her own house before remembering that she had taken the coach

to Norman's cousin's. Then, as she stood there, hearing the traffic hum around her, she

realized
that the man from Japurie might be watching her at that very moment.

It couldn't be King. King was dead. But she hadn't seen King die. Not really. She'd seen him shot, but...

She hurried to her town house and locked the door behind her. The servants, as always, moved quietly about the rooms, not one of them daring to approach their obviously addled employer unless forced to do so. Hiding within the lair of palm fronds and dumbcane leaves, she cuddled the marmoset in her lap and tried to reason with herself that Rodolfo King could not possibly have followed her from Brazil. He was dead. She had watched him die. No, she reminded herself. She had seen him shot.

The next day she spoke to Norman. He scoffed. "Balderdash. We both saw King fall."

"But we didn't see him die, not like... Morgan. Who's to say that King was dead when he fell toward the water?"

"Be reasonable," Norman said. Regarding himself in a mirror on the wall, he straightened his cravat and eyed his hair critically before turning to face her. "Why would King bother to travel six thousand miles to take revenge on you?''

"For the same reason he wanted to kill Morgan. I know about his cruelties and his gold."

"I'm certain all of South America is aware of that by now, considering that the men who overthrew him are free. No, it was your American paramour he wanted to kill, and he killed him. That is the end of the matter."

"Then who is strolling about London in a white suit, proclaiming he is from Brazil and that he knows me? And why?"

Norman shrugged as he pulled out his watch to check the time. "Perhaps he is one of the rebels who escaped King."

Sarah blinked as the realization hit her. "Or possibly it's one of King's men. Gilberto de Queiros. Dear God, it could be!"

Shaking his head, Norman turned for the door. "You're becoming overly suspicious, Sarah."

"Norman, you don't know the sort of man King was. You can't appreciate—"

"I can appreciate that you're becoming overwrought over nothing." Stopping at the door, he looked back at her with one eyebrow raised and his mouth curled in a smirk. "If you're so frightened of these... ghosts, my dear, you might consider marrying me. I can offer you all the security you could wish for."

Coming out of her chair, Sarah eyed Norman severely. "You wouldn't have anything to do with these rumors, would you?"

"Me? Why on earth for?"

"To try and frighten me into going through with the marriage."

"Hmm." He opened the front door. "An appealing idea. Sorry to say I hadn't thought of it. Ah, well. I suspect you'll come around eventually... when you realize you've ruined any chance of ever marrying into a halfway respectable family. Good night, Sarah."

Sarah stared at the door as Norman closed it behind him, her anger mounting though she tried her best to check it. Unable to do so, she stormed to the threshold, threw open the door, and ran down the steps into the night as Norman's coach pulled away from the

house, shouting, "It'll be a cold day in the Amazon before I marry you, Sheffield!"

The clop of the horses' hooves and the jangle of the reins echoed back to her. Angrily, she

turned toward the house in time to see the marmoset scamper out the door and around the

corner. Cursing, she ran after him, knowing she would never catch him before he made it

to the Sunderland house. She followed him, regardless, aggravated enough with

Nor- man to take out her irritation on the unsociable neighbors who had been refusing to
acknowledge her calls and demands that they stop luring away her monkey. Of
late, Nuisance was spending more time at the Sunderland place
than he was at home, and she was growing miffed.

She marched up to the door and beat on it with her fist, causing it to creak open on its own. Nudging it further ajar, she peered down the dimly lit hall and called, "Hello!"

Nothing. She bit her lip, took a cautious step over the threshold, noting that the floor was covered with dust. A quick look in the parlor to her right, and she found the room empty of furnishings. Stunned, she moved on her tiptoes to the other rooms; all were empty and dusty.

How could that be? For the past week she had seen lights shining from the windows at night; there was a sconce burning in the foyer, someone was allowing her marmoset in and...

She shivered as a wind blew along the hallway. Standing at the foot of the winding staircase, she looked up through the dark, feeling her heart thump in her throat. This wasn't possible. Someone must live here. She'd seen the lights. She'd witnessed her monkey coming and going ...

She climbed the stairs, halting briefly as the old wood groaned underfoot, though by the time she reached the upper floor her knees were shaking badly. She paused long enough to allow her eyes to adjust to the dark, and discovered a thin stream of light spilling from beneath a closed door at the end of the corridor. Common sense told her to leave the house that moment—this situation was wrong, all wrong— yet she moved toward the door, some perverse sense of curiosity and rebellion driving her on until she stood with her ear pressed against it in an attempt to hear what was going on inside the chamber.

There was no sound. She closed her hand around the doorknob and turned it, easing the door open as she did so, squinting to see through the slit of light that poured into her face from the room. There seemed to be nothing, no furnishings. She opened the door farther. The floor was bare, but there was a chair before the curtainless window, and beside it a table with a burning lamp. Nothing else. No one.

She walked to the window and gazed out on her house.

Her bedroom could be easily seen through the leaves of the trees. A shiver crept up her spine as she turned to look about the stark quarters. Some hint of a smell hung in the air; she couldn't place it, though it was disturbingly familiar.

Her gaze flew back to the door as the sound of footsteps crashed against her ears. Fear swallowed her as images of Rodolfo King rose before her mind's eye. The footsteps were nearing, advancing up the steps at a slow pace, hesitating when the stairs creaked with the climber's weight, continuing down the corridor toward the room. Sarah glanced toward the closed window. Nailed shut. Heart hammering, fear making her dizzy and frantic, she searched the room for some place to hide. But there was no place—and the door was being pushed open now, and she could do nothing but gape and try to force back the scream that was clawing up her throat and—

The policeman stepped into the room and regarded her in amazement.' 'Miss St. James? What are you doing here?''

She clutched the chair and managed to say, "My monkey."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm looking for my monkey."

"Here?"

"He's here... somewhere." She glared at the constable harder and asked, "Why are you here?"

"I was on patrol and noticed the front door was open."

"Who lives here?"

"I haven't the slightest."

"But someone does live here."

He regarded the room before replying. "I wouldn't know."

"But this light was burning and there's the chair..." She moved to him until they stood toe to toe and she was staring up into his eyes. "Whoever is staying here is spying on me, officer."

One eyebrow drew up.

"You can see my bedroom from this window. Have a
look. Whoever it is, he is watching me." He smiled, and Sarah frowned. "You think I'm daft.. .don't you?" He didn't respond, so, leaving him where he stood, she strode down the stairs and traversed down the corridor to the kitchen, determined to find her marmoset and get out of there as soon as possible. She found Nuisance perched on a cabinet, his little jaws working to chew whatever food he was holding in his hands. She had swept him up, ignoring his agitated chattering, before she stopped, turned slowly back to the table to stare down at the mound of nuts the monkey had been eating. Not just any nuts, she realized, and picking one up, she stared at it and whispered, "Brazil nuts."

Days passed, and rumors continued to reach Sarah of the man from Brazil. Her fears grew when she learned from someone that the gentleman in question was "tall and blond, with an icy demeanor." The next day another acquaintance declared, "Blond? Poppycock! He was dark and wicked as the devil. When I asked him his name, he only smiled and replied, 'It's not important.' "

While no lights had shown from the Sunderland place since Sarah had made her discovery, more and more she felt as if she were being watched. She no longer discussed the matter with Norman. He thought her insane; and besides, he would only use her disquietude as a weapon against her, to try and frighten her into marrying him as soon as possible.

She met briefly with Sir Joseph Hooker and Sir Henry Wickham and warned them of the possibility that King was in London, but obviously word had already reached them of her unbalanced mental state; they only smiled, patted her hand, and assured her that once the seeds had been successfully propagated, the stress of her circumstances would be relieved and she would begin to feel better.

One evening she was pacing her parlor while Kan played his flute and her servants watched with trepidation from behind the forest of tropical foliage. She turned to the Indians, who were reclining on the floor polishing their blow- pipes, and announced, "I have a mission for you."

They put their weapons aside and looked at her expectantly.

"I'd like you to find out who the man from Brazil is."

Kan, placing his flute across his lap, regarded her with his ever-present patience and said, "He is the
bote."

Had he smacked her across the face, she would not have reeled so in anger and shock. "Kan!" she cried. "How could you do this to me? You know how I've grieved for Morgan, yet—."

"The
boto"
another repeated; then they all nodded their dark heads.

"Morgan is dead."

"The
boto
cannot die."

Covering her face with her hands, forcing down her despair, Sarah did her best not to burst into tears. "Stop. Please don't go on. How can I make you understand that there is no such thing—person—as that bloody
boto'!
Morgan was a man, and he died in my arms."

Kan picked up his flute and played a tune so haunting it brought goose bumps to Sarah's flesh. Hands clenched, eyes burning with tears, she stated more emphatically, "He's dead. Do you hear me? He's—"

The music stopped, and Kan said, "Is he?"

"Yes!"

"By whose word?"

"Wickham's..." Turning away, she stared at the par- rots, who cocked their royal blue heads at her and fluffed their feathers. "I won't believe it. I can't. Morgan would not play this cat-and-mouse game. Why should he? If Morgan were alive he would storm up to my door and take me away from this wretched place." Burying her hands in her hair, she closed her eyes tight. "I'm mad. Insane. I've lost my mind totally because I want to believe you. Dear God, the hope has been alive inside me since the moment I found the marmoset eating Brazil nuts at Sunderland's; I just didn't
want to acknowledge it." Spinning around to Kan, she cried, "Only Morgan knew the monkey favored Brazil nuts!" Dropping to her knees, she glared into Kan's dark, calm eyes. "But Wickham told me Morgan was dead."

"Perhaps," he replied, "he lied."

"Yes. Yes!" She gasped. "Of course. He didn't want me to remain with Morgan. He wanted me to go back to Norman.
Bastards!
They made me believe Morgan was dead so they could get me on board the
Amazonas
before the police arrived. There's only one way to know for certain, Kan. We have to see Wickham."

She arrived at Sir Henry's town house an hour later. He greeted her in a dinner jacket, since he was entertaining friends. He showed her to his office, closing the door behind him as he watched her pace the room. "You seem upset," he told her.

"Really?" Sarah glanced at her image in a mirror; it reflected wild hair, glassy eyes, cheeks sunken from the past weeks of sorrow. Gazing at herself, she said, "Morgan Js alive... isn't he?"