Which was a good metaphor for the whole bloody country, Julian thought. Alas, that wisdom seemed in short supply. Commissioner Fraser and his ilk refused to heed "idle rumor." Into this category they conveniently lumped both back-alley muttering and the aborted mutinies at Barrackpore and Meerut. Meanwhile, as they smoked their hookahs and shuffled papers, commoners were murmuring of a prophecy, made after the Battle of Plassey a century before, that Britain's raj would end in a hundred years' time. "But we all know these natives are a superstitious lot," Fraser had told him with a laugh during their conference at the Evershams' soirée. "Humor their little beliefs, by all means do. But God forbid one should take them seriously!"
The Resident, in turn, thought Julian an alarmist—to be humored and placated, but ultimately ignored. If it hadn't been so unforgivably stupid, it would have been comical. In London they accused him of ennui. In Delhi, they thought him hysterical.
"Huzoor!"
Julian looked up with a grimace. No matter how many times he had asked Deven to call him otherwise, his cousin persisted with this subservient address. "Over here," he said, and came to his feet.
The boy emerged from a dilapidated arcade. He looked to have come from a wedding; he was dressed formally, in a turban and long robe. The silver threads of his
sherwani
sparkled in the moonlight; it had once been a very fine gown, although now there were threadbare patches at the hem and elbows. "I am late," Deven acknowledged. "Huzoor will forgive me. A party of soldiers stopped me by Quwwat-ul-Islam Masjid."
"Search you?"
"No." He briefly dropped the submissive facade and spat onto the ground. "Yanked off my
pagri
and tied it around a cow." His hands rose to check the folds of his turban. "I stopped to retrieve it. Such a noble culture your people bring to mine!"
Julian held his tongue. He could not defend the English, not now. Even ten years ago, such an episode would not have occurred; or, had it been reported, the soldiers would have faced a harsh reprimand from their commanding officers. But whatever amount of wary respect had once existed between Britons and Indians, contempt was taking its place.
Julian felt the change himself. His mixed blood had always provided fodder to the wags—after one rather reckless adventure in his youth, the papers in London had dubbed him the "savage noble." He did not much care for the name, but Rousseauian witticisms were preferable to the suspicion he increasingly encountered in so many quarters of Anglo-Indian society. More and more he felt that news was discounted simply because it came from his mouth. Even Emmaline Martin had heard gossip about his seditious tendencies, and she had only just arrived in the city.
The thought of Miss Martin further frayed his temper. If Lindley could not attend to her better, then someone needed to attend, not so gently, to Lindley.
Collecting his thoughts, he asked his cousin, "Did you happen to catch the soldiers' names?"
Deven's teeth flashed. He took a seat on a toppled pillar and stretched into a lounging attitude meant to communicate indifference. Julian suddenly recognized, with brief amusement, that Deven had picked up the pose from him. "And what if I had, huzoor," Deven said. "Would I tell you?"
"You tell me nothing, and I'm sure you feel very clever about that. But I am telling
you
that if you have a care for your grandmother and sisters, you will take the money I offered and go away for the hot season."
"Where would huzoor have us go? Mussoorie only? Simla? Calcutta itself?" Deven's smile was mocking. "Does Huzoor forget that these places are also in Hindustan? Or that these humble natives, to whom huzoor would give his protection, have skin as brown as their neighbors'? It would be better for huzoor to fear for himself."
Julian regarded him narrowly. If he had thought there was no one more bloody-minded than government officials, then he had forgotten about the existence of seventeen-year-old boys. "Stay, then. But take the money. You may have need of it."
Deven lunged up. "We have one need only, and that is for the
Angrezi
to go! Your people grind cow bone into the meal, to damn our souls and force us to convert!"
Sweet Christ. That was a ghoulish new twist on the rumors. He drew a breath, thinking carefully. "You don't believe it, I hope. After all, it would take money to realize such a plot. The British would not waste their blunt on a little thing like religion."
Deven eyed him sourly for a moment, then shrugged.
Julian could sense the boy's increasing restlessness. Staying much longer would seem, to Deven, to be intolerably accommodating of the blight on his family tree. That he had come out here in the first place had been a victory itself. And so Julian pulled out his trump card. "If you do not take the money, I will be forced to go and give it to Nani-ji myself."
His cousin's face lit with rage. "She has told you not to come back."
"I will have no choice."
A sneer corrupted Deven's mouth. "You will shame us so?"
Shame. Was that what his existence now signified to his grandmother? He thought of the house at Ajmeri Gate. Three small rooms, set around a simple courtyard; he remembered them very well. At one time, as a small boy, they had spelled home to him, and safety—this, despite the constant shortage of food, the struggle for subsistence waged daily within those walls.
Now his very presence there made Nani-ji despair. She loved him, yes; but how would she marry off his girl cousins if he were seen visiting?
"Take the money," he said tiredly. "Take it, and I will never come again."
Deven hesitated, scowling. "Do you swear?"
Julian touched his throat, a gesture used to signal a formal, binding vow.
"Kasam khaata
hoon
." I swear.
Deven pointed to the dirt between them. "Set it down there," he said. "And then you will walk away and I will watch. I will take pleasure in watching the Englishman leave, because it will make me think of the time, very soon, when all Indians will see the same."
Julian tossed the bag into the dust and turned. In the moonlight, his shadow stretched long and faint before him, preceding him out of the ruins.
The woman continued to stare, her clammy palm dampening Emma's glove. "And how long were you floating in the water, dear? You must forgive my curiosity; we're all simply fascinated. It's the most exciting thing that's happened to us in ages."
Emma stared back, mildly astonished to learn that her own tragedy had happened to all of British India. Marcus had to clear his throat twice before she blinked free of her trance. "Ah—a little less than a day, I believe."
Mrs. Cameron gasped. "All alone in the water! With every soul on that ship beneath you, dead on the ocean floor!"
"That is one way to think of it," Emma said faintly.
"And the shipmaster who found you—an Irishman, I believe?" The woman leaned forward, her lorgnette slipping from her nose to swing over one arm. "Were you forced to share quarters with his crew?"
Marcus's arm closed protectively around her waist, "Met the chap myself. A decent fellow to give up his cabin to her, but he wasn't so hesitant to accept a reward."
Mrs. Cameron leered at the Colonel. "Money, eh? Well, any amount's worth having your lady love delivered to you."
Marcus bowed agreement, and their hostess released Emma with a pat. As they walked away, Emma attempted to straighten her glove. The woman had twisted it halfway off. "That was the most horrendous gossipmongering I've ever witnessed."
"Well, she's telling the truth when she says nothing happens around here to speak of." Marcus reached over to take a glass of punch from the corner table. "Here you go. And all in all she's a good woman, quite popular with our crowd."
"The Lord forefend that I should disagree with your crowd," Emma said tartly, sipping at the punch as she glanced around. Her passing gaze seemed to signal a bevy of women to detach themselves from the far corner. As they approached in a froth of pastel ruffles and ribbons, Marcus gave a discreet tug to his jacket.
"Best behavior," he muttered. "These are the Vice-Regent's daughters' friends."
She nodded and smiled gamely as he made the introductions, but the girls ignored her, preferring to twit Marcus about some game of cricket that he'd lost. Emma found herself grateful for it. She had nothing to contribute and quickly gave up trying to follow the conversation. She was idly chipping a piece of wax that had fallen from the chandelier onto her glove when the hushed tones of a conversation behind her caught her attention.
"She's being dreadfully foolish," a woman was saying. "He'll never give her a second look."
"Oh, he might," a catty voice rejoined. "He might give her a good deal more than that, but he'll
never
give her a ring."
"Letty! Are you implying—"
"The man's an absolute rake, Margaret. They say he goes through women like a fish through water. Why, just last week, Teresa March saw Mrs. Lake leaving his bungalow at
ten o'clock
in the morning!"
Emma braced herself with a deep draft of the punch. If they were talking about Marcus—if he were carrying on with not just one woman, but two—
"You think Mr. Lake doesn't know? Of course he does! But he doesn't do a thing about it! Why, the Marquess is famed on three different continents for his marksmanship."
The Marquess? Emma smiled. What an exhausting life Lord Holdensmoor must lead. It seemed he had his finger in every scandal the world could provide.
"But he's not in the army—"
"No, you know they'd never give him a commission, even if he wanted one. How could they trust him with the natives? He's practically one of them, after all."
There was a short silence, and Emmaline looked up, smiling at the people around her. They hadn't seemed to notice her inattention, so she took a small step backward.
"—is
sinfully good-looking, and going to be a duke to boot. I can't
blame
her—"
"But the blood, Letty! Surely you wouldn't want to soil yourself that way, to wed a blackie—"
"Oh, and what do
I
care, if Her Majesty doesn't? It's all very legal, anyway."
"I don't know. The way he looks at a woman—always as though he's secretly laughing, as if he knew some naughty secret—"
"I've always
liked
a little danger in a man. It merely adds to his charm."
Now laughter, followed by: "Poor George, then! He's not got a flying chance!"
"Indeed, no. Why should I settle for a family that probably made their fortune hawking tinware in Essex? Though I do feel bad, because George simply adores me. Do you know, just yesterday he said—"
Losing interest, Emmaline turned back to Marcus. Most of the little ring had melted away, leaving him and the blond girl on his arm in deep conversation. Perhaps he was already plotting his next peccadillo. "Colonel Lindley, if you'll excuse me?"
The two glanced over in surprise. How flattering: they had forgotten she was there. She should feel hurt, she supposed. But all she could muster was a slight irritation at their gape-mouthed expressions. "Would you like more punch?" Marcus asked.
She held up her half-full glass. "No, I'm just stepping out. I'll be back in a moment."
He bowed, and she slipped away, heading out the door and up the stairs.
It was very quiet in the powder room. Only the muted overture to a waltz penetrated the floorboards, its voyage upward warping the music into an otherworldly melody. Coconut-oil lamps flickered in the four corners, and their temperamental light cast odd shadows onto the wallpaper, strange figures dancing to strange music.
She sat down. The solitude suited her. She had known the room would be deserted; it was too early for damage to have been done to dresses and gloves. Later, women would crush inside, anxiously pacing the floor as their ayahs struggled along behind, patching ripped hems and scrubbing at stains. The charm of the shadows would fade, and the music would be drowned out by snapped complaints and snickered gossip.
"And this is my life," she whispered. This was what she had fought so hard to survive for when she had floated for endless hours on the breast of the ocean, the sun cracking her skin and settling salt beneath her fingernails. With, yes, every soul of that ship lying lifeless beneath her. What a dreadful, horrible image. Her feet, so small, bare and pale as they paddled, churning the water far above her mother's staring eyes…
The sound of her own sob made her flinch. She pressed her palm into her trembling lips. How strange that she should cry now, when her eyes had stayed dry for so long. And yet… "Mama," she whispered.
Mama had wanted this life for her—but why? She had said that marriage was not about love, but how could she have believed that? She had loved Papa, had laughed with him and cried with him, nursed him when he was ill. She had shared with him something precious and rare—and yet she had pushed Emma into this match with Marcus, knowing that her daughter would not have the same. How was that fair? How could her mother have done such a thing?
Perhaps Mama had simply not cared whether she would be happy.
"Enough!" The sound of her own voice startled her. After a long moment, she drew a breath, rose, and crossed to the mirror. Her cheeks lacked color. She pinched them hard, then stepped back to inspect herself.
Her eyes were bloodshot. One glance and they would all know that she'd been crying.
On a sigh, she smoothed down her hair. Her mother would have said she looked beautiful anyway. No matter what, Mama had always said that. She herself had never cared about her looks. If one was betrothed already, what did it matter if one were pretty?
What
did
matter? Was this all there was to life?
Her lips began to tremble again. Digging one gloved fist into them, she yanked open the door and stepped out. For a moment she was disoriented, and made the mistake of turning left instead of right. At that very moment, a door opened down the hall, spitting out a woman in a state of disarray.
"You bastard!" the woman snapped to whomever remained in the room. "You can't simply—take me and then throw me away like rubbish!"
Mortified, Emma turned to leave—but the next words arrested her in her tracks.
"Indeed. Particularly since I never took you in the first place."
Emma's jaw dropped at the sound of Lord Holdensmoor's voice. Not quite believing her own shameless intentions, she ducked into an alcove to eavesdrop. It seemed to be the theme of her night.
The woman hitched up one drooping sleeve. "My husband will have your head for this."
A burst of laughter floated out. "For rejecting his wife's advances?"
"Ha! For
forcing
yourself on me!"
The silence that followed was painfully tense. And then, in a voice so low that Emma could barely make it out, the Marquess said, "Lies have a nasty way of rebounding, Mrs. Lake. I'd advise you to remember that."
Emma hugged her arms to her chest. There was a threat in his voice, and the woman retreated a step.
"Then how about a truth?" she challenged. "I'll write Lord Mason about how you cuckolded him not three weeks after his wedding!"
Lord Holdensmoor appeared in the doorway. "And I suppose in the midst of this admirable fit of truth-telling, you'll also be inclined to inform your husband about O'Malley?"
The woman froze. "You wouldn't. You have more honor than that!"
"A lying hypocrite has no claim to honor," he said calmly. "Now get the hell out of my sight. And if you call at my home again, I'll tell your husband myself."
The woman stalked past—so close that Emma could smell the lemon verbena sachet in her reticule, and feel the air kicked up by her brushing skirts. The powder room door slammed.
Slowly Emma exhaled. Her eyes fixed on the spot where Julian Sinclair lounged against the door frame.
He seemed to be contemplating the flower print of the wallpaper, but when he was finished fastening a button on his cufflinks, he turned to her. "Miss Martin," he said, cat's eyes cutting unerringly through the shadows. "Having a pleasant evening?"
"I—" Heat burned up her throat and face. "I didn't mean to—"
"Come now. So far you've been refreshingly honest."
"I just—" She swallowed, stepping into the light. "I'm sorry; it was unforgivably rude to listen."
He gave a graceful, one-shouldered shrug. "She was making quite a scene. One wonders if she wanted to be caught." Linking his hands behind his back, he strolled toward her. "And you? Perhaps you've found out the answer to your question?"
"What question?" she asked breathlessly.
He stopped only inches away, and leaned forward to whisper the answer in her ear. "What, exactly, my reputation is."
She jerked back a step. "Oh, I've heard all about it now," she said shakily. Her hand rose of its own accord, to touch the singed spot beneath her ear. He watched her do it, a smile playing across his lips.
Then the smile vanished. "Been crying, have you?" One gloved finger reached out to brush her cheek. "Is Lindley being a boor again?"
She stiffened. She did not want to discuss Marcus with him; she did not trust herself on that topic. She started to move past, but he caught her hand.
"I apologize," he said quietly. "Why are you upset?"
Her fingers moved nervously in his. She meant to say something light and witty. But his manner was so sober that it undid her; she opened her mouth and what came out was: "I cannot bear it."
Instantly she regretted it; heat flooded her face and she wanted to sink through the floor. She was unfit for polite society!
And yet his face did not register the outlandish nature of the remark. The pressure of his fingers remained firm. "Yes," he said. "I know how that is."
She bit her lip. She did not know how to recover the conversation. The urge was on her to reply,
Do
you really understand?
But what a mad impulse. If only he would not look so concerned—truly concerned, his brilliant eyes sympathetic on her face. Something in his steady regard called the tears back. Marcus never looked at her like this. He never asked what she was thinking, or feeling. He simply assumed he knew. Or maybe he assumed she didn't think at all.
She breathed deeply to calm herself, then came up with a wry smile. "Forgive me. I am … fatigued, perhaps. I don't like balls very much."
He nodded. "Dreadful bores, aren't they?" His fingers began to play lightly with hers. "I don't know why I come, myself, since no one seems willing to listen to me."
She laughed weakly. Both of their hands were gloved, but the heat of his touch came through the cotton, and she had a sudden vivid image of his naked hand in hers. Their fingers intertwined. His hand tightening over her wrist.
You are absurd. Pull your hand away.