The Tiger's Lady (10 page)

But he refused to think about it. Now was for pleasure—or for a healthy dose of anger that might double for pleasure.

His fingers inched into fists as he contemplated shoving a potted palm down Sir Humphrey’s throat.

And then a new voice drifted down the spiral staircase. Elegant as ever, with her russet curls glistening in the gaslight, Helene swept into the salon. “How gracious of you to honor us with your presence, Your Excellency.”

The establishment’s elegant owner’s eyes registered the tension in the room and the stiffened posture of the rajah and the Englishmen standing opposite. “Had I been notified of your intention to visit, I would have arranged a warmer greeting…” She let her words trail away, softly chiding.

Inwardly, Helene cursed furiously. Damn, she had nearly come too late. Couldn’t her wretched staff do
anything
right? Must she see to every detail herself?

But the statuesque redhead was careful to conceal her irritation. Her clients were wealthy and powerful men who paid well to be soothed, flattered, and admired by docile females. So instead of scowling as she would have liked, she forced her lips into a smile, glided to the bottom of the stairs, and settled a jeweled hand on the rajah’s arm.

Her smile wavered as she felt those granite muscles flex and bunch beneath her fingers. He was furious. Then she noticed that his other hand was inching into his tunic pocket.

The room fell silent, fairly crackling with tension.

The rajah’s eyes burned into Sir Humphrey’s face.

He wasn’t going to make this easy, Helene saw. Abruptly, she swept her turbaned guest a deep curtsy. “I beg you will forgive my rudeness in not being present to receive you, Your Excellency. It was quite unpardonable.”

Without rising she waited, her head averted, her fingers clenched on that tautly muscled forearm.

Helene prayed her visitor would release his grip on the deadly
khanjar
he always carried in his pocket. If not, in the next few moments she would lose everything she had worked so many years to achieve.

The rajah remained immobile, his eyes locked upon Sir Humphrey’s sneering face.

“Must I beg then?” Helene breathed, so quietly that none but the two of them could hear. “If you wish it, I shall, of course. You know that.”

The rajah frowned, appearing to recollect his surroundings. Slowly his face regained its usual impassivity. Helene let out a slow sigh as she felt the taut muscles relax beneath her hand.

“You are too gracious,” her visitor said at last, his deep, potent voice rolling to the farthest corner of the room. “The discourtesy was all mine, I fear.” His eyes slanted down as he raised Helene to her feet, noting the high color in her cheeks.

So she had seen the danger, had she? He supposed he ought to be glad for it. If she hadn’t stepped in, that damned civil servant would almost certainly be dead right now.

But he was not ready to quit the field yet, the rajah decided.

His jet eyes flickered, seeking Sir Humphrey’s face. “I fear I have yet to learn your English ways, my dear Helene. I did not realize until now that you have yapping bazaar dogs here in England just as we do in India.”

“Why, you—” The baronet heaved himself ponderously to his feet. “I’ll call you out for that! That is, if you were a
gentleman,
I would. But that is something scum like yourself can never be!”

Sir Humphrey’s companion tried to tug him back to the divan, but he shoved her roughly aside. “Aye, ’twould do England a great deal of good to rid itself of slime like yourself. Bloody strange state of affairs, indeed, when a decent Englishman can’t go about his business without running into a heathen face wherever he goes.” The man’s color deepened to the unhealthy hue of raw beef left too long in the sun.

“Enough,
Sir Humphrey!” Amber eyes snapping, Helene moved between the two men. “You appear to have enjoyed too much of my champagne, sir. You would do best to let Zara escort you upstairs and show you a more pleasurable manner of working off those ill humors of yours. Zara has told me how much she’s been missing you, haven’t you, my dear?”

Immediately the woman nodded violently, tugging her companion away toward the stairs hidden behind a line of potted palms.

Although less obvious, Helene was quick to maneuver her own companion away, too.

They ascended the grand marble staircase in silence, neither speaking until they reached a private suite of rooms at the rear of the second floor. Inside gaslight flashed from mirrored tables, crystal chandeliers, and erotic etchings in gilt frames.

It was not a tasteful room nor even a comfortable one, but that was not Helene’s intention.

Rather the room was bold, aggressive, and ornate, just like its owner. Just the way her clients
liked
their rooms to be.

All except for this man, who was perhaps the strangest of all her visitors.

As soon as the door closed, Helene rounded on her companion. “Are you
mad?”
she demanded.

“Don’t press me, my dear.” The rajah’s voice was low and very dangerous. “Not tonight.” Suddenly his intonation seemed to change, the stiff formality giving way to the quick, clipped tones of a native English speaker. “By heaven, what I need is a drink, not your moralizing.”

“Will you have tea?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Of the sort you stock? All dust and fannings, and inferior fannings at that. I think not.”

Helene’s eyes flashed. “Pray, forgive me, Your Excellency. We’re fresh out of Dragon Well and Padre Souchong and your other exalted types. We can’t
all
be connoisseurs, after all. And
my
customers couldn’t care less about the kind of tea I stock.”

Her visitor simply laughed. “No, I don’t expect they would. But your whiskey is excellent and will more than suffice, Helene. Don’t let
my
little peccadilloes disturb you.”

“I shan’t,” his hostess snapped. “Don’t worry!”

The rajah’s eyes were as hard as he stalked to a rosewood cabinet and poured himself a generous amount of whiskey. In grim silence he tossed the liquor down, then poured another. Only then did he glance back to his silent companion. “You do not join me?”

Tight-lipped, Helene shook her head.

The rajah shrugged. “Humphrey is bloody lucky he still holds his tongue between his teeth.”

“So are you. Whatever had you in your head?”

For answer, the bearded man only drained his glass.

“I hardly understand you! First you engage a suite of rooms in my house expressly to maintain your anonymity. Then you do the one mad thing which would ensure the loss of that anonymity!”

“Nearly
did, my dear Helene. And I thank you most humbly for your timely intercession.” His glass was refilled and emptied once again. “I fear I am not quite rational tonight.” The man’s dark eyes glittered, fixed on the firelight. “I can see the bloody thing even now. No, I can
feel
it almost, hot and malevolent, as if it were still within my pocket. It is a curse—a curse beyond anything in this world.”

His companion clucked impatiently. “Really, my lord, sometimes I think you have been in the East too long. It has changed you—in ways you do not even suspect.”

“Do you think so?” her companion asked mockingly. “For myself, I think I have not been there long enough.” The rajah carelessly unfastened the sapphire pin from his turban and dropped it onto the table.

Thick and black, his hair emerged from beneath the purple cloth. Moments later his jeweled tunic and embroidered sash fell away.

In the firelight his torso gleamed like molten bronze, lean and hard-muscled.

Tanned, but not nearly so dark as the mahogany of his face.

His long fingers dropped to his waist; impatiently he stripped away his loose silk breeches and slippers. And then he stood, quite naked, his chest matted with curling hair, his long flanks polished to a fiery sheen by the firelight.

He frowned then, this man whose body was such a strange mosaic of mahogany and patches of lighter bronze.

“Deveril.” The word was a hungry sigh. Helene wet her lips, gazing at that tall, lean body.

A strange man, an arrogant man.

And a man who was
no
more a rajah than she was a Frenchwoman.

Her visitor’s name and title, in fact, were as English as they came. For the man before the fire was none other than the elusive Julian Fitzroy Deveril Pagan, Marquess of Hamilton and Staunton. Viscount St. Cyr.

And it was
his
ruby which had sold at auction that night.

Deveril.

He still had the most magnificent body Helene had ever seen.

Her amber eyes darkened, taking in the sight of her companion’s lithe, work-hardened back and shoulders. It was, she thought, a stunning body. Awesome. Powerful. Perfectly proportioned.

And splendidly uninhibited.

Yes, in that disguise he was the very image of his old friend, the
real
Rajah of Ranapore. Only
he
was back in India right now.

Hungrily she followed the broad curve of shoulder down to the rippling back and bronzed flanks, lean and powerful in the firelight.

At that moment the jaded, sophisticated owner of London’s finest brothel found herself contemplating a great folly. She who should have known better found herself thinking about leaving everything and throwing in her lot with the magnificent male before her.

Thankfully, the moment of weakness passed. Long ago Helene had learned—back when she was simple Helen Lawrence—that love was a weakness women did far better without.

So instead of blurting out a foolish declaration and spoiling everything, Helene frowned and shook her head. “Really, Deveril, you are quite mad! If anyone else had discovered your damnable masquerade—”

Her companion smiled coolly, his eyes mocking. “Ah, but my performance was flawless. The ruby was sold, and none the wiser. Not one person in that jaded crowd had the slightest idea who I was, not even that bastard Ruxley.” The viscount’s face hardened. “My secret is safe with you, I trust. Tomorrow night you may tell whomever you like, Helene, for I’ll be gone. But for now, let’s just say that I don’t fancy the Queen’s minions descending like a plague of malarial mosquitoes, anxious to give me ribbons for…”

He did not finish.

“For what you did at Cawnpore? For saving those women and children from the mutineers?”

Pagan’s eyes glittered as he stared down into the dancing flames. “As God is my witness, I’ll take no ribbons for that.” His jaw locked in rigid lines. “Not when I couldn’t save my
own
mother!”

“Your mother?” Helene frowned. “From all you told me you had an impossible choice at that cliff near Cawnpore. Neither the duchess nor your ayah could have made it up without your help. And there was only time to save one of them, with the mutineers right on your heels. Be glad that in the end the ayah—your
real mother
—made the choice for you, pushing the duchess forward and then turning back toward the jungle. It was
her
choice, Dev, her life given freely for you and the other women and children you were shepherding to safety. There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about, surely.”

A vein hammered at Pagan’s temple. “But she was my mother, Helene. Not my ayah, but my
mother
! And I stood there and watched her run to her death without saying or doing anything to stop her! I might as well have held the gun to her head myself!”

“Rubbish. There was nothing else to do, under the circumstances.
She
knew that.”

Pagan knifed a hand through his hair. “I should have thought of something. I should have found a way to—”

“There
was
no way, don’t you see! Why can’t you just put it behind you?”

Pagan’s face filled with bitterness. “Why? Because I never did accept her as my mother. Because I never gave her the slightest word of tenderness after she confessed I was really
her
son, not the duchess’s. Dear Lord, I remember the day she told me as if it were yesterday. I could only stare at her like some tongue-tied, witless schoolboy.”

“It must have been a grave shock.”

Pagan laughed harshly. “Yes, you might call it that. I found out that day that I had a great deal more pride than I’d thought, Helene. And may God help me, I never gave a thought to how
she
must be feeling. All I could think of was what people would say if they knew, how it would affect my friends—what few I had. A self-righteous little prig, that’s what I was.” His eyes hardened. “And then in the jungle everything changed overnight. With her gone I was free to pretend I was as English as the next fellow. My exalted father would certainly never deny the fact—not publicly at least. He wanted a son and heir too badly for that. Though in private…”

Helene touched Pagan’s arm awkwardly. “You did what you had to do, Dev. So did
she.
But it’s done now, and best forgotten.”

“It will
never
be done. Not as long as I know that my life was bought with her blood. And I never had time to tell her, to ask why—” Pagan broke off with a curse and refilled his glass. “Sorry. I am boring you with these maudlin tales. Forget it.”