Rogue Grooms (48 page)

It was truly home at last.

Meena nodded at David, and even to Emily. When they first arrived in Calcutta, Emily had received the distinct sense that Meena did not care greatly for her new granddaughter-in-law. But, in recent days, she had thawed a bit—especially when she was given the news that Emily was expecting a happy event.

“
Lokhi mei, ”
Meena called to Anjali. “Come, walk in with me. Take my arm.”

Anjali hurried forward to slide her hand into her great-grandmother’s crooked elbow, giving her support as they slipped off their shoes in front of the tall, carved doors.

“This is a momentous occasion,” Meena murmured. “After this, my existence here is complete.”

“But not until after you see the new baby,
Didu,”
Anjali answered urgently.

Meena gave her a gentle smile. “No. Not until then.” She nodded at David, who stepped forward to knock at the doors.

Emily scarcely dared to breathe as the portals slowly, achingly slowly, swung open, as if pushed by unseen hands. She shivered in spite of the cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders. She had not felt such nervous tremblings since the day she walked down the long aisle at St. George’s, Hanover Square, and took David’s hand in hers, as she did now. She slipped her fingers into his warm clasp, and together they moved into the temple.

A more different space from St. George’s could scarcely be imagined. The room was cavernous, as vast and cold as the stone it was carved from. The walls and ceilings were covered with even more carvings, more dancing figures and embracing couples, arching around them in a living, writhing mass. At the very end, in a high, gilded niche lit by hundreds of candles and with dozens of flowers tossed at its dancing feet and garlanded about its neck, was a statue of Shiva. The god of stillness and dance, bounty and wrath, destruction and fertility—all the contradictions of life. He was gilded and shimmering, with a diamond the size of a pigeon’s egg set in his forehead and pearls looped amongst all the flowers.

In the flickering light, he almost seemed truly to dance with joy that he had the Star back in his possession at last.

Meena and Anjali walked up to the jade base of the statue and bowed deeply. Meena chanted some low, keening prayer, her voice echoing to the very ceiling and beyond to the sky.

Emily took this all in, fascinated, but she shrank back in the shadows. This was a part of her—the Star had preoccupied her thoughts for so long, had even, in a way, brought her together with David again. But her part in its history was finished. She had found the Star for David, so he could fulfill his vow to his grandmother. Now it was done. The rest of her life could begin.

“You should go with them,” she whispered to her husband.

“Will you be all right?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, darling.” She gave him a reassuring smile, and squeezed his arm before letting him go.

She watched as he joined his grandmother and daughter at the feet of the statue. Emily’s hands tightened in a prayerful clasp while Meena lifted the lid of the silver case and drew forth the Star. Meena’s chanting grew louder, and she raised the jewel high. The glow of the candles reflected the blue depths. What would happen now? Emily thought, aching with suspense. Would the walls crumble? The roof cave in?

Nothing of the sort, of course. This was not one of Georgina’s Minerva Press novels. Meena’s chant died away, the reverberations of it lingering in the chill air. Then—silence. A silence deeper than any Emily had ever known.

Meena placed the Star into David’s hands, and it was he who returned it to the god’s golden feet. There it sparkled in an answering dance.

Meena fell to her knees in prayer, but David and Anjali came back to Emily’s side. David put his arms around her, holding her close.

“It is done now, my love,” he told her.

“Didu
says that now the curse is lifted. Your son will live a long, happy life and bring you much honor. And I will marry a rich prince.” Her small nose wrinkled at this last pronouncement.

Emily laughed gently. “Oh, will you truly, my dear? A prince?”

Anjali shrugged carelessly. “So she says. But I know that is not true.”

“How do you know that,
shona-moni
?” David asked her.

“Because I am going to become a famous artist, like Aunt Georgina, and travel the world creating great works of stunning beauty,” Anjali declared matter-offactly. “There will be no time for any silly princes.” With that, she turned and made her way back down the long expanse of the great temple, disappearing into the afternoon sunlight.

“I wonder where she got such a notion,” David whispered.

Emily tipped her head back to stare up at him innocently. “I am sure I have no idea. At least she has given up the idea of becoming a great circus performer.”

“Indeed. We must be grateful for every blessing.”

“Yes. We must.” Emily lowered her forehead to his chest, feeling the strong, reassuring rhythm of his heart against her skin. Her life was full of blessings, in truth. David, Anjali, the baby. And more. “David, my dearest.”

“Yes, Em?”

“Is it really over? Truly?”

She felt his finger slide beneath her chin, lifting her gaze back up to him. “My grandmother’s curse—may—hap. Our love—never.” And he kissed her, his lips tender and passionate, promising forever in this place of ancient destiny.

It was a promise Emily intended to see was kept.

Read on for an excerpt
from another passionate Regency
romance by Amanda McCabe,
The Golden Feather.
Available in the omnibus edition

 

 

Coming in September 2010 from Signet Eclipse

It was another busy evening at the Golden Feather.

Caroline stood alone in her small office, peering through her secret peephole at the large gaming room. Every chair was filled, every champagne glass glistened, and every table was piled with coins, notes, and jewels. Laughter and the sweet scent of the many flower arrangements floated through the air to her.

Even though the Season was winding to a close, the more daring of society still flocked to the Golden Feather, just as they had every night for four years now.

She gave a small smile. This was perfect. Perfect for one of her last nights in the gaming club. It would be a grand send-off, and no one in London would ever-forget the mysterious Mrs. Archer.

Letting the little peephole cover slide into place, she turned back to her office and went over to the desk. The polished mahogany surface was covered with ledgers and papers, but she ignored them and reached for a small, neatly folded letter. She had read it a dozen times since it had arrived a week ago, but it still never failed to make her smile.

Phoebe was soon to finish her studies at Mrs. Medlock’s School for Young Ladies. Her excitement over her girlish plans seemed to spill from the carefully penned words. Caroline couldn’t help but feel a bit excited herself. And not just for Phoebe, but for herself as well.

At long last, she was leaving the Golden Feather. The place had served its purpose well. She had a nice, tidy fortune tucked away, and stood to gain even more when she chose a buyer for the Golden Feather. She was a wealthy woman, and she and Phoebe would never have to worry about money again.

And if her soul had shriveled a little more each night as she strolled through the opulent rooms, watching fools lose their money, listening to lechers’ suggestive whispers, it was worth it for that security.

Was it not?

Caroline carefully folded the letter and placed it in her locked drawer. Her only escape in these four years had been her annual holidays with Phoebe. Now they could be together all the time, be a true family again. That was worth anything, anything at all.

She had already arranged to rent a house for the summer, at the seaside resort of Wycombe-on-Sea, where they had sometimes gone with their parents as little girls. There she could rest at last and wash away the past years in the clean seawater. She and Phoebe could plan how best to introduce Phoebe to some kind of good society. Surely their parents’ names still carried weight with someone. . . .

A knock sounded at the inner office door, interrupting these musings.

“Yes?” Caroline called.

“It’s Mary, madam.”

“Come in, Mary.”

Mary was Caroline’s maid, and had been ever since she had come to the Golden Feather. Once, in another life, she had been Caroline’s nanny. She was the only other person who knew her true identity, and Caroline trusted her implicitly.

Mary bustled into the room, carrying a red wig, a black silk mask, and a small rosewood cosmetics box. “It’s almost midnight, madam. They’ll be expecting your grand appearance.”

The tentative excitement and hope vanished before the prospect of the evening ahead. Caroline sighed. “Yes, of course.”

Obviously sensing her melancholy, Mary patted her shoulder comfortingly. “It won’t be long now, madam. In two weeks, maybe even less if that buyer comes through, we’ll be gone from here.”

“You are quite right, Mary. Not long now.” Caroline rose from the desk and went around to the small, gilt-framed mirror on the wall. She took the red wig, fashioned into elaborate curls and decorated with ebony and crystal combs, and fitted it carefully over her own short, silvery-blond hair. Over it she tied the ribbons of the black silk mask that covered all her face except her mouth and lower jaw.

“Do you have the lip rouge?” she asked, making sure that no telltale blond strands showed beneath the red.

“Of course, madam.” Mary brought the tiny enameled pot of rouge out from the cosmetics box and handed it to her.

Caroline used the little brush to paint her lips crimson, making them appear larger and richer than her usual pale rose bow. Then she slid glittering emerald drops into her earlobes and removed her shawl to reveal a low-cut, deep green satin gown. Long black gloves and high-heeled green satin shoes completed what she thought of as her “costume.”

No one who ever encountered her as Mrs. Caroline Aldritch could possibly connect her to Mrs. Archer of the Golden Feather.

“All right, Mary,” she said in a voice that seemed even deeper and lower. “I am ready to make my appearance.”

 

Justin stood in the doorway between the dining room and the gaming room of the Golden Feather and looked about in growing boredom.

It was just like all the other gaming establishments he had frequented before he left for India. Fancier than most, perhaps, luxuriously appointed and full of fine flowers and champagne. And the people crowded around the tables were undoubtedly well dressed and well-bred, gentlemen in evening dress and ladies, some masked, in bright silks and jewels. But it was the same.

There was the same look on these people’s faces, a mix of desperation and hope. The laughter had the same sharp edge. The same smell of liquor, cigar smoke, and perfume hung in the air.

What had he ever found so appealing in such places? It was appalling, especially after the brutal honesty and the shimmering skies of India. He wanted to run from it all, to breathe in fresh, clean air.

But once he had loved it all with a desperate excitement he saw now on his brother’s face.

Harry sat at one of the card tables, avidly studying the hand he had just been dealt. A woman in a blue feathered mask sat beside him. She laid her kid-gloved hand on his arm and whispered something in his ear. Harry nodded and laughed, a sharp, brittle sound.

Justin noted the rather large pile of coins in front of his brother.

He frowned and would have started over to the table, but someone coming out of the dining room bumped into him. Champagne sloshed from the man’s glass onto the marble floor, just missing Justin’s shoe.

Justin turned around and came face-to-face with his old friend the Honorable Freddie Reed.

It had been only four years since Justin had seen him, on the morning of that fateful duel, but Freddie looked twenty years older. His eyes were blood-shot, underscored by bags and wrinkles. His skin was a grayish pallor, and his ample belly strained at his yellow brocade waistcoat.

Obviously, Freddie had continued on the pathway to dissipation he and Justin had started on so long ago. It was startling to realize that he himself might very well look like this if he had not gone out to India when he had.

Justin quickly concealed his astonishment behind a polite smile. “Freddie!” he said. “How are you, old man?”

“Eh?” Freddie squinted at him, then cried, “Justin! Dem me if it isn’t old Justin Seward. Back from India, are you? Must have been very recently—you’re as brown as a nut! Quite the pukka sahib.” He laughed uproariously at his own weak witticism.

“Quite,” Justin answered. “I only arrived in London today I just came here to accompany Harry.”

“Ah, yes. Young Harry. He’s been following in his brother’s footsteps, so I hear. I often see him about.” Freddie turned to the woman at his side, a petite blonde in pink satin who was boldly unmasked. She was obviously as foxed as Freddie was, swaying unsteadily on her feet. “Meet Justin, m’dear. He used to be the boldest rogue in London. Now he’s an old, respectable nabob, just back from India, and an earl to boot.”

The woman giggled. “Pleased to meet’cha, I’m sure.”

“Run along and wait for me at the faro table, sweet,” Freddie told her. “I want to talk to Justin.” The woman, sped on her way by a tap on the bottom from Freddie, left in a cloud of more giggles. Then Freddie turned back to Justin. “I am glad to see you again, Justin. Town’s not been the same since old Larry Aldritch died and James Burne-Jones left. Not the same at all.”

“Oh? Where did James go to?”

“Didn’t you know? He left the day after your duel with Holmes, sent off to America by his father. I heard he married a rich widow in Boston.” Freddie shook his head mournfully. “No, it hasn’t been the same at all. But the Golden Feather is jolly good fun. Don’t you think?”