The Duke of Shadows (2 page)

"You soil her by speaking of her," Marcus snapped. "Beware lest I call you out for it!"

Now she was truly alarmed. Something about this man—perhaps his slight smile at Marcus's threat—made her think he would be more than a match for her intended. "Gentlemen, this is absurd!"

"Come with me." His hand tightening cruelly into her forearm, Marcus all but dragged her back into the bungalow.

Inside, the sudden brightness of numerous lamps and candelabras made her wince. She pulled Marcus to a stop at the edge of the crowd, beneath one of the giant fans hanging from the ceiling. Its starched chintz streamers were wilting in the humidity. "I cannot credit your behavior," she said. "How could you behave so loutishly!"

"How could I?" Marcus pulled her around to face him. "Do you know who that man is?
Do you know?"

"That is my cousin," he managed, his face purple. "That is the half-breed who would have the dukedom instead of me."

"That—" She stopped, understanding.
"That
man is Julian Sinclair?"

"One and the same."

She turned away from him, staring blindly toward the dancers. Marcus had written to her of his second cousin, Julian Sinclair. Sinclair's father, Jeremy, had married a Eurasian, a woman of mixed English and native descent, when he had thought his brother the Marquess would have the dukedom. But within a short period, the cholera had killed Jeremy, and the Marquess had died in a hunting accident. That left Jeremy's young son as heir to the dukedom—Julian, whose blood was one-quarter native.

Now Julian Sinclair was grown, and his grandfather, the current duke, had made sure through every legal means that his grandson would follow him in the succession. But Marcus could not accept the idea that a man of mixed blood might inherit the title, when Marcus, pure-blooded English and in line after Sinclair to inherit, might himself wear the strawberry leaves so well.

"He didn't seem Indian," she whispered to herself.

"Of
course
he didn't!" Marcus exploded. "The Duke has done everything in his power to assure it—Eton, Cambridge, a seat in the Commons. But while a man can ape his betters, he can't change his blood. The proudest title in Britain is to go to a half-breed mongrel!"

She looked back to him, stunned. "Marcus, you sound so … hateful."

He stared at her, his mouth thinning into a grim line. "Is that so? To think, you've been here only five days, and already you're starting to pant after the natives. What would your parents say?"

She winced. A servant was passing with a tray of wine; she reached out and snared a glass. "That is cruel."

"Cruel but true. Even in death, they knew the honor of being Martins."

She took a deep swallow of the wretched Bordeaux and shut her eyes. Again and again it returned to haunt her—this image of her parents' faces, so small and pale as the ocean closed over them. The pain of their deaths did not fade; most nights, she still awoke weeping from nightmares of drowning with them. Only a miracle had guided her to the gig on which she had floated for almost a day; only God had given her the strength to cling to it as the hot sun beat down and she despaired of ever being found.

She set the glass on a sideboard and looked directly at him. The atmosphere was close and torpid, and sweat was trickling down her nape; strange, then, that she felt so cold. "You think it would have been more honorable to let myself drown?"

After a mute, stubborn moment, his face softened, and he reached for her hands. "No, my dear, of course not."

But she wondered. After all, he could play with his precious honor all he liked, risking it with his conspicuous philandering, his exorbitant gambling debts. But to have that honor tarnished by a woman! Surely it must irk him, to risk being made a laughingstock by upholding a betrothal with a woman of questionable reputation—a woman who had arrived in India sheltered not under the watchful gaze of her mother and father, but by a crew of rough-and-ready sailors. Those sailors had saved her life, but Anglo-Indian society was wondering if they hadn't robbed her of something even more important: her virtue.

Naturally, the fact that her betrothed's virtue was completely and publicly compromised was of no import at all.

She lifted her chin. "Oh, I was only speaking with him, Marcus. Do let's forget it. There's no need to look so grim."

Marcus exhaled. His eyes began to search the crowd beyond her shoulder. "I'm wondering why he hasn't been thrown out by now."

"Perhaps because he's the Marquess of Holdensmoor?"

He slanted her a sharp glance. "I'm not in the mood for your cheek, Emmaline. And for your information, the man's a threat to the Crown. He's been stirring up talk of a possible insurrection, trying to goad us into abandoning Delhi. Thinks our native troops might turn on us."

"Gracious! Might they?"

He waved a dismissal. "It's treason even to think it. No, of course they won't. We give them the bread their families eat in the morning. Just because of some silly nonsense at Barrackpore—"

Yes, she remembered that. It had been all the talk in Bombay upon her arrival in the port city. A sepoy, a native soldier, had turned on his British officers. He had shot two of them before he was stopped by his superiors; what had been so alarming, if she recalled correctly, was that none of the other natives had attempted to disarm him.

"He does have a point," she said. "It's a bit troubling."

"It was one isolated incident in more than two hundred years on this continent. And the man was directly hanged. We'll have no more trouble along those lines, I assure you."

"But if Lord Holdensmoor is partly native, perhaps he has heard something—"

"Emmaline!" Marcus wheeled to face her. "Yes, the man is part native, and for all I know, he's trying to scare us out of Delhi so the natives can take it back! In fact, I believe that is
exactly
what he is up to, and I have told the Commissioner so! Now cease your ignorant speculations and make yourself pleasant for your host."

"My
host?
Do you mean the one you're cuckolding?"

All color bleached from his face. Oh dear. Blond hair didn't look so well on skin that particular shade of green. "What did you just say?" he asked.

"So it's true." Nausea rolled through her stomach. "Well. I suppose you're going to tell me you still love me anyhow."

His eyes, such a guileless shade of blue, searched her face. "Of course I do."

She managed a smile. "Yes. We have loved each other quite a long time, haven't we? Since we were born, I believe."

"Since forever," he said, with an admirable show of sincerity. "And whatever rumors you hear to the contrary, there is no woman in the world for me but you. Some people are jealous, you see, and they would spread vicious gossip in order to harm me—"

"I know," she interrupted, and then stopped, swallowing hard when her voice would have broken. How sad to realize that she could no longer believe a word he said. "Marcus, I think I'd like to leave now."

He considered her for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Of course. But I will call on you at the Residency tomorrow. We'll discuss this, and you'll see, my dear. These lies—you must simply set them from your mind."

"Naturally," she murmured. "If you'll find Lady Metcalfe for me?"

She leaned back against the wall, watching him push his way through the congratulatory crowd as he went in search of her chaperone. Even though his back was turned, she knew every gesture that he made, sensed every smile that crossed his face. Such was the familiarity of twenty long years—decades of their families plotting to bring them together, arranging their betrothal, choosing the names of their unborn children. The Martins and Lindleys had never known that the only two who would live to fulfill their dream would be the very two who had never been quite as enthusiastic as the rest: the bride and groom themselves.

She closed her eyes, turning her head to press her cheek against the cool bungalow wall. The windows rattled in a strong gust of hot wind, and the candles flickered with the inrush of jasmine and darkness. Strange, how the night called to her so sweetly, promising a lovelier, more innocent place. Yes, India seemed to draw out her very soul. Perhaps that was why she felt so bruised inside—as though her defenses had been laid bare, allowing a terrible melancholy to settle in her core.

Surely she wasn't grieving over Marcus? She had abandoned her childish dreams of romantic love three years ago, the first time she'd learned of one of his many paramours. She'd been heartbroken then, but her mother had explained quickly enough: marriage was not about something as illusory and fleeting as love. It was about alliances, partnerships, the continuation of the family line. Marcus's grand and crumbling estates would be consolidated with the vast Martin wealth, and the two of them would create a dynasty that would compensate for her mother's failure to produce male issue.

So, what, then, could account for this sudden foreboding? It slid like a shadow between her and the brightly lit room, leaving her with the odd conviction that she stood apart, watching a great panorama like those they sometimes displayed in the BritishMuseum. This room seemed like Pompeii before the volcano eruption, or Rome before the fall: a civilization on the edge of disaster.

A shiver slid over her, and she glanced away, starting as she found herself locked in a vibrant emerald gaze: Lord Holdensmoor, coming in from the gardens. His face was expressionless as he stared at her. In defiance of both Marcus and her own gloomy reverie, she offered him a smile.

His own was rakish and swift, the effect of it on his aloof, aristocratic features dazzling to behold. And then he too was gone, his tall, broad form swallowed up by the crowd in a cloud of crushed silk and waving peacock feather fans.

Marcus made excuses for her. He told his friends that she was recovering from the long journey, and the shock, and her parents' death. All true, of course. But that did not explain her impatience, or her restlessness. She could not pinpoint the source of the feelings, much less guess what might assuage them. Of course she was fortunate; of course she was grateful; truly she was blessed to have survived. But surely not so she could pass the rest of her life in chatter about amateur theatricals and last season's races?

And so Emma had graciously declined Lady Metcalfe's offer, and then scandalized the woman by enlisting her ayah, a Hindustani woman called Usha, to guide her into the native quarters. When the streets in Chandni Chowk became too narrow for the carriage, Usha offered to lead her on by foot. And so they were maneuvering now down a crowded lane, Emma stepping carefully to avoid cow dung and bits of shattered clay from discarded teacups. On their left rose a white marble temple, where worshippers were ringing deep-throated bells suspended from the ceiling. To their right, a line of women in brightly colored silks paced past, slim brown arms arced upward to balance the sacks on their head. Their bangles and belled anklets flashed in the sun.

Emma had never seen a more disorganized or colorful scene in her life. The watercolors she'd bought in Bombay would not prove sufficient to capture anything here; only rich, vibrant oils would do. With any luck, her cousin in London had already dispatched the pigments she'd requested; otherwise she might have to hunt down the vivid, textured material used in these charming street banners. The one over the brassware shop, for instance—a picture of a blue-skinned god, beckoning passersby with his many arms.

She sighed. Marcus would throw a fit if she went searching for the local paint. He already disapproved of her "little habit." "You draw the most inappropriate things," he'd said yesterday, after flipping through, then tossing aside, the sketchbook she'd been keeping. She knew better than to defend herself. Flowers; pastoral scenes; children: these were the proper subjects of a lady's work. Fakirs, mahouts, and everything interesting were reserved for gentlemen, who produced
real
art, not decoration.

"Memsahib, is the sun bothering you?"

Emma came back to herself with a start. "No, Usha, I'm perfectly well. It's just all so…" A movement over Usha's shoulder caught her attention: a white cow was lumbering by, a necklace woven of marigolds looped around its neck. Her lips twitched. A most glamorous beast, this—and clearly of some importance, to be moving with such brisk purpose. A laugh escaped her. "It's marvelous, Usha. This place is remarkable."

Usha offered a shy smile in return. "In the
gali
there is less sun. Shall we go?"

They threaded their way through the foot traffic and into a quieter lane leading off the thoroughfare. The houses here, "havelis" Usha called them, were stacked up against one another, with windows covered by latticed screens of red rock that projected over the street, so the footpath below was shaded. The screens were very effective at blocking the eye from the interior; it took Emma a long moment to realize that there was a woman standing on the other side of the particular screen she was staring at. The lady's face was covered with a veil, making her appear on casual glance to be a curtain.

Emma touched her maid's wrist. "Usha, that woman's face—why is it covered?"

Usha's eyes tracked upward. "Oh—it is purdah, mem. Mussulmans and also Brahmins, the wives and daughters of our priests, cover their faces to show they are—" She paused, searching for the word. "To protect their
izzat,
their honor."

"Even when inside?"

"Whenever they can be seen by strange men."

"And how do they see when they go outside?"

"One can see through the veil, but a woman in purdah does not leave her house often."

Emma nodded slowly, looking once more to the woman at the window. Did she see them as well? Was she curious about who they were, where they were going?

Emma might have told her that it did not matter. Indian or British, so many women were confined to their houses at this moment. Some of them seemed to like it, and were reading
The Pilgrim's Progress
for the fiftieth time. "How do they bear it?"

"They do not wish to bring shame to their families, mem."

Yes. Of course. How well she recalled the strained look Marcus had worn when he first realized how she had managed to reach Bombay. As if the fact that she had been rescued by a freighter could invalidate the miracle of her survival! As if regard for others' empty opinions were more important to one's honor than one's own conduct. "It's not really fair to us, is it?"

"To us?" Usha studied her face. "But mem can come and go as she wishes, no?"

Emmaline opened her mouth to deliver some lighthearted reply—and a sharp blow landed on her back, sending her stumbling into the side of a building. She turned and found her arm in the grip of a squat, florid man in army uniform.

"Hello there, missus," her captor said slowly, in a thick Hertfordshire accent. "Nice day for an outing, isn't it?"

"Let go of me!" She tried to jerk away. He laughed, his breath rancid in her face.

"What's a nice memsahib like yourself doing all alone in the bazaar?" he asked, oblivious as she fought to slip her hand free from his hold on her glove.

"I am not alone—I am with my maid!"

"Her?" He glanced contemptuously at Usha, who, she was horrified to see, was being restrained by the man's cohort. "A native ain't no proper chaperone."

"And you are no proper gentleman," she snapped. "Assaulting a female!"

"I ain't assaulted you yet," he sneered, and his other hand dug up under her bonnet to hook into her chignon, yanking her head back. "Ain't such a bad idea, though. Don't know as any real lady would be out consorting with the natives, giving 'em ideas like you was."

"That's what she was doing," the other man agreed in an ugly, eager voice. "Givin' the blackies all the encouragement they need, parading herself in front of 'em like she was one of 'em."

"Of course, Harry, I heard me that we received a new shipload of doxies for the officers' mess. Could be that she's one, eh?" He thrust his hips up against her, crushing her crinolines; she twisted aside and his teeth closed on the tender skin of her neck.

"You pig!" She wrested her arm out from between them and slammed her elbow into his face. With a roar, he threw her sideways, and she slammed into the ground on her forearms, her bonnet flying off. Stunned, she fought for breath.
Get up, get up!
On a gasp, she forced herself over.

"Foul-mouthed witch! Harry, watch me teach this one a lesson!"

A metallic click sounded from behind her. Her attacker froze. "Hell," he muttered, and backed away a pace.

"Don't move," a cool voice recommended. "Not if you value your life."

She recognized the crisp accents. Sucking in a mighty breath, she pushed herself upright. Her elbows felt as though they'd been dipped in fire. Hauling her skirts out of the way, she shoved her bonnet onto her head and clambered to her feet—whence she gave the swine who'd held her a sharp shove for good measure. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. She pivoted.

The Marquess of Holdensmoor stood before her, one of his arms extended to aim a pistol between the ruffian's eyes. He swept her with a cursory glance before returning his attention to the soldier.

"Your name?"

The man swallowed audibly. "I weren't trying to harm her, sir, I jest thought—"

"I asked your name."

"We thought she was a light skirt!" the other man burst out, pushing Usha away from him. "No lady goes around Chandni Chowk all alone!"

"Enough from you," Lord Holdensmoor said. He sounded rather bored with the situation. "I don't think the Company would miss a soldier or two. Or perhaps you would like to explain to Colonel Lindley how you came to molest his betrothed."

"Colonel—" The man who had attacked Emma went white. "Jesus Christ." The other man moaned agreement.

The Marquess scoffed and deprimed the pistol, lifting it away from them. "Run," he said flatly. "If I see you again, I'll kill you."

As the men ran off, he turned to her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." The steadiness of her voice bolstered her; she spoke again just to hear it. "Yes, I'm fine."

He nodded, turning to Usha.
"Aap theek hain, na?"