The Duke of Shadows (3 page)

"With
you?"

"Just so," she retorted, and sagged back against the wall. Her poor elbows! She clutched them to her and shook her head. Her teeth were suddenly chattering. "Just so," she whispered.

A warm touch, someone's hand on her shoulder, brought her head up. The Marquess was standing in front of her, his eyes steady. "You
are
all right," he said gently.

"Oh yes. I'm splendid."

"And fierce to boot. You gave him quite a push."

"Well, I rather think he deserved it." She took a long breath. "They meant to—ravish us, I think."

"Something like that."

His hand gave her shoulder a slight squeeze. It occurred to her that he should not be touching her. She stepped out of his reach.

He holstered his pistol. "Don't come here again, Miss Martin. Not without Colonel Lindley."

"I—" Her throat closed. "Yes. It was foolish of me."

He glanced away. "This is not England. There are different rules here."

She laughed. It was such a strange, humorless sound that she reached up to touch her lips, to make sure it was she who had produced the noise. "I beg to differ. As I've just learned, the rules here appear to be the same as anywhere."

He raked a hand through his thick black hair. The resulting disorder lent him a devil-may-care air that sat oddly with his serious expression. "What possessed you to venture into the bazaar?"

"What, am I to be cooped up in a bungalow all day, sweltering?"

"Yes." His voice was clipped with impatience. "Surely you were told what India would be like."

"I was not! In fact, that is exactly what I was discovering when I was so—rudely assaulted by those pathetic approximations of Englishmen!"

Amusement broke over his face. "Is that so?"

"Yes, it is so!" Anger, she realized.
That
was what she was feeling. "This is an entirely different country, a different
world!
Why should I be expected to pretend I were still in England?"

She looked him straight in the face. He didn't seem intimidated by the challenge; indeed, as their stare lengthened, he arched a brow. "It was a rhetorical question, was it not?"

She rolled her eyes. "Very well. Let me take advice from a man who skulks about in gardens, bolting liquor on the sly! How shall I best ignore the country in which I find myself? Would a blindfold serve?"

"Really, Miss Martin!" His voice altered, becoming softer and more intimate
—teasing
her. "Surely you shock your friends with this misplaced curiosity! India is here to be conquered, not appreciated."

"You don't believe that."

"Colonel Lindley does."

Long habit made her defensive. "And what of it? He serves the interests of Queen and country!"

"Well then," he said, laughing. "Your choice is clear. Is it to be your own priorities, or those of Britannia and the Colonel?"

She threw up her hands. "You have me there, my lord. I expect with your next sentence you'll have me bundled off to my embroidery and a life of eternal sequesterment!"

He sighed. "Better that than with your skirts around your ears in an alley."

"How
vulgar!"

But Marcus would never agree to that, she thought. Marcus had less interest in the native culture than he did in his choice of hats. "Fine," she said, and rubbed her arms again. They were bound to bruise; she would have to wear a shawl all though supper.

They returned to the buggy in silence, the driver ceding the reins to the Marquess. Because there was hardly enough room in the back for three of them, she climbed up next to Lord Holdensmoor. He slanted her a speaking glance. She ignored it. If this were to be her last outing, she was determined to have the best view.

After a few minutes, she sighed. "It's such a lovely country."

"You should go to Almora," the Marquess said, guiding the horses effortlessly through a tangle of cows, goats, and frolicking children.

"Colonel Lindley says that no one is going this year. He says the weather's too pleasant to go to the trouble. I suppose I'll have to take his word on it; I've never been warmer in my life."

The Marquess was silent for a moment. "Damn the weather," he said then softly.

His shocking language made her remember something. "Perhaps you wish it were hotter?"

"Perhaps I do."

"Because that would promote our deserting Delhi for the season," she continued. "Yes, my intended informed me that you're trying to convince the British to abandon the city."

"Your
intended
has a devilish way of twisting my words. I want the women and children out, and I want more European troops in. You tell Lindley that, will you?"

"I don't think I'll mention this little escapade at all, actually." Emma leaned back to study him. It was coming to her now that she had been abominably rude; he had saved her from a terrible injury, and she had railed at him for it. But he had not been put out by her behavior. If anything, he had seemed amused by it. "You are rather singular, Lord Holdensmoor."

"I might say the same of you."

"Yes, but perhaps you would not mean it as a compliment."

He looked to her briefly. "But perhaps I would."

His eyes were such an improbable green. Maybe he was so unflappable because he was accustomed to people making fools of themselves when he looked at them.

Usha passed up a flask of water. Emma shook her head and handed it to the Marquess. He held the flask a few inches above his lips as he drank, his throat muscles rippling. She stared at the long line of his neck, strangely mesmerized by it. How it would feel to place one's hand there, on the front of his throat, as he drank? She touched her own neck, swallowing experimentally.

She realized with a start that he had turned back to her. His regard was searching. Color rose to her cheeks, and she looked away.

"Miss Martin, are you aware of what is happening across northern India? Are any of the ladies aware?"

She cleared her throat. "We're not witless, my lord. We've heard of the disturbances. But if the officers believe in the loyalty of their troops—"

"Native troops, Miss Martin. That is the only sort Delhi has." He leaned a little closer, and she caught the faint scent of sandalwood, overlaid by leather and soap. "Tell me why these troops should feel any loyalty whatsoever to the people who have reduced them to subjects—here, in the land of their birth."

She tilted her head. "I, of course, am not an expert on colonial politics."

"But you do seem to have common sense, which distinguishes you from most of your masculine counterparts."

She considered him for a long moment. "You really do think something's going to happen."

He nodded once, still holding her eyes. "And I suggest, Miss Martin, that you go to Almora, even if the Colonel will not accompany you."

Her anxiety had her leaning forward now too. "But if you have information, some evidence that the natives are planning an uprising, you must tell the Commissioner, and quickly!"

His long lips tilted in a half-smile. "Do you think I went to Mrs. Eversham's dinner for the pleasure of her company?"

The words felt like a slap. Surely she was mistaken; surely he was not alluding to Marcus's affair. She would not have expected such spite from him.

Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for he prevented her next words with a quiet, "No. My apologies. That came out very badly." He began to speak again, then seemed to think better of it. His expression became thoughtful.

She looked away from him, aware that she had erred. If one's intended was inclined to infidelity, the decent thing was to pretend innocence on the matter. But now Lord Holdensmoor knew that she was not so ignorant after all.

"You
are
singular," he said.

"Yes," she said quietly. "I'm afraid so."

At the same time, they both sat back against the seat. A sudden blissful breeze from the north caught Emma's bonnet, lifting it off her head and sending it spinning off behind them. She turned to follow its progress. A child of five or six years ran out into the lane, grabbing the hat and cramming it over his tiny ears. The sight drew a laugh from her, despite her mood.

She felt the weight of the Marquess's gaze. "Shall we go back for it?" he asked.

"No, let it be." She laughed again, taken by the ludicrous image of the boy in the frilly hat. "I didn't like it anyhow." She faced front again, tilting her chin up. It was quite pleasant, this sensation of warmth on her scalp. "They don't want to lose this place," she said. "If there's a danger, they'll be sure to act."

"Do you speak of the British, or the Indians?" the Marquess asked. "For on either count, I fear you're correct."

She clawed for the break in the net, then slipped to her feet to open the curtains. The Residency grounds bordered a broad street that marked the perimeter of the walled city. The lane seemed eerily desolate in the blue light of dusk. A balmy breeze whispered through the trees, carrying with it the creaks of rickshaws and muted cries of street vendors in the bazaar a quarter mile away.

A few hours yet until Marcus came to fetch her for dinner. He had been gone to Agra for five days, and would expect a cheerful countenance. She thought she might be glad of his return, if only for the opportunity to escape the Residency. Lady Metcalfe had been ailing, and Emma had not dared to strike out on her own again. If not for her sketchbook and the new charcoals Sir Metcalfe had given her, she would have gone mad from boredom. Even so, the walls felt as if they were beginning to close on her.

With a sigh, she turned back to consider the room. The blue bottle on the dresser caught her eye. It held laudanum mixed with quinine; Lady Metcalfe had given it to her after Marcus had remarked favorably on its calming effects. Privately Emma had hoped that it would stop her nightmares. So much for that. But it
was
soothing.

She measured out a tiny bit, splashing some onto her sleeve as she lifted it to her mouth. Then she set down the bottle and looked into the mirror. A pale, oval face stared back, dominated by eyes that were shadowed with fatigue. Not sleeping well. Sweat had turned her hair a limp brown. With fingers loosening under the spell of the opiate, she smoothed a lock from her brow. No one would ever count her as more than passably pretty, but usually she didn't look
quite
this bad.

A parrot flew away from the sill, making her heart flutter as hard as his bright green wings. She put her hand to her chest and rubbed.

On a sudden decision, she reached for her shawl, tying it quickly about her shoulders as she slipped out of the room. As she paced down the Turkey leader in the corridor, a breeze came through the open shutters, carrying the scent of oleander and the metallic sharpness of the heat.

She realized as soon as she opened the library door that there were people inside. But it was too late—the conversation stopped at the squeak of the hinges, and she had no choice but to make herself known.

Lord Holdensmoor and Sir Metcalfe were standing at the far end of the room, a map rolled out on the desk between them. Sir Metcalfe looked relieved to see her; the Marquess smiled as well, but turned immediately back to the map.

"Miss Martin," the Resident said. "You are well?"

"Very well. I did not mean to disturb you."

"No, no, we are done here."

The Marquess looked up, a peculiar expression on his face. "We are hardly done."

"I will go," Emma said quickly, but Sir Metcalfe waved a dismissive hand and yanked at the bellpull.

"Nonsense. I've already been waiting above a quarter hour for the servant to bring the tea. Where is he? I'll be back directly."

Sir Metcalfe moved past her with uncharacteristic speed. When the door closed behind him, the Marquess said, "He is running from me."

"Oh?" She approached the desk. "But why? What is it you're looking at there?"

He hesitated, then sighed, pushing a sheet over. The laudanum was unfurling through her; she had to blink a few times to bring the numbers and names into focus:

Seventh Dragoon Guards; Queen's Army, 23,000; 58th Native Infantry. "Stations and regiments," she said, bemused. "But why in the world would you need these maps? Surely you aren't involved with the military." Marcus would have been sure to complain about it.

"Do you see these numbers?" He pointed to a figure written in a cramped hand at the top right corner. "Three hundred thousand and fourteen thousand. Three hundred thousand men in the Indian Army." His finger traced over the number. "Only fourteen thousand European."

"A small number," she said uncertainly. "But natives have always served in the Indian army."

"Three Indians for every Englishman two decades ago," he agreed. "Now six for every Englishman."

"Surely you can't be against that. You, yourself, are…" She trailed off, blushing, and he shook his head.

"I take no offense at the mention of my heritage. It is my better half, I think." He smiled. "Or better quarter, though that lacks a certain ring. My concern is for the peace. While I firmly believe that England has no place in India—" Her huff of shock made him smile again. "Well, and I
am
part native, Miss Martin."

"And also an English peer, a future duke!" She knew she was sputtering, but she had never
heard
of such a sentiment!

His eyes could become weapons. They focused on her now with alarming intensity, seeming to become greener as she stared into them, hopelessly pinned. "I will be the Duke of Auburn," he said, and she had the strangest thought that he was not pleased by that eventuality. "But it is an English title, you know. It gives me no claims to Indian soil."

Emma shook her head. "I've never encountered such talk."

He was considering her in turn, his expression pensive. "No, I don't suppose you have. How are you, by the way? I had planned to leave a note inquiring after your health."

"Oh—you mean from the other day?" She shrugged. "Recovered, thank you."

"Yes?" With an upraised brow, he reached for her wrists. Unprepared, she let him take them. He turned her around, lifting out one arm, and then the other, to examine where she had hit the ground in Chandni Chowk.

If Sir Metcalfe returned now, it would be very awkward. But lassitude had fallen over her, so she held still, remarking her concern only by a pointed glance to the closed door. "Harmless scratches," she said.

"Healing nicely." His palms slid up her arms, his fingers skating lightly over the tender skin of her inner elbows. She caught her breath and cast him a startled glance over her shoulder.

His eyes came up to hers, and his hands let go. He stepped back, a look of surprise on his face.

"I beg your pardon," he said. After a moment, he turned and bent to retrieve a satchel that had been sitting by the table. "This is for you." He pulled out a slim, gilt-edged volume.

She took it and turned it over in her hands. The tooling on the leather was very fine. "'Wanderings of a Pilgrim in Search of the Picturesque,'" she read aloud slowly. She would not have taken the laudanum had she known so much reading awaited her!

"Yes, a volume by Mrs. Fanny Parkes. She toured all over the subcontinent in the twenties and thirties. I thought you might find her account of interest—although I regret to inform you, she also suffered the curse of male chaperones."

Emma laughed despite herself. It came out husky and slow. "You shouldn't be giving me gifts. Marcus would have your head."

He frowned a little at that, as if she had puzzled him, although his mouth was still smiling. "You may say you found it at the club."

"What a clever idea. I think I will." She opened the book at random, to a plate entitled
Lachchmi, Goddess of Beauty.
Her finger traced the outlines of the goddess's voluptuous figure. "Thank you. She looks as if she might step out of the page and come alive."

"You're welcome." He paused. "I would not recommend that you follow Mrs. Parkes's example, of course."

"Oh?" She looked up.

"She dabbled in opium." He was watching her very closely now. "Nasty stuff. Addictive, after prolonged exposure. Of course, no one smokes it anymore, that's fallen out of fashion here. But I've seen several memsahibs form an unhealthy attachment to their laudanum bottles."

She shut the book around her finger. "I would never—"

"You can always tell by their eyes if they've been using it," he continued casually. "Some women look quite terrifying, with those huge, enlarged pupils. Others…" He smiled, and reached out to brush a thumb across her cheekbone. "Others look quite charming. Nevertheless, it's not a look one should cultivate."

His finger left a trail of warmth across her cheek, like the passing of a sunbeam. "I see," she said faintly, and had enough sense to bite down on the next words that came to her:
Would you touch me again?

"I do hope so. And now, since it appears the Resident has run away for the evening, I must take my leave."

As she watched him go, her fingers brushing back and forth along the tooled cover of Mrs. Parkes's book, it came to her that he might have said yes, if she'd asked.