The Tiger's Lady (2 page)

He was being followed.

He was certain of it.

His fingers stilled on the crisp folds of his exquisitely cut black evening cape. A big man, he moved with unexpected grace, barely turning his head as he studied the shadows of the alley opposite.

He ought to be kicked for not noticing sooner. Still, a little inattention was to be expected after finishing two bottles of port and a superb meal of pheasant, stuffed lark, and greengage tarts at the very discreet establishment on Jermyn Street.

He was growing lazy and far too careless of late, the tall man thought darkly. And London was no place for the careless.

He tugged a chain from beneath his evening cloak and studied the watch face in the dim gaslight. Ten minutes past ten. Good—he still had time to walk.

Time enough to flush out whoever was foolish enough to follow him.

Without undue haste he strode across the street, a strange figure in pristine black beneath a turban of purple satin. On another man the blend of garments might have looked comic, but on this man they looked perfectly natural. Perhaps it was his confident stride that made it so, or perhaps it was his innate dignity of bearing, evident in every fluid motion.

But tonight the Rajah of Ranapore resolved to be more careful. His fingers tightened on the cane concealed beneath the folds of his elegant cloak. Had he been back in the jungles of Ceylon, it would have been easy enough to dispense with his pursuer. One bullet into the underbrush would have flushed out his quarry.

Or silenced him forever.

But this was London, bastion of civilization in the realm of that most civilized of sovereigns, Victoria. Here such decisive measures would be frowned upon, more’s the pity.

So he must be subtle, the tall man supposed.

As he passed beneath a globe of gaslight, azure sparks flashed and scattered from the egg-size sapphire he wore upon his turban.

It was madness not to take a carriage, of course, but tonight it pleased the dark-eyed visitor to walk. He needed the exercise, for one thing. He also enjoyed the silence.

And in a few days he would be leaving for the East once more.

So tonight he would walk, trying to remember the good and forget all the rest. A frown creased his dark features.

Jo hoga, so hoga.

“What is meant to be will be,” the Rajah of Ranapore murmured.

Kismet
. In the end it always came down to that, didn’t it?

When the slim man with a downturned hat inched out of a doorway at the opposite side of the lane, the rajah was careful to give no sign that he noticed.

Except for the hardness in his eyes, he might have been simply another one of London’s many wealthy foreign visitors out for an evening stroll upon the town.

Only his friends in Ceylon would have recognized the faint hardening of his jaw as a sure sign of trouble to come.

But the Rajah of Ranapore had no friends, not anymore. Neither in Ceylon nor anywhere else.

The wretched ruby had seen to
that,
too.

She sensed him in the shadows; she felt his nearness prick the fine hairs at the back of her neck.

She stumbled into the wind, shoving down her fear.

But she knew why they followed her, knew too well the enormous importance of the secret she carried locked inside her head. It was a secret that could topple kings and sway the tides of war.

A secret men would kill to possess. And
had
killed already.

She had barely reached the next block when the cramp in her side returned, bringing her up short with wrenching pain. With one white hand locked to her waist, she limped to a row of ornamental wrought iron spikes and leaned back tiredly.

Block it out,
she thought.
Think it away. Grandfather taught you how. It is not safe to stop.

For a moment her haunted eyes blurred. She thought of her grandfather, safely ensconced in his study, poring over some arcane scientific volume or another. She remembered the confusion, the angry pounding at the door. The stamp of heavy feet.

Even a few minutes more and they would have worked the secret from him. One look at the chill, implacable faces had told Barrett there would be no bargaining with such men. Or with the monster who had sent them.

No, there could be no turning back. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

For behind her waited a cold, implacable hatred that would destroy all it touched, as it would have destroyed her grandfather, had she not managed to draw them off first.

Chill and damp, the night air lashed her face, tossing the black veil about her cheeks. Shivering, Barrett scanned the narrow, cheerless streets and the long brick facade stretching away into the distance.

Behind her a hail of pebbles ricocheted across the railing, exploding through the darkness. White-faced, she spun about.

Nothing there.

Nothing but shadows and fear.

Terror wedged in her throat. Mindless and malevolent, it reached out, clawing at her sanity.

How much longer could she go on?

With trembling fingers she clutched at her cloak, fighting against the rising wind.

This time when she turned it was to run, heedless and desperate, as if the jaws of hell itself yawned open behind her.

And in a way they did.

More than fifty carriages lined the gaslit entrance to the auction rooms on Great Russell Street this night. Three abreast, they clogged the narrow drive, plunging the usually sedate precincts of London’s most famous auction house into total chaos.

Tonight an unprecedented event was to take place inside those hallowed mahogany walls, walls that in their time had echoed with the sighs and laughter of crowned heads, deposed royalty, and every rank of European nobility.

Tonight access was accorded to only a select few, the wealthiest and most powerful of England’s elite.

At that moment five score eager faces waited for a glimpse of the jewel that had held all England spellbound since its appearance one month before. Even the Queen was whispered to be bidding, through intermediaries of course.

Yes, tonight beneath gleaming crystal chandeliers the Eye of Shiva, gem of kings, would cross the auction block.

The bidding would be swift and cutthroat. At least five men had already vowed to have the fabled gem, no matter what the cost.

And all the while, somewhere in the elegant audience, a murderer sat ready to risk everything to possess the blood-red stone.

No matter that it was cursed.

No matter that it brought only madness and death.

It was impossibly beautiful.

Barrett’s simple cloak of black worsted danced about her ankles, driven by a swirling gust of wind. For a moment her dark veil lifted, revealing flawless, porcelain-smooth cheeks above a proud, generous mouth.

Vivid and striking, her face was strangely at odds with the drab clothing she wore.

Caught by the wind, a strand of sable hair worked free of the combs at her temples. Like dark, cascading silk, the vibrant strand twisted wildly in the wind.

But Barrett noticed neither wind nor cold, her haunting teal eyes fixed on the huge jewel flashing through the floor-length windows of the auction rooms.

Oblong and heavily faceted, the stone glinted back at her.

The crystal facets caught the glow of the chandeliers and threw it back tenfold, like a thousand tiny red suns.

Its beauty was unearthly, its pull almost tangible. And Barrett had never been able to resist beauty, not even as a small child, when she had come home from the meadow at Cinnamon Hill laden down with wildflowers.

Her gran had never understood, of course. Instead he had furrowed his brow and lectured her on the principles of species propagation and color attraction, while she had stood silent, stroking the soft, colorful petals in childish wonder. To her a flower was an ineffable thing. To her a rainbow was both miracle and promise.

To him, a rainbow was simply an illusion compounded of moisture and refraction angles.

And Barrett had loved him even while he’d lectured her with his hair a wild white mane and his spectacles all awry. She’d tried so hard to be practical and not a burden in the years that had followed her parents’ deaths in a carriage accident.

Sometimes she wondered if she’d tried
too
hard, succeeded
too
well.

In the process she’d shut away a part of herself that cried out for beauty and whimsy.

For
miracles.

But she of all people should have known that there were no such things as miracles.

But she had sworn to protect her grandfather, that frail, impractical dreamer, and so she would, even from the fruits of his arrogance.

Even from the chill, efficient men who would have crushed him like a straw.

Only now, standing before the huge glass windows and staring at the giant ruby, Barrett began to think about miracles again; that was her first mistake.

The Eye of Shiva.
The jewel all London whispered about.

Her eyes darkened. What would it be like to touch such a stone? To roll it between her fingers and savor each cool, blood-red facet. To feel the hum and throb of its power, if only for a few seconds.

Behind her a hansom cab clattered past in the street, sending the gaslight on a wild, flickering dance in the glass globes overhead.

Barrett barely noticed.

And that was her second mistake.

But she had been nothing but careful for what seemed like an eternity. Through days of lies. Through long nights of fear, without friends or anyone she could trust.

All to protect one fragile, white-haired old man who loved her more than life itself, different as they were.

Even now her faceless enemies waited somewhere out in the darkness. But Barrett found that hard to remember when the ruby flashed at her so seductively, whispering its dark secrets.

A chill wind sent her cloak flying about her bombazine skirts and tossed strands of hair beneath her black veil. Still she could not move, her blood strangely heated in the cold night, her eyes riveted upon that royal gem whispering of jasmine-scented gardens, of marble palaces and exotic court ladies intent on passion and dark intrigue.

Inside the room, a thin man in black came to an abrupt halt, holding out the gem to a prospective buyer. Beneath their gaze the stone seemed to darken, taking on new hues, richer flames.

And then Barrett remembered. The ruby was to be auctioned tonight. Even now
he
might be inside, settling back into a deep velvet chair.

White-faced, she shrank back toward the street. He
must
not find her!

But no, surely he would have taken his place long ago. The timepiece pinned to her bodice showed the hour to be half-past ten.

Carefully she inched forward once again, transfixed by the blood-red sparks that shot from the ruby’s heart.

This was the Eye of Shiva
. A stone worth any price a buyer might ask, since it was unmarred in hue, transparency, and luster.

A stone darkened by the blood of everyone who had ever possessed it—or
tried
to possess it.