Virginia Henley (12 page)

Bernard crashed his fist on the tabletop so hard that one of the table legs gave way. He then proceeded to kick it to pieces, needing to destroy something in his frustrated anger. As he thought more about it he began to have very mixed feelings. His murder plot had been successful and he congratulated himself on his cleverness, but a small shiver of paranoia touched him. His cousin, Lord Anthony, probably knew the lines and the rudder had been tampered with and if there was an investigation into the sailboat accident, suspicion must fall upon the one who had most to gain.

Bernard decided he had better keep a safe distance for the present. One twin had been removed. If aught befell the other too quickly, it would hardly be considered coincidental. Bernard would bide his time secure in the knowledge that he was capable of murder whenever the need arose.

A lovely thought came to him as he recalled the details of the visit to Stoke. He hadn’t visited Angela in days. He began to whistle as he picked up his swordstick and pulled on his new moleskin gloves.

Angela Brown was still sound asleep as Bernard let himself into her flat with his key. The theater didn’t close until midnight and by the time she took off her stage makeup and hung up all her costume changes, it was usually after one in the morning before she got to her flat.

It was a damned good thing Angela hadn’t brought anyone home with her, Bernard thought, or he’d carve up her plump white thighs. He flipped back the blanket and poked her with the sheathed swordstick. She murmured a protest, then suddenly sat up as she came awake.

“What the hellfire are you playing at?” she demanded.

“Hellfire … an apt punishment for a murderess, don’t you think?”

“What the devil are you talking about, Bernie?”

“You may soon have a nodding acquaintance with the devil, Angel Face.” He again prodded her. “There’s been a serious boating accident. My twin cousin has drowned.” He waved the newspaper under her nose, but didn’t hand her the notice to read.

Her eyes lit up with disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re the new Lord Lamb?” she cried, leaping from the bed to throw her arms about him.

Bernard took hold of her hands and pried them cruelly from his person. He increased the pressure until she fell back upon the bed, then he backhanded her across the face. “No, you stupid bitch. You murdered the wrong twin!”

A look of horror crossed her face. “The girl? It wasn’t me, you pig, it was you!” Angela’s eyes became riveted upon his swordstick as he slowly drew the long blade from its sheath.

He began to toy with her. He pierced the flimsy fabric of her nightgown, slashing it open, then touched the cold steel to the inside of her knees. “Open for me, Angel.” He breathed heavily, feeling his cock turn to marble. Power was so exciting. It was stronger than a drug. Once he exercised power over another, he craved it again and again.

Slowly, with wary eyes, Angela opened her legs for him. The relief she felt made her weak as water as he laid down his weapon to remove his clothing. Angela cried out in terror, however, as he again picked up the swordstick and advanced upon her. His sex stood out like a weapon and she knew it was a sick game he played, making her wonder which one he would bury inside her.

As the sharp point came toward her she closed her eyes and bit her lips to smother the scream that gathered in her throat. With relief she felt the hard smooth shaft go up inside her, but when she opened her eyes she saw that he had reversed the stick and buried its handle inside her.

With startling clarity she saw what he wanted from her was abject fear. Although she was an actress, she did not
have to exaggerate the sheer terror she felt at the hands of this handsome young sadist. Angela fed his power by begging and groveling before his authority. When she reduced herself to the status of a slavegirl, Bernard ejaculated and fell limply atop her.

When the Gazette was delivered to Lamb Hall, Tony and Roz were dismayed. They didn’t want Watson and Goldman to think Antonia was dead, nor did they want society in general to find out, because then how would she ever be able to take her place in it?

They consulted Mr. Burke and finally the three of them concocted a plausible tale which must go to the Gazette immediately. Tony wrote the notice herself:

During the long voyage of the
Red Dragon
John Bull and Kirinda were never seasick at the same time. Though it went against the grain, they provided whatever service the other needed with uncomplaining dignity. John Bull was a far more tolerable sailor than Kirinda, however. She spent most of the time in her berth wishing the master had never saved her from the funeral pyre.

Adam Savage visited her cabin often, keeping an eye on
her weight loss. He knew she could have no better nurse than John Bull, because he’d been privileged to be at his mercy once. As they neared the English Channel, however, the choppy seas proved too much for either of them and Savage found himself playing nursemaid.

Kirinda moaned and turned her face to the cabin wall. She was mortified to have the master remove the slop pail of vomit and wash her.

“Kirinda, look at me,” Adam ordered sternly.

“Leave me, let me die,” she whispered.

“Dying isn’t that easy, little one,” Adam murmured.

“I am covered with shame,” she whimpered.

“No, you are covered with puke, but I’ll soon wash away every trace. Only think how often you have bathed me, you silly girl. You have tended me when I hadn’t the strength left to lift my eyelids. Sit up now and I’ll tell you something that will please you. Tonight you will be on dry land.”

She kissed his hands. Adam plopped the strong-smelling carbolic soap back into the bowl and stood up. His dark head almost touched the beams. “I want you to nibble on this dry biscuit and sip this wine slowly. I swear by Vishnu your stomach will not reject it.”

She knew she should not drink forbidden wine, yet she must obey his orders. She knew in her heart that her master was a more potent god than any Hindu god or goddess. As he opened the door to leave he said, “I’ll tell you something else that will please you. John Bull is much greener than you today.”

Kirinda couldn’t imagine the immaculate John Bull being brought low by seasickness. She began to perk up immediately.

In his manservant’s cabin he performed the same ablutions, but filled John Bull’s ears with strengthening words. “This is what you have waited a lifetime for. This is the English Channel. Surely you will be at the rail to embrace your chosen land, John Bull? Kirinda is over her seasickness,
I believe. She can’t wait to plant her feet on English soil before you do, man.”

John Bull moaned softly. “The way I am feeling, you may plant all of me in English soil and good riddance to bad rubbish!”

“Eat this dry biscuit and sip on this wine,” Savage instructed, bundling up the soiled linen. Before John Bull could protest about drinking spirits, he said, “Kirinda had the courage and good sense to take some wine and it settled her stomach immediately.”

John Bull could not lose face by allowing Kirinda to appear a better sailor than he. If it was the last thing he ever did, he must set foot on English soil unaided.

Dusk had descended before the
Red Dragon
was safely moored at the Indigo Docks in London. A wave of nostalgia swept over Savage as he contemplated setting foot on English soil once more. It was over twelve years since he had disembarked from these docks and all along the water the waterfront looked and smelled much the same. However there were far more merchant vessels anchored here now, and the wharf was crowded with every nationality of seaman from the far-flung reaches of the world.

From the high deck he could see the lamplit taverns that rubbed elbows with the warehouses, and through cynical eyes he noticed how seedy and dirty they looked. The same number of drunken sailors lay about and surely those were the same drabs plying their trade that had been there the night he’d embarked.

When the gangplank was lowered he was the first across. He needed to hire a carriage to carry him and his body servants to a London hotel. The very soles of his feet itched to walk the streets of this familiar old jade of a city, yet he did not give way to temptation. Once he had traveled light with no other possessions than the clothes on his back. Such was no longer the case. Wealth brought with it sobering responsibilities.

Savage hired the least shabby carriage he could find and
instructed the driver to wait by the East Indiaman, the
Red Dragon.
Back aboard he unlocked the gun cabinet in his cabin and distributed weapons to the captain and the first and second mates. “I’ll rent warehouse space tomorrow. I want an armed guard on my chests in the starboard hold until I personally come for them. These docks swarm with rats, four-legged ones too. You won’t be able to keep them off the ship, but keep them away from the tea chests and the spices. Lure some cats aboard.”

Savage had packed his own trunk and he picked it up and carried it with him as he rapped sharply upon the cabin doors of his two servants. “John Bull, I have a carriage waiting.”

The Tamil servant opened the door slowly and stepped out of the cabin with the gravest dignity. He was dressed in immaculate white with the blood-red turban sporting its great ruby. Across the companionway Kirinda, too, moved slowly, as though she were in a trance. She put one small foot very deliberately in front of the other, afraid she might topple over if she put one foot wrong. She carried Rupee in a wicker cage and a tapestry valise that held her clothes.

John Bull said, “Give me the bird.”

Very carefully she placed the valise on the floor, put her hand behind her head with the fingers sticking up in the air like a coxcomb, and squawked at him. Then to Adam Savage’s consternation the two servants dissolved into giggles. As he stared in disbelief from one to the other John Bull said, “Exshellency … the girl cannot hold her liquor,” then hiccuped in what could only be described as a dignified manner.

Christ Almighty,
thought Savage,
they are both drunk as deacons.
It was a most curious trio that walked into the Savoy Hotel that night, and though the staff was noted for its impeccable, discreet service, it was beyond their power to keep from staring open mouthed.

It soon dawned on them that this was a nabob and his
body servants. Though the powerful-looking man with black hair curling about his shoulders and skin the color of teak signed his name as Savage, they secretly doubted he was a white man. They dubbed him Indian Savage and were left in no doubt of his wealth when he reserved three adjoining suites. When asked how long he would need them, he froze the inquirer with his ice-blue eyes and replied, “For the nonce,” which told them nothing and everything they needed to know.

The man in the turban closed his eyes in silent prayer as the exotic bird he carried selected a fine old English word from its vocabulary and screeched, “Sodomite!” at the top of its voice.

The female in the delicate sari and sturdy English walking boots looked as if she had been plucked straight from some heathen temple. Her laughter floated across the Savoy’s foyer like tinkling bells.

John Bull opened all the connecting doors to the suites, because the heavy English furniture made the rooms seem small and crowded after the spacious bungalow with its screened verandahs. Adam Savage sat down at a desk to compile a list of information and directions he would need from the concierge. John Bull unpacked his master’s clothes and hung them in the wardrobe, shaking his head over the fact that he had only brought one trunk from the dozens aboard the
Red Dragon.

All went well until the chambermaid arrived. John Bull took it upon himself to deal with the English servant. She had an assortment of large towels folded over one arm and carried three porcelain chamber pots. When she tried to hand them to John Bull, he looked at her as if she was deranged. “These are unbearable,” he said firmly.

She looked him up and down, knew instinctively he was going to give her grief, and challenged, “Wot do you mean, unbearable?”

“They are too big. When they are filled they cannot be lifted … therefore they are unbearable.”

The chambermaid rolled her eyes. “Wot’ll hold more will hold less.”

“We refuse to drink from such large cups. Bring smaller ones.”

“Cups?” the woman hooted. “Yer ignorant devil, that’s a chamber pot!”

“Chamber pot?” John Bull repeated blankly. “Yer know … piss pot!”

The mynah pounced on the new word with enthusiasm. “Pisspot! Pisspot!”

John Bull was mortified, not at discussing such matters with a servant, but that his master would be reduced to such an uncivilized practise. “There is no bathing room? No bidet? How primitive!”

“‘Ere, are yer trying to pull my leg? A bloody heathen foreigner telling me we’re primitive?”

Savage heard the voices raised in provocation. He came to investigate. The chambermaid in starched gray uniform and mob cap was ready to defend her country against this brown-skinned piece of rubbish.

“Is there a problem?” Savage asked in a cool voice of authority.

The young chambermaid fell back in alarm when she looked up at the tall man’s dark, forbidding face. He was accustomed to the revulsion his scarred face sometimes provoked and had schooled himself against showing any reaction. He cursed himself for being sensitive after all these years.

“The woman accused me of touching her leg,” John Bull said.

“I never!” the chambermaid denied.

“Yes, Excellency. I informed her the cups were unbearable. Then she taught Rupee to say pisspot, then she accused me of trying to pull off her leg.”

Adam Savage took the articles the maid clutched and said, “A small misunderstanding. Good night.”

When Savage closed the door, John Bull asked, “Why did you dismiss her? Is she not the punkah wallah?”

“No, John Bull, there are no fans to be pulled. In England we do not need cooling down, we need warming up. I’m expecting the concierge. Just show him in, then take Rupee to another room and help Kirinda get settled for the night. I’ll order us some dinner if you will be patient.”

“Ah, Excellency, now we are in England I can see I will have to exercise great patience with the lower orders.”

“Indeed John Bull, and vice versa.”

Antonia, wearing Anthony’s clothes and occupying Anthony’s chamber, sat with an open book in her lap. The story did not grip her and her mind kept wandering in a melancholy fashion; then she would start to read again simply to occupy her mind and prevent her from grieving. Despite all her prayers and her begging and bargaining with God, Anthony had never shown up.

She felt listless and very lonely without his male presence at Lamb Hall. She was quite determined to take her twin’s place, however. She would die rather than see Bernard Lamb snatch the lovely manor from her and Roz.

It was such a pretty day, she longed to be outdoors, but she sighed and focused on her book. Suddenly she flung it across the room. To hell with it. She would have to go out sometime. Fear of being discovered in her deceit had kept her cooped up away from everyone. At last she decided that if she was going to do the thing, she would do it with panache. The key of course was “attitude.” With the right attitude, anything in life could be achieved. She was totally convinced of it.

Since she was dressed for riding, that’s exactly what she would do. She would ride out to the tenant farms and see if anything was needed. Tony put on a tiewig and a freshly starched neckcloth. She scooped some silver into her vest pocket and picked up Tony’s riding crop. In the stables she
almost approached Venus, then remembered in time to ask Bradshaw to saddle Neptune.

“He needs exercise m’lord,” Bradshaw said approvingly. “Ye can try out the new tack ye got over at Rochester.”

The old stable hound came up wagging his tail. She was just about to call him her sweetest boy and other such baby talk when she remembered her attitude. “Hello, you ugly old brute. Still cocking the old leg on everything in sight?” The dog adored the insults seemingly more than the baby talk, so she tucked the information away for future use. Tony cantered through the fields to the first farm, where Harry Simpson and his son were scything hay. Both doffed their caps in deference to Lord Lamb. She took a deep, steadying breath and casually dismounted. Tony thrust one hand deep into her breeches pocket and swished at the tall, dry grass with her whip. “Hello, Harry, looks like a good crop.”

The red-faced farmer looked tongue tied, then he forced himself to speak. “Milord, we are all that sorry about yer sister.”

Antonia bit her lip and nodded. She swallowed the lump in her throat, knowing this awkward moment must be gotten through. “I rode over to see what was needed.”

“Don’t bother about us, milord, ye’ve enough trouble.”

Simpson’s son, with a defiant look in his eyes said, “T’house roof leaks.”

His father’s face turned a darker shade of red. “We’ll patch it again, once we get t’hay in.”

Tony looked toward the farmhouse. “It needs rethatching, Harry. I’ll see to it today. You should have told me,” she said in reproach. “You get the hay crop in before it rains.”

Harry scratched his head at the inconsistencies of the gentry. When he had brought up the subject of the leaky roof before, young Lord Lamb had told him to patch it.