The Sandalwood Princess

His mind shot back to the world and discovered a woman bent over him. He tried to pull himself up.

“No, Mr. Brentick, not so quickly,” Miss Cavencourt said softly. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Nausea rose in a dizzying wave. He lay back again and took a long, steadying breath. “What happened?” he asked. His voice seemed to come from miles away.

“You collapsed,” she said, “under the weight of my disapproval.”

A disconcerting warmth overspread his face. Devil take it! He’d swooned at her feet—he, the Falcon—and now he must be blushing like a schoolboy.

A faint smile curved her full mouth, but her gaze softened to smoky amber. “You should have listened to me, Mr. Brentick. But that will be my only ‘I told you so,’ “ she added, the smile fading, “so long as you follow my directions henceforth. Fortunately, there is no fever. You are simply overtired and weak from hunger. I want you to try to sleep. When Bella comes by later to feed your master, she’ll bring you some broth as well. You must try to finish it. Even if you feel a bit queasy at first, it will do you a deal of good, I promise.”

She rose, and only then did he realise he lay, not in the hammock above Jessup’s cot, but on a narrow mattress on the floor. How the devil had she managed that? As she moved away, Philip glimpsed a large brown shoulder at the corner of the open doorway. Padji. So that was how.

Gad, how long had he lain unconscious? They might have ransacked the entire cabin by now.

Philip waited patiently until the pair had departed and their footsteps faded away. Then he sat up slowly, fighting the urge to vomit, and crawled onto his hands and knees. The trunk was still wedged against the wall, and his mattress had been pushed against it. He fumbled in his coat, found the key, and unlocked the trunk. His arms seemed to be made of blancmange. He needed three attempts to get the lid up.

A few endless, stomach-churning minutes later, he sank back onto the mattress. They’d touched nothing. The tiny telltale feather lay exactly as he’d placed it, upon the small rag in which the Laughing Princess still nestled. He’d made certain all was as it should be before replacing all as it had been.

What the devil was she about? A golden opportunity, and she and the Indian had ignored it. Why did she bother with him, with Jessup? Why hadn’t she let Jessup die? That would be one obstacle out of the way. And today—an ideal opportunity for Padji to eliminate Philip himself. Easy enough to render a swoon fatal, with the mistress by to create any needed distraction. Why had nothing happened? Was it possible she didn’t know, after all? Or was she more cunning than he imagined?

He couldn’t think any more. Not now. Later. His head fell back upon the pillow, and in minutes he was asleep.

***

“It’s in the trunk,” Amanda said. With trembling hands she brought the tumbler of wine to her lips and sipped. She and Mrs. Gales sat on the cushioned banquette under the row of windows.

Mrs. Gales’s needle was not so steady as usual. “You promised to be careful,” she said. “That was foolhardy, Amanda. Suppose he or Mr. Wringle had wakened?”

“Padji saw to that. I don’t know what he used. At any rate, I had the cloth over Mr. Brentick’s eyes, and Padji was very quick. He’d got the keys when he was carrying Mr. Brentick to the cabin. Then we had all the bustle of carrying in the mattress. I made sure to ask whether there were clean linens. If either had awakened, that would have been our excuse for rummaging.” Amanda swallowed a bit more wine before adding, “Padji was in and out of the trunk in about a minute. I’d hardly turned my head before he was done.”

“Indeed. Practice makes perfect, I suppose,” Mrs. Gales said dryly. “Still, your aptitude in the matter is a surprise. Your presence of mind seems nothing short of miraculous.”

“Hardly. If Padji hadn’t been nearby, it would never have occurred to me to take advantage of the situation. When Mr. Brentick fainted, I nearly did, too, I was so . . . taken aback.”

Frightened, half to death. Every day she’d watched his brief ventures above, and her heart had gone out to him, so sick and miserable he seemed.

At first she’d told herself this was just as he deserved for associating with a low criminal like Mr. Wringle. But Reason had promptly pointed out it was fully possible the valet had no idea what his employer had been up to. Why should Wringle tell his servant? If he had, why should the valet risk his own health to care for such a man? Just suppose Mr. Brentick were of the same dishonest ilk. Wouldn’t he do far better to let his master die, and collect the reward himself? There must be a reward—a considerable one—to drive Wringle from Calcutta in his condition.

The more she’d reflected, the more evidence Amanda found to make the valet an innocent bystander. And today...

How she wished she’d not remained in the cabin to nurse him. She should have summoned Bella. As yet, the maid knew nothing about the statue, except that it had been stolen in Calcutta. Her conscience would not have shrieked while she listened to Mr. Brentick’s delirious mutterings. The poor man had cried out to his papa.

Some childhood terror must nave seized him. Amanda could understand that. She had her own nightmares. Everyone did. Yet her heart had ached at the pitiful pleas, and again later, when his eyes had opened. Horror lingered in those deep blue depths, and in the fleeting moment before he came fully awake, they’d seemed the innocent, terrified eyes of a little boy. She had wanted... really, how stupid. He was a grown man, and ill. He’d simply had a nightmare, or a hallucination brought on by exhaustion—or by whatever Padji had used on him.

Mrs. Gales was saying something, and looking at her rather strangely.

“I beg your pardon,” Amanda said. “I fear my mind wandered.”

“I asked why you didn’t take the statue when you had the opportunity.”

Amanda thrust the valet’s image aside. “Far too risky,” she answered. “Padji, Bella, and I are the only outsiders who’ve entered that cabin, which would make us prime suspects. The instant the theft was discovered, the commander would have to comb every square inch of the vessel. Eventually they’d find the statue, and then it would be only my word against Mr. Wringle’s that the Laughing Princess is rightfully mine.”

The widow sighed. “I see. The captain would probably leave the matter to be settled in England, and…”

“And the Juggernaut—Hedgrave—would crush me.” Amanda swallowed the last of her wine. “The task, you see, wants subtlety, cunning, and patience, at the very least. It wants the Falcon, actually, but as we haven’t got him, we shall have to make do with Padji.”

***

“Beg pardon for mentionin’ it, guv, but a body’d think you was turnin’ into a fusspot is what,” said Jessup as he hauled himself up to a sitting position. “Ain’t the damned thing hid good enough? Don’t I have this here pistol under the pillow? Don’t I keep a sharp lookout the whole time the gal’s here? Not to mention which, they do say two’s company, if you take my meaning.”

“You’re in no condition to dally with ladies’ maids,” Philip said. “And do I have to remind you the abigail belongs to the woman I robbed?”

He’d already had an unsatisfactory discussion the day before with Bella, who’d taken umbrage at his offer to relieve her. Two months they’d been at sea, and Jessup, though still weak, was

sufficiently alert to take note of his surroundings. That was the trouble. He’d taken note of the plump Bella—and she of him, evidently, for the two were at present behaving like a pair of moonstruck adolescents.

All by himself, Jessup had contrived an explanation for his lowly speech and coarse manner, because, he said, he was tired of giving one-word answers. He had only to “confess” that Mr. Groves had exaggerated his position—he was merely a solicitor’s clerk. Bella would pass along the revelation. Thus, when Jessup at last became well enough to venture among the others, no one would expect anything but the common sort of fellow he was. Meanwhile, he wanted more privacy.

“I ain’t like to forget when you call it to my attention every other word,” Jessup answered grumpily. “Like I ain’t been through half a hundred battles with you, not to mention we been through a deal worse since we left off soldierin’ for thievin’. Leastways in a battle, a fellow gets his leg shot off or his arm, or something clean-like. He don’t get poisoned and drove all the way to Bedlam and back with no hope of dyin’ and bein’ done with it.”

When all else failed, Jessup was not above applying guilt. He was entitled, considering his master was to blame for his condition. The poison had so weakened Jessup’s constitution that many months would pass before he was his sturdy old self again. Now his employer wished to deny him the comfort of a woman: a plump, amiable maid with gentle hands and a soft, soothing voice.