The Sandalwood Princess

He would not break his heart on her account. Men had a different attitude about physical intimacy than women did. It was laughable to imagine she’d led him astray. Men went astray by nature. The difficulty was in leading them otherwise.

Amanda’s hand slipped under her pillow and closed around the sandalwood figure. It didn’t matter, she told herself. It was done and the princess was safe. Nonetheless, long hours passed before the tears abated, and Amanda Cavencourt, thief, fell asleep.

Chapter Twelve

“Cavencourt?” the elderly solicitor mumbled, while his trembling hands sought to make order of the documents his visitor had exasperatedly flung back upon the desk.

“Lord Cavencourt’s sister,” Philip repeated, for the third time. “She lives in Yorkshire. I want to know where.”

Coming here, clearly, was a mistake. Mr. Brewell had nearly succumbed to apoplexy at the sight of him. The old lawyer had no sooner recovered from the shock than the argument had commenced, and with it a blizzard of legal documents that might have papered the dome of St. Paul’s, with plenty to spare for Westminster Abbey.

Unfortunately, when one had been out of one’s native country for fifteen years, and had scarcely set foot in London previous to that, useful acquaintances were few and far between. When, moreover, one preferred one’s presence not be known, the list of possible information sources shrank even further.

The Falcon had contacts in virtually every corner of India, persons whose discretion could be relied upon in the interests of the Crown or, more often, Profit. London, on the other hand, might have been the moon, so alien it was. Actually, one might have tracked down Miss Cavencourt a deal more easily on the moon than in the chaos of this infernal city.

Three weeks he’d wasted, searching on his own, hanging about hotels and inns and questioning tradesmen. He’d gone in disguise to clubs and gaming halls, even managed without invitation a few visits to Society affairs. He’d learned little.

He heard no mention of the Cavencourts in the gossip he eavesdropped upon. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, he’d dared do little more than listen. As it was, he encountered far too many former fellow officers and company men. To attract their notice was to court recognition, and word might easily reach Hedgrave.

The Falcon had far rather have slivers of bamboo jammed under his fingernails and set on fire than find himself under examination by Hedgrave or any of his colleagues. Only yesterday, in Bond Street, Philip had narrowly escaped Danbridge’s shrewd scrutiny ... and the inevitable humiliation of admitting that yes, the intrepid Falcon, whose name was feared throughout India, had got the statue... and had it stolen from him. By a twenty-six-year-old spinster.

All of which left Philip with his family solicitor. At present, Philip could have cheerfully applied the bamboo method to Mr. Brewell. The lawyer was older than Methuselah, and his chambers had most likely been built— and not cleaned since—the Flood. One glimpse at the musty old office, and Miss Jones would have flown at it with mop and brush. Very likely she’d have taken the dusty old lawyer, in his rusty black coat and breeches, out of doors and given him a vigourous shaking.

“Cavencourt. Cavencourt.” The watery grey eyes looked up from the papers. “Would that be the Baron Cavencourt? The eighth, isn’t it? Or is it tenth? Odd family. Something about his—or was that the other one? But they’re in India,” he concluded, much befuddled.

“Lord Cavencourt lives in Calcutta,” Philip said patiently. “His sister is recently returned to England. We were on the same ship. She mentioned Yorkshire. What I want to know is where.”

Mr. Brewell shook his head sadly, and his wrinkled, grey face assumed an expression of reproach. “With all due respect, this is hardly the time to be racketing about the countryside after women. There is a great deal to be settled. In any case, you ought think first of going home. The family—”

“Can go to blazes,” Philip snapped. “We’ve discussed all that at unnecessary length.”

“But at least—”

“I owe them nothing. They’ve lived quite comfortably without me more than fifteen years. I daresay they’ll manage to endure another few days. I came for information,” he continued in taut tones. “If you can’t provide it, I shall seek elsewhere. Good day.” He turned and headed for the door.

“But my—”

“And not a word,” Philip ordered. “Not one word.”

“That will considerably complicate matters.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“Might one at least mention you’re alive?” the solicitor pleaded. “I need only say I received word from trustworthy sources.”

Philip paused, his fingers on the handle. “Very well. But no more than that.” Then he left.

Philip returned to the inn to find his bags packed, and Jessup reading a sporting journal.

“What the devil is all this?” Philip demanded.

“I thought you’d want to be goin’. You was just complainin’ this mornin’ how we’d been wastin’ time and you was sick o’ the sight o’ London.”

I’ve spent the better part of three weeks scouring every inn and alley of the curst place. You think I want to try the same exercise through all of Yorkshire? Brewell, like everyone else in this confounded warren, hadn’t the foggiest idea where the Cavencourts reside,” he added angrily. I daresay he’ll be another ten years muddling and stumbling about, trying to find out. If he does try. Which he’d rather not. He doesn’t approve my racketing after women, you see.”

Jessup picked up a valise. “Kirkby Glenham,” he said.

“What?”

“She lives in Kirkby Glenham,” Jessup said expressionlessly. “I’ve paid our shot and hired a carriage. Did you want to have a bite before we go?”

Philip stared at him. “Are you sure? How did you find out?”

Jessup looked away and mumbled something.

“What?”

“Debretts, sir. I looked ‘em up in Debretts. Kirkby Glenham. Lived there since the time of the second Baron. There’s a map on the table.” Jessup nodded in that direction. “It’s a manor house on the moors.”

***

Mr. Thurston, the Cavencourts’ London solicitor, had warned Amanda that the manor house was not quite ready for her because his agent had been unable to fully staff it. She, however, had no wish to linger in Town, where she might collide any moment with an irate Mr. Wringle or a murderous Lord Hedgrave.

Thus she arrived at her family home to find the interior entirely shrouded in dust covers, and mold and mildew growing everywhere. In addition to an apparently competent bailiff and an elderly gardener, she found one maid of all work feigning, in a lackadaisical manner, to do the work of a staff of twelve.

At the end of a fortnight, thanks mainly to Bella, dust, mold, and mildew had been scoured away. During this same period, thanks to Padji, the maid of all work had fled, and the gardener threatened to do likewise. After three weeks, Miss Cavencourt had acquired one housekeeper and one scullery maid, while the bailiff had given notice. During this period, a number of servants had come, and quickly gone. They came because the wages were good. They left—usually within twenty-four hours— because Padji was not.

“I have told him a hundred times,” Amanda complained to Mrs. Gales, “but he won’t listen, or he doesn’t understand.”

They were in the estate office. Seated in her father’s huge, ugly chair, her elbows on the great desk, Amanda gazed mournfully at a ledger. Opposite her, Mrs. Gales calmly knitted.

“It is a considerable adjustment for him,” the widow said.

“But he expects everyone to adjust to him. How is one to make him comprehend that English servants do not, and are not expected to, behave as Indians do? No one is humble enough or attentive enough, he thinks. Why in blazes must Mrs. Swanslow taste my food for poison when Padji himself has cooked it?”

Amanda closed the ledger with a thump. “He has her in such a tremble, I cannot make heads or tales of

her writing. I cannot tell if these are household accounts or Persian songs of prayer. And now I must replace the bailiff, which is Padji’s fault again. He had no business shadowing Mr. Corker about the grounds.”

Mrs. Gales laid her knitting aside. “You want a cup of tea, my dear.”

“I want a bailiff,” Amanda wailed, “and a butler, and maids. Bella should not be looking after the chambers, and the scullery maid should not be doing the laundry.”

“Jane had better not do the laundry,” Mrs. Gales said. “She doesn’t know the first thing about it, and all your lovely frocks will be ruined.” She rose. “Do quit this room, Amanda. You only upset yourself here. I shall see about the tea and bring it to the library.”

When Amanda hesitated, the widow added, “We shall go to the employment agent in York tomorrow. Until then, there’s no point fretting yourself. It will all come about in time, dear. We must be patient.”

Amanda obediently trailed after her into the hallway, while wondering, not for the first time, how the widow managed to remain so consistently unruffled. A full eight hours sound sleep each night no doubt contributed. Amanda slept, but not soundly. Hours passed before she could drive her worries back into the recesses of her mind.

The library was a sensible idea. Amanda would read, and blot out this whole dreadful morning—these last wretched weeks, preferably—with one of the half-dozen bloodcurdling Gothic novels she’d got from York. Chains and dungeons and headless corpses were just what she needed. Come to think of it, a dungeon and chains might be just what Padji needed, bless his interfering heart.

She’d hardly settled into her favourite chair when the door-knocker crashed. With a sigh, she rose to answer it. The employment agent knew she was desperate. He may have sent along an applicant. Mrs. Swanslow had gone to the market, and it would be best if Padji were not the one to open the door. One prospective laundry maid had fled at the first glimpse of him.

Padji, fortunately, was nowhere in sight when Amanda reached the vestibule.