The Sandalwood Princess

Belatedly, she realised a servant would not come to the front door. Who could possibly be calling? Not any of her neighbours, certainly. She’d given up expecting any sort of welcome from them, not that she had, really—

Amanda’s meditations came to an abrupt halt as she opened the door and looked up... into the stony, blue-eyed countenance of Mr. Brentick.

“Oh,” she gasped. Then, her brain offering no further help to her tongue, she simply stared at him.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” he said. “I was not welcome at the servants’ entrance, and so, had no choice.”

“N-not welcome?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, Padji closed the door in my face. Very firmly.”

“You mean he slammed it, I suppose.” The first shock subsided, only to be swamped by chilling anxiety and confusion. “I cannot think why he would be so rude—but he— he’s not himself—quite—lately—at least, I hope not. He is not—adjusting. Oh, dear.” She backed away. “Please come in.”

He threw her a searching look as he stepped over the threshold. “I expect you’re surprised to see me,” he said.

“Surprise is hardly adequate to the occasion.” Desperately she tried to collect her wits. She’d almost forgotten how very blue and piercing his eyes were, and how tall he was. Or did it merely seem that he towered over her? “What on earth are you doing in Yorkshire, Mr. Brentick?” She glanced past him at the empty doorway. “Where is Mr. Wringle?”

This earned her another searching glance.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Something is very wrong.”

Amanda’s face went hot and cold as the colour rushed over it and drained away.

At this moment, a shadow darkened the hallway. She glanced behind her, to see Padji’s massive bulk advancing.

“Never fear, mistress,” he growled. “I shall see to him.”

“Miss Cavencourt, I must speak with you,” the valet said quickly. “I am in great difficulty and—” He sidestepped neatly as Padji’s huge hand shot towards him.

Amanda hastily stepped in Padji’s way. “Enough!” she said. “Did I ask for your assistance, Padji?”

“I only anticipate, mistress,” came the low Hindustani response.

“There is no need to manhandle visitors,” she answered in the same tongue. “Everyone who comes to the door is not an assassin.”

“Actually, your competent assassin rarely comes to the front door,” Mr. Brentick politely pointed out. In response to her startled look, he added, “I am acquainted with the language, miss. Fifteen years in India, recollect.”

She glanced from him to Padji, her mind working as rapidly as it could in the circumstances. “Padji is surprised to see you, as I am. I’m afraid he doesn’t care overmuch for surprises.”

“There is a perfectly reasonable explanation, Miss Cavencourt, if you’d be so kind as to indulge me a hearing.”

Padji’s eyes narrowed. “Send him away, mistress. This man is trouble for you. Also, he stinks like a pig.”

Mr. Brentick’s blue eyes flashed in his pale face. Unnaturally pale, Amanda now realised. He looked ill, despite his fiery gaze. And thin.

“I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I have been upon the road nearly four days, and my lodgings have not been of the most luxurious. I should never have presented myself in this condition, had I any other choice. I spent the last of my funds on coach fare, and came here on foot from the last posting inn.”

Amanda’s hand flew to her breast. “Good heavens, what on earth has happened?”

His blue gaze seemed to skewer her. “I have been discharged,” he said. “Without notice, without a character, without a farthing.”

“Oh, no.”

“Also, I may add, without explanation. We were in Portsmouth scarce two hours, when my employer flew into a rage. I have no idea what set him off. I know only that he called me an irresponsible incompetent—among other names I shall not sully your ears with—and discharged me.”

Padji gave a disdainful snort.

“That is monstrous,” Amanda said, disregarding her watchdog. A suffocating wave of guilt washed over her. She knew what had happened. Mr. Wringle had discovered the theft, and taken out his rage on his hapless servant.

“I cannot apologise sufficiently for intruding in this inexcusable way, miss.” The valet shot one darkling glance at Padji before returning to the mistress. “I should never have dreamt of doing such a thing, but I had nowhere else to turn.”

A low, rumbling sound came from Padji’s throat.

“Stop growling,” Amanda snapped. “You are not a savage, I hope, and in any case, you are not blind. It’s obvious Mr. Brentick is tired—and hungry as well, I’m sure. Take him down to the servants’ hall and— No, on second thought, I shall come with you.” To the valet she said, “Let us find you something to eat. Then, when you’re feeling better, we’ll discuss this further.”

They’d found Mrs. Gales in the kitchen and, luckily for Philip, the widow had supervised his meal. Padji, he had little doubt, would have blithely poisoned the unwanted visitor, if left to his own devices—and if, that is, Philip were halfwit enough to remain alone with him. Padji had not troubled to disguise his hostility. Miss Cavencourt’s reaction was far more puzzling.

The Falcon had, as was his custom, arrived armed with several strategies. For instance, he’d fully expected Padji’s attack. Which meant a quick move to grab Miss Cavencourt and hold a knife to her throat, and thus obtain the statue under most undesirable circumstances. As soon as she’d stepped between him and Padji, Philip deduced that the lady was a most incautious and inefficient adversary. Accordingly, he’d mentally shredded Plan A. In another few minutes, he’d begun to feel disagreeably inefficient himself, because she did not react properly.

Philip warily eyed his nemesis now, as he followed her into her office. Padji stood in the open doorway, arms folded across his chest, his

round, brown face eloquent with disapproval.

“Mr. Wringle’s behaviour seems most unaccountable,” Miss Cavencourt began slowly.

He watched her flit past him to take up her position behind the great barricade of a desk. In her pale blue frock, amid the dark, masculine surroundings, she seemed smaller and more fragile than Philip remembered. Not quite real. But that was because she was so false.

“Also most ungrateful,” she added, “when one considers your devotion during his long illness. He gave you no explanation beyond what you mentioned?”

“No, miss. At the time I suspected something else displeased him.” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

“I regret to say he was beside himself,” Philip continued carefully. “He tore through all my belongings—as though he believed I’d stolen something.” He lowered his gaze from Miss Cavencourt’s startled golden one. “Of course you have only my word I hadn’t.”

Padji sniffed.

Miss Cavencourt’s face grew paler.

“Do you think something was stolen, Mr. Brentick?”

He pretended to think hard before answering, “It’s possible, though I can’t imagine what. He had clothes and legal papers, and a few trinkets and souvenirs—some carved objects, that sort of thing. Nothing of value to a thief, as far as I could tell. He had money, naturally, but he never searched my pockets, and he had plenty to toss about at the inn. It’s a puzzle to me, miss.”

“If you had taken anything of value,” she said, “you’d hardly have arrived here on foot, half-starved.” She moved a piece of paper from the right side of the blotter to the left. “I collect you need a loan,” she said without looking at him.

Padji scowled.

Philip transformed his expression of innocence to one of embarrassment. “I didn’t come for charity—not of that sort,” he answered. “I need employment. I’ve been trying to find work nearly a month now, but with neither references nor friends, there’s nothing. Except, that is, to take the King’s shilling. I’m no coward, miss, and I’ll do that if I must, but—”