The Sandalwood Princess

“So you must,” Padji averred, nodding his head. “So it is fated.”

“It most certainly is not!” said Amanda. “Mr. Brentick has served his country near half his life. He seeks work. I do not see why we should not assist him.” Her gaze returned to Philip. “The trouble is, I don’t know any gentlemen hereabouts you might serve.”

“I don’t expect the same position, miss,” Philip said with appropriate humility. “I’d take anything, so long as it’s honest work.”

She moved the sheet of paper from the left side of the blotter to the right. Then she pushed the inkwell one half inch to the left. She picked up a pen and laid it down again. She bit her lip, and a tiny crease appeared between her brows. Philip waited patiently through the growing silence.

She was a terrible actress. Her guilt, for instance, was too clearly evident, even now. Everything was too evident. Her surprise and curiosity in response to his hints about the theft were too obviously feigned. Her pity for the illused valet, in contrast, was unnervingly genuine. Gad, for a moment, she’d even made him feel guilty about the lies he told. Only for a moment though. Matters were not precisely as he’d assumed, perhaps. Nonetheless, he had no doubt she had the statue, and that was all he need concern himself with.

Thus he waited, his brain ready to provide a suitably manipulative response to whatever her ineptly lying tongue uttered next.

“Would you be willing to accept the work of the people?” she said at last in a hesitant voice.

His brain screeched to a halt. “I beg your pardon, miss?’’

“I am short staffed,” she said more firmly. “We’re having a devil of a time finding employees... and keeping those we do find. My bailiff has given notice and I need a replacement I also need—oh, heck, everybody.”

The gears began grinding again. Philip assumed a mask of sympathy while Miss Cavencourt proceeded to pour out her domestic anxieties, with Padji interjecting his own opinions every few sentences.

When she was done, Philip neatly simplified the issues. “What you want first of all, are two reliable people: one to manage matters out of doors, and one for indoors. I am not properly equipped to handle the former, but I’d be grateful for a chance to take on the latter.”

“The mistress is confused,” said Padji. “Her slave is by, to see to all her wishes. She has no need—”

“I need a staff,” Miss Cavencourt said sharply. “I realise this house is not half the size of the rani’s palace. Even so, it wants servants, and you certainly don’t manage them. You overset everyone who comes. You have driven even Mr. Corker—the most forbearing man I’ve ever met—to give notice. Whatever possessed you to ask him where I bury the servants who displease me?”

Philip’s mouth twitched. He quickly frowned instead.

“Well, he did,” Miss Cavencourt told him aggrievedly. “And just this morning, Jane – that’s the poor scullery maid – dropped into hysterics because he found a cobweb in the pantry, and threatened to cut off her finger.”

“A mild rebuke,” Padji said, “for so grievous an offence to the mistress’s sight.”

Exhaling a sigh of exasperation, Miss Cavencourt sank into her chair. Sank quite literally, that is, for the enormous carved monstrosity swallowed her up. She appeared about ten years old. “Oh, Padji, I am at my wits’ end with you.”

Padji gazed sorrowfully at her. “My golden beloved is displeased,” he said. “I have offended. I shall cut off my own worthless finger to appease her.” His hand closed over the knife at his sash, and Philip tensed.

“You most certainly will not, you wicked creature,” she said crisply. “I will not have you bleeding all over the carpet. Put your knife away and behave yourself. You have distracted me from my discussion.”

“But, mistress, you cannot wish this false, stinking creature in your sublime abode.”

Squelching an insane urge to draw his own knife, Philip calmly intervened before the beloved mistress could respond.

“If Miss Cavencourt would be kind enough to outline her needs and direct me to my quarters, I should be happy to clean my offensive person to everyone’s satisfaction.”

She stared at him. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Brentick? That is, you must be aware what a Herculean task I propose – and we haven’t discussed it, really –”

“If you are willing to try me, miss, I am willing to do whatever you require. As I’ve indicated, I need work.”

She coloured, and got that irritatingly guilty look in her eyes again.

“Yes, of course. And I need help, obviously.”

“But, mistress – “

“Please hold your tongue, Padji.”

“But this man is a vile seducer!” Padji cried. “Not once, but –”

A wash of brilliant rose spread over the lady’s cheeks and neck. “That is quite enough,” she snapped. “Please leave this room, Padji, and close the door after you. I wish to have a private word with Mr. Brentick.”

Padji folded his arms over his chest and stood firm. “It is unseemly. This man is not to be trusted.”

Seducer? Was that all? Impossible, Philip decided. That was merely the Indian’s excuse for his hostility. But why need he make excuses ... unless the mistress didn’t know the whole truth. Was it possible she believed Brentick ignorant of the whole business? Could she possibly be so naïve?

Ten minutes later, Padji had finally retired in high dudgeon. With his exit came rising panic. Still, Amanda chided herself, the thing must be got out of the way now.

Accordingly, she stood up, raised her chin, and plunged headlong at the mortifying subject. “I know you are not a seducer,” she said, “and I will not accuse you of behaving improperly when I gave you so much reason to think that I – well, that I was not – that I was fast.”

Mr. Brentick’s blue eyes opened very wide, and he blinked. Twice.

Amanda went on doggedly, “I’ve had time to reflect upon my actions, and now see that for all my protests and so-called explanations, they would lead people to – to certain conclusions. The voyage was long and the company limited. It was a circumstance conducive to intimacy and – and... confusion. We were both confused, apparently.” She paused.

He said nothing.

“And so, we made a mistake,” she said.

“A mistake,” he repeated.

“But I am not fast, and you are not the villainous seducer Padji thinks you, and so we shall not repeat the error, naturally.’’

“Naturally.”

“Then you understand?’’ She tried to read his expression, but all she found were fathomless blue depths.

“Yes, miss. Quite. The entire episode is to be forgotten.”

“Yes.” Oh, certainly. That embrace – had it been only a few weeks ago? – was merely carved into her memory like an inscription upon a marble tombstone. It would wear away in a millennium or two. Sooner, if she could remember not to look at his mouth. Or his hands. Sooner still if he’d only stop gazing at her in that watchful, intent way.

Chapter Thirteen

The following day, Philip met with Jessup in a York public house.

“It’s going to be difficult,” Philip admitted. “She’s deposited the thing in a bank vault, drat her.”

“You sure?” Jessup asked in dismay. “How’d you find out so quick?”

Philip dropped him a disdainful look. “Have you forgotten who I am, soldier?”