The Sandalwood Princess

She bent and hugged her companion. “I wish I had listened,” she whispered. “You said he was too handsome, didn’t you?”

She gave an unsteady laugh, and hurried from the room.

By the following day Philip had recovered sufficiently to attend his employer in the library. His neckcloth concealed the bruises on his throat, and his hoarseness was easily explained as the aftereffects of a sore throat. If he staggered slightly when Miss Cavencourt outlined her plans to depart for London in early March, that, too, could be blamed on aftereffects.

“We shall probably return at the end of the Season,” she said composedly, though she averted her gaze. “I daresay you’ll manage with Mrs. Swanslow and Jane.”

So, she did not intend to take him with her? This must be Padji’s doing. What had the curst Indian told her? Gad, what the devil was he thinking? What did it matter? Philip would not have gone with her in any case. This was a pose, not a bloody career!

“Certainly, miss,’’ he said meekly.

“I shall keep you apprised of our needs.” She took up her pen. “That will be all,” she added dismissively.

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked up, but still not directly at him.

“You aren’t intending to work on your manuscript, miss?”

“Yes, I am, but I shan’t trouble you today. You and Mrs. Swanslow will have enough to do, with preparations.”

“We do have nearly a month,” he said stubbornly.

“I wish to work alone today, Mr. Brentick,” came the chilly reply.

Disagreeably chilly. The cold seemed to enter his bloodstream and trace frost patterns about his heart.

She was shutting him out. Small wonder, if Padji had been smearing his character. Very well. The Falcon was not about to beg for explanations.

Philip bowed and headed for the door. His fingers closed upon the handle, then froze there, his rage smothered in a flood of numbing desolation.

He swung round, saw her dark head bent over her work, and heard another man’s voice—it could not be his—low, sharp, demanding—”For God’s sake, what have I done?”

Her head shot up, and he saw her eyes glittering. Anger, he thought, as he returned to the worktable. When he neared, the glitter resolved to golden mist. Tears.

“What have I done?” he repeated. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She brushed hastily at her eyes. “I have a headache.”

“I shall ask Padji to make up one of his herbal teas,” he said.

“No! Oh, Mr. Brentick—” She flung the pen down. “Just keep away from him, will you? Stay out of the kitchen. That is an order. Stay out of his way.”

“I see,” he said tightly. “Stay out of his way, stay out of your way. May I ask, miss, where you propose I take myself?”

She was staring at him now, her golden gaze wide and wondering as it darted from his face to his tightly clenched hands. He unclenched them.

“Gad, but you do have a temper,” she said softly.

He swallowed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cavencourt.”

“You needn’t apologise. I’ve heard Padji’s kept you at boiling point. That’s why I ordered you to keep out of his way. He told me you quarrelled yesterday, and he drove you to violence.”

“We had a misunderstanding, miss,” Philip said. “I was ill and out of sorts and—”

“And he might have killed you.” She looked away, to the fire. “We’ll be gone in less than a month. Surely you can keep away for that time.”

“Yes, miss. Certainty, miss.”

For the second time, Philip bowed himself out of the room, enlightened, yet no more satisfied than before.

A long day loomed ahead of him. He hadn’t lied about not having enough to do. He’d trained his staff so well, they rarely needed his supervision. They had merely two ladies to tend, and no entertainments to clean up after. The scrubbing, dusting, and polishing was always done by early morning. He’d arranged all, in fact, to leave him free to keep his employer company most of the day.

Now she didn’t want his company.

Now he discovered he wanted hers.

Philip returned to his room—carefully avoiding the kitchen en route—collected his coat and his cigar case, and headed for the garden.

Two cheroots later, Philip had left the garden and wandered out to the moors. The snow had melted and the air, though still cold, carried a faint promise of spring. He found the boulders where he and his employer had enjoyed their first picnic. There he sat, staring at the silver case she’d given him.

She was leaving, finally, and he was relieved, naturally. One long maddening year it had been, maddening even at the last. After all the Falcon’s clever plans and manipulations, it was Padji who’d changed her mind, not the sensible widow. All those long walks, the sledding, the skating—all unnecessary.

Brentick had aroused Mrs. Gales’s suspicions, as he’d intended, but in the end it was Padji who’d served him. Miss Cavencourt was returning to the world in order to keep her cook from killing her butler.

A waste of time, all those hours spent alone together, here in the brooding hills. A waste of time, fighting temptation, day after day. A dangerous waste of time. They’ve grown too close, and he’d come to know her too well. She’d come to live within him, a part of him, just as her voice and scent formed some part of the air he breathed. Today the world about him was wrong somehow, dislocated, because she was missing.

It was the same wrongness and dislocation he’d felt when she dismissed him from the library. They were supposed to be together. Together, Amanda. You need me to look after you. You’re supposed to be with me. I made it so.

He gazed about the bleak landscape and saw regret. He closed his eyes and tried to force the demoralising truth back into its dark closet, but it would not be stifled. The Falcon could lie to everyone but himself. He loved her... and in a month, he’d betray her.

Chapter Eighteen

Miss Cavencourt never locked up the receipt for the Laughing Princess because she didn’t need to. The bank staff knew her. Only she could claim her statue. Thus, one week before her scheduled departure, Philip had merely to slip the receipt among the clutter of estate office documents he was organising into tidy piles. It was equally simple, a short while later, to pretend to find it for the first time.

“An item of value, it says, miss,” he said, handing her the piece of paper. “Jewellery, I daresay. I presume you’ll wish to take it to London.”

She stared at it, then up at him. “Oh, I don’t know. Do you think—” She caught herself and flushed.

“Yes, miss? May I be of assistance?”

Miss Cavencourt bit her lip, stared once, more at the paper, then shook her head.

Unperturbed, Philip left the room. She’d call him back. She’d survived without him a mere three days before summoning him to assist with the book once more. Within a week, they’d fallen into old habits—or near enough. Their long afternoon activities had ended. When Miss Cavencourt wanted exercise, Padji accompanied her.

All the same, she was too accustomed to relying on her butler’s judgment. She’d call him back. If not, he’d simply discard Plan A. Plan B or C would do as well.

An hour later, he was summoned to the library. Miss Cavencourt could not make out one of his notes.

When he’d done translating what was perfectly clear in the first place, the lady asked with studied nonchalance whether he’d heard anything of Mr. Wringle. Bella had mentioned him just this morning. Bella, evidently, cherished hopes of meeting the fellow in London.

That, Philip knew, was a fabrication. Bella had nothing to do with it. He knew exactly what troubled his employer: she wanted to be sure it was safe to take the statue with her.

He affected astonishment. “In London? Doesn’t she—” He stopped short. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Tell me what?” Her fingers gripped the table’s edge.

“Good heavens,” he said, shakin