The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“You tricked Lord Edenmont,” she said. “You told him you’d given it to Jason, but you had stolen it yourself.”

“I didn’t…that is…”

“You knew he needed money.”

“Everyone knows that,” her cousin answered defensively. “Papa bribed him to take me to Venice.”

“And you bribed him to take you to Albania instead. Why?”

Percival squirmed, his eyes darting anxiously about. “I can’t tell you. You’d never believe me anyhow.”

“Very well.” Esme rose. “I shall go to Lord Edenmont and give him this chess piece he wanted so badly.”

The house behind Percival was filled with Ali’s men. One of them was Risto, the tool of the evil Ismal. It didn’t take a genius to deduce that Ismal had something to do with their arrival. From which one might reasonably conclude that Ismal had got hold of the message to Bajo and knew that Percival Brentmor had tried to betray him.

As soon as he’d thought it, Percival had panicked, convinced Risto had come to kill him. It had taken only a few minutes to recognize his error. Ismal was too clever and devious to murder a twelve-year-old English boy, especially when there was a much simpler way to keep the boy quiet.

Cousin Esme. All Ismal had to do was lure her to Tepelena. Then Percival wouldn’t dare utter a word against him. And once Ismal got her to into his clutches, he certainly wouldn’t let go. Ever.

The worst was that Cousin Esme would probably jump at the chance to go to Tepelena. Percival knew she didn’t want to go to England. He was sure, in fact, she’d tried to run away earlier. From a window he’d watched her return to the house with Lord Edenmont, both looking as though they’d been wrestling violently in a muddy field, and both furious.

Now she was proposing to run back to his lordship, waving the black queen in his face. With Risto there to see it.

Percival stood up. “I did steal it,” he lied. “I hadn’t any choice. Uncle Jason told me about a conspiracy to overthrow Ali Pasha. A few weeks ago, at the Castle of Bari, I overheard Risto arranging with another man to ship smuggled weapons to a man named Ismal, in Albania. I tricked his lordship into coming so that I could warn Uncle Jason.”

Despite the patent incredulity on her face, Percival went on to describe the secret message he’d given Bajo, and what he’d just deduced: Ismal had intercepted the message and sent men to lure Esme to Tepelena, to make her his hostage.

“Spies. Conspiracy.” Esme gave him a pitying look. “You have too much imagination. You heard some men talking of rifles or pistols—which men often do—and in your mind you discover a great conspiracy. It is not a terrible thing to be fanciful, cousin. Perhaps you will become a poet one day.”

“It wasn’t imagination,” Percival protested. “I heard it. Risto’s voice. I’d know it anywhere. His Italian was terrible, and his English even worse.”

“You heard something, and your clever brain embroidered it,” she said. “But this was long ago. Now you cannot distinguish between what you truly heard and the evil you imagined, and so you frighten yourself. Ismal is too clever and cautious to attempt a hopeless rebellion. He knows how clever Ali is. Men have been trying for years to overthrow the Vizier. They always fail, and always pay dearly—along with all their friends and kin.”

She gave him back the chess piece. “I will not tell his lordship what you have done. I owe him no loyalty. Besides, it is most amusing how cleverly you tricked him. Now I see how foolish I was to try to deal openly and honestly with him. I must take my lesson from you.”

Percival stood a moment in mute indignation, watching her hurry up the stairs. Then, as he recollected what she was hurrying toward, panic seized him. He dashed up the steps, calling to her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen, only darted down the passage, straight to the door behind which disaster waited.

Even while he shrieked at her, Esme was pushing the door open. Without pausing to think, Percival burst in after her—and collided with Lord Edenmont.

As he staggered back, stammering apologies, Percival saw that his lordship had got Esme by the arm. She wore a particularly unfriendly expression. His lordship didn’t notice. He was bending his own unfriendly expression upon Percival.

“Take your cousin,” he said in a low, definitely unfriendly voice, “and go to your room, Percival. Now.”

“Certainly, sir. Immediately, sir.” Percival politely offered his arm to his cousin. “Cousin Esme?”

She clicked her tongue.

Percival’s heart sank. The room had grown very quiet, and everyone was watching them. ‘Everyone’ included about twenty men, some of them as big as Bajo.

“My Lord Edenmont, if you please.” A short, fat man wearing a dirty yellow turban stepped out from the crowd. “It is because of the Red Lion’s daughter that I have come. My master wished me to convey his message to her directly.”

Lord Edenmont said something under his breath.

Though Percival couldn’t make out what it was, he could guess. He was rather exasperated with Esme himself, though at the moment what he mostly felt was terror.

Releasing Esme’s arm, Lord Edenmont said, “Miss Brentmor will remain. Master Brentmor, however, will return to his room. Agimi. Mati. See that he stays there.”

A true hero would have stood his ground. Percival wanted to be a true hero, but his stomach wouldn’t let him. He saw Risto staring at him, and the horrid feeling of sickness welled up. Percival hurried out the door and on to his room, Agimi and Mati following close behind him.

Once safely inside, he lay down and tried to make himself breathe slowly and calmly. It took a very long time for his stomach to settle. He couldn’t stop trembling, though. He’d made a ghastly error of judgment in telling Cousin Esme. She didn’t believe him. And she was probably going to make Lord Edenmont so angry that he’d be happy to let the men take her away. Forever.

Percival stared hard at the ceiling. It was all his fault. He should never have given Bajo that message. He should have considered his cousin’s safety. Now it was too late.

He crawled from the bed, got down on his knees, closed his eyes tightly, and prayed as hard as he could.

But he’d prayed for Mama, hadn’t he, and for U

ncle Jason, and God wouldn’t listen. God had never listened before, not once. Why should He start now?

Percival jumped up and began to pound frantically on the bedroom door.

Varian flung the door open and entered Percival’s room. He had heard the pounding and sent one of the men to quiet the boy, but the boy wouldn’t be quieted. Percival had threatened to bash his skull against the door if he couldn’t speak to Lord Edenmont.

“I’m here,” Varian said curtly. “What the devil is this tantrum about?”

“You can’t let them take her, sir,” Percival said, rubbing his reddened knuckles. “No matter how angry you are. You can’t.”

“Indeed. She says I must and you say I mustn’t. Do I look like Solomon to you, Percival?”

Varian moved to the narrow window, which offered a thin slice of darkening sky above the red-tiled roofs. “Sit down,” he said. “I’ve something to tell you. You won’t like it any better than I do. There’s a great deal in life one doesn’t like yet must accept all the same.”

“But, sir—”

“Sit. And listen.” Varian glared at him. Percival hastily crossed to the wooden sofa and sat.

In a few terse sentences, Varian summarized Esme’s view of her situation and what she felt must be done about it.

“Well, yes, of course,” Percival said impatiently. “That’s all quite obvious. Naturally, she’d think so. But she is a girl.”

“Most astute of you to notice. What’s that got to say to anything?”

“Well, she’s wrong. I don’t mean to say she’s not intelligent. She is. But she’s a girl, you see, and naturally she’d think marriage was the only solution. Also, being a delicate member of the weaker sex—”

“Delicate?”