The Sandalwood Princess

His decision made, Philip dressed quickly but carefully, discarding any garments that still bore traces of agarwood. The expensive incense was too distinctive. He would have to adjust his posture and stride. He’d imitate Monty Larchmere’s stiff and graceless valet.

That left one’s countenance, but it was too late for cosmetic adjustments. Virtually everyone on board had already seen him. In any case, Padji could not have seen the robber’s face in the unlit passage. Even the rani— who was aware the merchant was the Falcon or the Falcon’s accomplice-would recognise the eyes only. Padji hadn’t her opportunity to study the ersatz merchant at close hand. Had they ever seen Jessup, though? Philip swore under his breath. Never mind. The Indian might make the connexion. He might not. Half a chance, then.

Philip headed for the upper deck and turned towards the forecastle, hoping to find the cook there. A confrontation in plain view of others was vastly preferable to a private one in the galley’s hot confines.

Philip had scarcely taken five steps before something struck the back of his head. Instinctively, the Falcon’s hand went for the knife under his coat, and he whirled round. His glance darted about, seeking his attacker... and lit on a woman. Miss Cavencourt. He drew his hand, empty, from the coat. She hurried towards him, her face flushed, and her coffee-coloured hair whipping in the stiff sea breeze.

Something tapped at his leg. He glanced down and saw a bonnet, which the wind knocked against his leg. He’d stepped on one of the ribbons. He snatched up the hat and held it out to her.

“I take it the missile is yours, miss?” he said, then cursed himself. Servants didn’t make facetious remarks to their betters.

The colour rose higher in her cheeks. Dusky rose on mellow ivory.

“Yes. Thank you.” Gingerly she took it.

“I’m afraid I accidentally trod on the ribbon,” Philip said with great deference while his brain clawed and scratched, trying to place her voice. It wasn’t enough. He needed another few words, and he’d already said more than he ought. Ladies didn’t speak to strange gentlemen, and he wasn’t even supposed to be a gentleman. Drat that idiot, Randall.

She’d turned away slightly to examine the bonnet. Now her gaze slid slowly up to meet his. Her eyes were very unusual, large and amber-coloured.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m—I’m sorry it hit you. I’d taken it off, you see, because the wind was knocking it about, and then I forgot I had it... Oh, well. At least it didn’t fly into the sea.” She flashed a nervous smile. “Thank you.” She turned and made quickly for the forecastle.

No.

Not possible.

Not the same woman.

But he was already following, calling out, “Miss? I say, Miss Cavencourt!”

She halted and turned around.

“I beg your pardon, miss, but you can’t go there,” Philip said, his brain working rapidly while he schooled his features to a proper servantlike blank.

Her surprise stiffened into chilly hauteur. “Indeed,” she said coldly. “Are you a sentry?”

“No, miss, certainly not,” he answered, his tones humbler soil. “I only guessed you might not be aware the forecastle is no place for ladies.”

Though her expression remained chilly, he discerned a shade of indecision in the glance she threw behind her.

“That’s where the off-duty crew customarily take their leisure,” Philip explained. “They may be about soon, and you’ll find the company a bit rough, miss, especially without an escort. I rather think the commander would prefer you kept away, escort or no.”

She stared at him as though he were foaming at the mouth.

“That is quite absurd,” she said. “That is, I realise it was kindly meant, but I assure you I have nothing to fear.”

Definitely the same woman. The same height, the same form, the same voice, with its husky overtones.

At that moment, Padji emerged from the galley. His gaze swept the deck and flitted past Philip without a glimmer of interest before lighting upon Miss Cavencourt.

She turned to Philip. “That man is my servant. As you see, I can have nothing to fear, on the forecastle, or anywhere upon this vessel.’’ Again she began to walk away.

Crushing the wild urge to heave her arrogant person over the rail, he followed. Jessup first, he reminded himself. The woman could provide a less risky way to get what Jessup needed, if Philip could but control his temper.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” he managed to choke out. “I meant no offence.”

“None taken,” she said dismissively, still walking.

“I didn’t realise the cook was your servant,” he said hurriedly, as the immense form loomed nearer. Philip kept his eyes downcast. “I was about to speak with him myself. You see, I need his help.”

Miss Cavencourt paused.

Philip didn’t grovel, precisely, but near enough, while he explained Mr. Wringle’s condition and the surgeon’s estimation of the invalid’s prospects.

“Mr. Lambeth sounds monstrous disobliging,” she said when he was done. “He should have spoken to Padji directly.”

“I am in no position to make demands of anybody, miss. I regret to say we caused considerable inconvenience to several people, and I understand Mr. Groves handled the emergency less diplomatically than one could wish.”

Imbecilely was more like it. Had Groves allotted Philip the role of master, he’d not be in this humiliating position. He’d have had them all running briskly at his beck and call. He’d learned that, if nothing else, from his overbearing sire. Small good it did him now. Leave it to Randall to behave like a blithering idiot at the first hint of difficulty.

Aye, but you left it to Randall, didn’t you? nagged a sardonic voice in his head. Had to dash off like an adolescent hothead, didn’t you, wild for revenge!

Miss Cavencourt’s low, crisp tones broke through the red fury in his brain.

“I shall speak to Padji, of course,” she said, “but it would be best if he examined your master himself.”

“There’s no need to put him to the trouble,” Philip said smoothly, “though you’re most kind to offer. I’ve told you exactly what the surgeon told me. I listened very carefully, you may be sure. My master does need to eat something and—and I can scarcely get him to swallow water.”

He felt her studying gaze upon him then, even as he watched the Indian out of the corner of his eye.

“I see,” she said, her tones less frosty. “You are very anxious, Mr.—Brentick, isn’t it?”

“Yes, miss.”

“I shall ask Padji to prepare something as quickly as possible, and he’ll send for you when it’s ready.”

***

Except for the sentry, the forecastle was deserted. Nonetheless, Amanda took no chances. In Hindustani she repeated Mrs. Gales’s revelations and voiced her own suspicions.

Padji shrugged. “What did the servant want of you?” he asked.

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Mr. Wringle, who was hurried on board in the dead of night—the night I was robbed—works for the Marquess of Hedgrave, who happens to be Richard Whttestone.”

“What did the servant want of you?”

“Gruel—broth—I don’t know. Something for that wretched, thieving master of his. Did you poison him, too?”

“A healing broth. I see. I shall make it now.” Oblivious to Amanda’s look of outrage, Padji turned and descended into the galley. She followed.

The brick-lined space was as hot as Hades. Padji promptly began crushing herbs. Amanda perched on a cask and glared at him.

“You can’t poison him, you know,” she said. “I’m not saying I’d object if you did, but you can’t. You’d be the first suspect, and you’ve nowhere to hide.”

“Why should I poison this man? He has done me no ill.”