December 15

Grillon’s Hotel

Sangay felt torn on the one hand, and desperate on the other. From the back of Grillon’s foyer, half concealed behind a palm in a big pot, he watched the flurry of activity as the colonel-sahib’s and the memsahib’s households prepared to depart.

He wished he could go with them. They’d been kind to him, all of them, even though they didn’t know him-not really. They’d all accepted him as one of their party. He’d been careful to avoid gatherings where they’d all been together, where one household might have said something to alert the other that he wasn’t theirs. That he didn’t really belong.

So far, the gods had smiled on him, something he didn’t understand. He was not acting honorably-he was being the hand, the tool, of an evil man-yet thus far the gods hadn’t struck him down.

Thus far the gods had left him to carry out the evil man’s instructions.

He’d searched, he’d done all he was supposed to, but he hadn’t laid eyes on any scroll-holder. He could guess what it would look like-his old captain had had similar holders for his maps and orders-but he hadn’t seen anything that might be it. And now they were all leaving.

He’d failed.

Despair dragging his heart into his thin slippers, he sucked in a breath and, with one last look at the almost gay commotion surrounding the three carriages lined up outside the hotel, slunk down the side corridor to the alley door.

He slipped out of the door, then cautiously made his way to the corner where he’d met the man before, praying with every step that the man wouldn’t simply kill him when he reported his failure. More, that he wouldn’t feel moved to have his maataa killed, too.

Nerves at full stretch, he rounded the corner. Nearly lost his brave face when, once again, he all but ran into the man.

“Well? Do you have it?”

Sangay fought not to squirm. He lifted his chin, forced himself to look in the direction of the man’s face. “I have searched all the bags, all the rooms, sahib. The scroll-holder isn’t there.”

The man swore, strings of bad words Sangay had heard often enough on the docks. Stoically, he waited for his punishment, for a blow, or worse. There was no point trying to run.

He felt the man’s irate gaze boring into him. Steeled himself. The man’s fists were clenched, hanging heavy at his sides.

“What’s all the activity?” The man tipped his head toward the front of the hotel. “Where are they going?”

Sangay pulled the answer from his skittering thoughts. “I heard they are going to some big fine house-a Somersham Place-in a country called Cambridgeshire. They hope to reach there by this evening, but they are worried about the weather-they say it is coming on to snow, and fear that that might hold them up, or at least slow them down.”

The man’s scowl grew blacker. After a moment he asked, “Are the other two men traveling with them?”

“Yes, sahib, but as I understand it, they won’t be in the carriages. They’ll be riding ahorse.”

“I see.”

The snarl wasn’t encouraging, but the man had made no move to lay a hand on him. Sangay started to wonder if the gods truly were watching over him still, despite all.

“So they’re leaving, and you’ve sighted no scroll-holder, no letter of any kind, and you’ve searched everywhere?”

“Oh, yes, sahib! I looked everywhere in every room, even the servants’ rooms. There was no scroll-holder or letter anywhere.”

“So one of them is carrying it with them. Fine.” The word was a rough snarl. “Either the Colonel or one of his two men would be my guess. So you stick with them, and you keep a close-a really close-eye on those three. They’ll put it down sometime, somewhere. When they do, you snatch it and scarper-got it?”

Sangay risked a frown. “Scarper, sahib?”

“Run like the dickens. Like the devil himself was after you-and remember that your precious mother’s continuing health depends on you getting away. Wherever you are, you lay your hands on that scroll-holder and you run-I’ll be close, watching, waiting. I’ll see you, and I’ll come and meet you.” The man’s lips curled. “Just like this.” He leaned close, putting his face close to Sangay’s. “Understand?”

Eyes like saucers, Sangay couldn’t even swallow. “Yes, sahib. I understand.” He would rather have faced a real cobra eye to eye.

The man seemed satisfied with what he saw in Sangay’s face. He slowly eased back, straightened.

Sangay inwardly trembled, but felt forced to say, “They might not put the holder down this day, sahib, not while they are traveling.”

“True enough. More likely they’ll put it down once they reach this house. It sounds like someone’s country house.” The man glanced at him. “Like a palace to you.”

“Apparently the man who owns it is a duke.”

“Is that so?” The man was silent for a moment, then said, “Likely it’ll be huge. You meet me there tonight, at ten o’clock, behind the stable there. There’ll be a big stable, for sure.” Once again, the man’s pale eyes locked on Sangay. “If you get the holder, you bring it there tonight, but even if you don’t lay hands on it, you come and meet me there, you hear?”

Sangay hung his head, forced himself to nod even as misery washed over him. His nightmare was still not at an end. “Yes, sahib.”

“You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your mother, would you?”

He looked up, eyes wide. “No, sahib! I mean, yes-I will be there. I don’t want anything to happen to my maataa, sahib.”

“Good.” The man tipped his head. “Now get back there before they miss you. Go!”

Sangay turned and all but fled. Back down the mews and up the alley, but instead of going through the side door and across the hotel foyer, he followed the alley to the street and peeked around the corner.

The flurry about the carriages was in full swing. Likely no one had missed him. Mustaf, Kumulay and Cobby each stood on the roof of a different carriage, stowing the bags that an army of footmen, under Janay’s directions, handed up. The women in their colored saris, bright shawls wrapped about their heads, stood on the pavement and pointed and directed and argued with Janay and the men over where this bag, that bundle, should go. The colonel and the memsahib stood on the pavement closer to the door, haughtily surveying and waiting.

They all had been so much kinder to Sangay than any other people in his entire life, and yet he’d have to repay their niceness, all their kindnesses, by stealing from the colonel.

Sangay felt as if dirt was being ground into his soul.

But there was no help for it. If it had been only his death to be feared, Sangay hoped he would be brave enough to tell the man no, but he couldn’t let his maataa be killed-and killed horribly, too. No good son could have that on his conscience.

Dragging in a breath, Sangay straightened, then, seeing the women start to enter the carriages, he hurried out and quietly joined the melee.

Eight

December 15

Albemarle Street, London

Her hand in Del’s, Deliah climbed onto the step of the front carriage. Pausing to, from her temporary vantage point, look over the heads at the others entering the two carriages behind, she noticed the young Indian lad-the one Bess called the colonel’s boy-scurrying up from around the corner. He spoke to Janay, then conferred with Mustaf, who pointed at the roof of the third carriage. The boy nodded eagerly, and with the agility of a monkey, swarmed up to the roof, settling amid the bags and bundles secured there.

With a quirk of her brows, Deliah ducked and entered the carriage. As she took her seat, she decided she envied the boy. He’d have a good view as they traveled north through London, and with all the luggage around him, he’d have reasonable protection from the elements.

It was a still day, pervasively cold with gray clouds hanging low and a scent in the air that foretold snow. Not yet, however. Once they reached the open countryside, they would get a better sense of what the day might bring.

Del had paused on the pavement to exchange a few words with the head porter. Deliah settled her skirts, sank into the comforting leather. Del’s household and hers had merged into an effective team. The women had banded together and commandeered the second, slightly larger carriage. They would sit and chat and gossip through the journey. The men had been consigned to the third carriage; that no doubt would travel north in greater silence.

The doorway darkened as Del climbed in. He sat beside her, and the head porter, beaming and touching the brim of his hat, shut the door.

The carriage tipped fractionally as Cobby climbed up beside the driver, then a whip cracked, the carriage jerked as the horses leaned into the harness, and they were away, rolling slowly through the streets on their journey into Cambridgeshire.

Deliah glanced at Del. He was looking out of the window at the streetscapes sliding by. Her thoughts returned to the boy. She wondered how he’d come to be part of Del’s household, felt sure there would be some story there. It was tempting to ask, but…having Del there, seated beside her, reminded her of other things. Other things she really should take the time to think about.

So she did. Let the observations and questions she’d set aside over recent days, that she’d allowed to be overtaken by recent events, finally form in her mind.

Let her thoughts dwell on him, and on what had happened between them, what now existed between them-what label it was most accurate to attach to their…liaison.

Chief among her mental questions was how long that liaison would last.

As they rattled and rumbled through the streets of London, a comfortable silence enveloped them, contrasting with the bustle and noisy hustle outside, the buzz of humanity natural in any large city. And London was the largest of them all. It had spread and sprawled since she’d last traveled through it.