Heart of the Tiger Read online

  “I cannot wed you, Stewart, nor any other man. There is something I must do, and it will require all my attention. Save that reserved for my father,” she added quickly, but he was already leaning forward in his chair.

  “The more reason to leave him with us, then.”

  Because it would tie her to this place, and to him. She must make her request without giving him false hope. “In fact, it would be enormously helpful if you’d keep him here for a week or so, while I go up to London to look for a residence that can accommodate his needs.”

  “You mean to live in London?” His stubby brows prickled with reproach. “But the air is unhealthy. And the expense! Servants are more dear there. The houses have narrow stairs. How will you transport him? How—?”

  “I shall manage as I always have done.” Which meant frantically improvising from one minute to the next, but she couldn’t very well admit that. “And you must not think I find it difficult. Although my father is locked inside his body, we communicate very well indeed. Yes, of late he has come to imagine I would do better if he set me free of him, but he is wrong. I shall not leave him until he requires more than I can possibly give.” She smiled. “Truly, it is no hardship. To care for him is my privilege. And my joy.”

  She hadn’t meant to say that. To reveal so much. She scarcely dared look up at Stewart, and when she did, her worst fears were realized. He positively glowed with admiration.

  “We shall be pleased to have your father in residence for as long as necessary,” he said. “And if you provide me your direction, I shall send daily reports of his welfare.”

  “Thank you.” After a glance at the mantelpiece clock, she rose and brushed down her skirts, eager to escape the heated emotions radiating from across the room. “There is a mail coach I must shortly catch. I shall be in touch as soon as I have settled in London. And now, if you will excuse me, I’ll take leave of my father.”

  At the door, she made the mistake of glancing back. Stewart was still gazing at her with hungry veneration, mentally polishing up a halo for Saint Miranda, virgin and martyr.

  And she, of course, was neither of those things.

  Sothingdon House, imposing and grand in a quiet Mayfair street, caused Mira to catch her breath. It hadn’t occurred to her that the somewhat disreputable pair for whom she’d once done a small favor might have become so, well, so reputable.

  She looked again at the direction Lady Jessica inscribed on the letter of thanks she’d posted almost a year ago. Had it been so long? By now, Miranda Holcombe’s welcome had surely worn out. How could she plunk her insignificant self on the doorstep and ask to be admitted? Pride made it difficult to mount the steps and lift the knocker, but pride and difficulty were her constant companions. She never let either of them stop her.

  Before her nerves had steadied, a footman was ushering her into a bright parlor where Lady Jessica Duran opened her arms in welcome. “At last!” she exclaimed. “I have been desperately worried about you.”

  At the sight of her, a pain gripped Mira so sharply that she wrapped her arms around her waist to contain it. But she found a smile and crossed to where the beautiful and exceedingly pregnant Lady Jessica half sat and half reclined on a Grecian sofa. “Thank you for receiving me,” she said in the soft voice that required her to draw close to anyone who wished to hear her. “I am sorry to have imposed on—”

  “Indeed you have not! Sit here next to the table because I have ordered tea, which you will be required to pour. And you needn’t feel uneasy. I’ve six weeks more before I pop, or so the doctor assures me, although whether the babe will wait that long is another question. From all the kicking and squirming, there seems to be a great hurry to get out of me.”

  Envy, squirming and kicking inside Mira, made any response impossible. She settled on the chair, straightened her skirts, and reined in her stampeding emotions.

  “Miss Holcombe?” Lady Jessica’s voice was edged with concern. “I . . . Your father?”

  Mira, following her gaze, realized Lady Jessica was looking at her black bombazine gown, the black bonnet covering her hair, and the black gloves she wore. The footman had taken her black cloak. “Oh dear,” she said, untying the ribbons and removing her hat. “I forgot how this must appear to you. My father is well and being cared for by his physician while I am in London. When I must travel, I find it useful to disguise myself in mourning clothes. People are often undeservedly kind, which causes me to feel guilty for deceiving them, but at least I am permitted to go my way without interference.”

  “It is difficult for a female to travel alone. I cannot like it that you do so.” Lady Jessica laughed. “Good heavens. I just realized what I was saying. I am preaching at you. It must be impending motherhood that has transformed me from a ramshackle rebel into a tedious old biddy. Do you know, I have stoutly resolved to forbid my daughter, should I have one, to behave as I have always done. Not that any daughter born to the likes of me and Duran would pay us the slightest attention.”

  Wincing, she spread her fingers across her swollen belly. “I swear there is a fandango being danced inside me. How good you have come to provide a distraction. Duran will be sorry to have missed you, though. We have bought a small property in Sussex, and he has gone to see it made ready for us. Where are you staying?”

  Mira was spared from answering by a knock at the door. Soon, maids and footmen were spreading before her on the table a pot of tea and plates filled with small sandwiches, lemon tarts, poppyseed cake, scones, clotted cream, strawberry jam, and almond biscuits.

  “Are you shocked?” Lady Jessica regarded the assortment with evident delight. “Duran says an army could travel for a week on what I eat in a day. He also says I have developed a remarkable likeness to an ascent balloon, except that it would require a cyclone to launch me into the air. Mind you, he says these things from a safe distance.”

  Mira strained tea into a pair of Wedgwood cups. “You don’t appear to object.”

  “Oh, there is no accounting for male behavior at times like this. The moment a pregnancy is confirmed, they strut around as if no other male had ever accomplished so great a feat. Then they grow annoyingly solicitous, as if we females have suddenly become too frail to spoon sugar into a cup. The next stage, the one Duran occupies now, is excessive teasing to cover his fear of what might happen to me or the babe. I dare not think what he will come to when I begin to deliver. Two of the tarts, if you please, and as many sandwiches as will fit on one of those plates.”

  After placing the dishes where Lady Jessica could reach them, Mira took a sip of tea. It tasted bitter.

  “You are too thin, Miss Holcombe,” said Lady Jessica. “And too pale. Yes, I know it is none of my business, but I suspect you are in some sort of difficulty. I also believe I’ve some idea what it is, but I’d rather you tell me directly.”

  “If you wish, but I am sure you overestimate my troubles. Since my uncle’s death I have felt a trifle harried, that is all.”

  “I read in the Times that he had died. Did the Duke of Tallant swoop in, as you predicted?”

  “Oh, yes. But by that time, Father and I had left the castle. And I am afraid we took with us nearly everything I thought to be of value. Lacking your expertise, I was for the most part guessing, but I tossed any promising items into the pot. Or in this case, into the icehouse.”

  “Good for you. It is no more than Tallant deserves, to lose what he is attempting to steal. I recall that when we were searching for the Golden Leopard in your dungeon, Duran uncovered a number of valuable antiquities. Did you wish me to sell them for you?”

  Mira looked up in surprise. It was why she was here, of course. After a week of sleepless nights—her recalcitrant pride!—she had wrenched up the courage to beg a favor from a virtual stranger, entirely overlooking the fact that Lady Jessica routinely dealt with clients exactly like herself. Not tha
t it signified. In her present circumstances, Lady Jessica could scarcely set about flogging a hodgepodge of artifacts and gewgaws.

  “I can see it is out of the question now,” Mira said. “But perhaps you could recommend another dealer.”

  “Indeed I can. My secretary, Helena Pryce, knows far more about my business than I ever did, and in the past few months, I have weaned my clients from the habit of speaking only with me. Now we work together, Helena and Duran and I, and you may be sure we will get you the best price for everything you put on offer. One other thing. I will not hear of taking a commission on the sales. You would insult me by creating a business transaction between us. What is more, I insist on advancing you a portion of the anticipated return. Now pass me another lemon tart.”

  Mira did, and smiled, and said nothing. Relief had set her heart thumping. Without money she could do nothing that she must do, and the little she had got by pawning her mother’s wedding ring and few bits of jewelry would soon be exhausted.

  Lady Jessica brushed a crumb from her bodice. “Where are you staying, Miss Holcombe? Not a hotel, I hope. Duran and I will soon remove ourselves to Sussex, but you are welcome here for as long as you like. Helena will be glad of the company.”

  It had come to the sticking point. To why she must not associate herself with these good people, except in secret. “Thank you. I wish it were possible to accept your kind offer. But Tallant is both tenacious and vindictive, and I must not draw his attention to my”—she scarcely dared say it—“to my friends. If you would help me, then you must also permit me to set the terms.”

  “I see. Well, it is no great thing to oblige you, for all my business transactions are confidential and my personal relationships no one else’s concern. How is this? I shall offer you whatever favors I wish to supply, and you will select those you are willing to take. Even better, you must tell me what you require. It may be something I would fail to consider.”

  In the face of such generosity, Mira chose her words carefully. “Tallant has had everything his way because my family, what little remains of it, is obscure. But that wasn’t always the case. While we have never been wealthy, our home in Kent was invariably thronged with my father’s friends, and until his illness, they kept up a lively correspondence with him. I want to find a place here in London where we can live a public life, surrounded by people. Father is determined I shall find a husband, which I assure you is the very last thing I am looking for, but it will please him to imagine I am in the marketplace and enjoying myself there. More important, if we become known to influential people, Tallant will not find it so easy to persecute us.”

  “All perfectly logical,” said Lady Jessica with a frown, “although I’d rather you felt able to confide the truth. But how could you, to someone you have met only once before? What happened to your cats?”

  “My cats?” A wave of sadness swept over Mira. “Oh, we couldn’t take them on our travels, but I found a family willing to keep them together in their home. How astonishing that you should remember my cats. You never even saw them.”

  “No. But since they helped us escape from the castle, I wondered what had become of them. And I have in mind the perfect residence for your purposes, except that the proprietress does not accept pets. It is truly an ideal location, if a little bizarre. I shall write to Beata Neri, and Helena will deliver the letter in person. We are of long acquaintance with her, so Beata will not think of refusing us.”

  Mira gulped. “Is it terribly expensive?”

  “I expect so, but Helena will negotiate a bargain price. To reside there, however, you will be required to cut a fashionable figure. I’d send you directly off to a modiste, at my expense, but you would feel obliged to refuse the offer. In consequence, I must ask you to do me the service of accepting my castoffs.”

  “The service?”

  “Oh, indeed. I’ll not fit into a single thing I own for a considerable time, and by then I shall be longing for an entirely new wardrobe. Besides, there must be a dozen gowns I’ve never worn, dating back to the time I bought all the wrong colors and fabrics, ones that didn’t suit me at all. How delightful that my mistakes can be made over to flatter you, as they will.”

  Lady Jessica held out her hands. “Will you lever me upright? We’ll go to my chambers and get you measured and start trying things on you. My lady’s maid has had little to occupy her since I swelled up like a melon. She will be pleased to take on this project, and by the time we’re done fitting you, Helena Pryce will have returned from wherever she goes on Tuesdays. Then we shall discuss the disposal of your pilfered hoard.”

  Mira laughed, as she was meant to do, and helped Lady Jessica lurch to her feet. But this welcome, this largesse, made things too easy, she was thinking all the while. And as she had learned by painful experience, what looked to be a blessing was always a trap.

  Chapter 2

  The music sparkled, cool and crisp, like snowmelt from the Himalayas. Michael closed his eyes and relaxed against the comfortable chair while David Fairfax’s limber fingers rippled over the keyboard. Precise, orderly Bach, mathematical as the stars, a world away from the throb of sitar and tabla. Clean and transparent, its devious simplicity appealed to him as Indian music never had.

  As the last notes of the fugue spun away, David bowed his head for several moments, looking displeased. “Well, what do you think?” he asked at length. “I didn’t play well. I was nervous. But I’ve got better since you left.”

  “Bound to.”

  Sighing, David pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Your own fault, y’know. Never would have thought of it m’self.”

  “I should have left well enough alone.” Michael stretched broadly. “I’d figured the harpsichord would give you something to do besides get on my nerves. I miscalculated.”

  “What did you expect? Sonatas in a week?”

  “It sounded like you were trying to beat those scales to death with your bare hands. In the mountains you’d have started an avalanche.”

  “And I told you to stuff cotton in your ears.”

  Michael folded his arms behind his head, amused. The chubby, tongue-tied, bumbling David Fairfax he had shared rooms with at Christchurch was gone, replaced by this fashionable man who looked ten years younger than his four-and-thirty. The earnest brown eyes were precisely the same, casting about anxiously for approval.

  The harpsichord had belonged to the Duchess of Tallant, brought to her arranged marriage along with a considerable fortune, and it was the only thing Devil Keynes had let her keep when he stashed her and her young son at a remote estate in Scotland. The one good memory Michael retained from his childhood was listening to her play and sing. After her death, when he’d finally raised enough money to bring the instrument south, it was almost unreclaimable—scarcely valuable even as firewood.

  Greatly disappointed, he offered the remains to an elderly retired organist who collected antiques and was astonished when it was presented back to him, months later, fully restored. No charge at all, the man had insisted. Made him feel young again to do something useful. Would Mr. Keynes be interested in lessons? Laughing, Michael had invited him home and introduced him to David Fairfax.

  Now the lovely harpsichord shimmered in the late-afternoon sunlight, seeming to vibrate with fifty years of music enshrined in its gleaming wood.

  “It belongs to you,” David said. His fingers caressed the keys soundlessly, like a lover.

  “Don’t be an ass.” Michael crossed to the bow-fronted sideboard and poured two snifters of brandy. “What the devil would I do with it? By the way, this is terrible stuff.” He handed David a glass and lifted his own in a salute. “I’m not the best of judges, Maestro, but you’ve impressed the hell out of me. Sláinte.”

  “I hope that means something good,” said David, taking a sip and putting his glass aside. “I haven�
��t asked you, well, anything. I’m sorry. The minute I saw you at the door, all I could think was to play for you. I’ve become vain, I think, since you left. Have you come home to stay?”

  “Only long enough to finish a job.” When David’s mouth opened to speak, Michael shook his head. “You don’t want to know. And once this gets under way, you don’t want to be seen with me. That’s why I came here first, before it’s known I’m back in England.”

  “Does this involve your brother?”

  “Doesn’t everything? Do you know where he is?”

  David frowned. “When he’s in London, he can be found at Palazzo Neri two or three times a week, but I haven’t seen him there lately. You should keep away from him, Michael. He has become worse. Monstrous. Utterly ruthless.”

  “It runs in the family.” Michael drained his glass and set it down. “I have to go. If you get word of him, let me know.”

  “But how? Where are you staying?”

  “For the time being, we’re at a flea-ridden posthouse in Hammersmith. I’m looking for a place closer in that won’t object to a Sikh.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In Hari Singh’s case, something like a bear wearing a turban. He’s conspicuous, and I can’t shake him loose.”

  “You could both stay here,” David said brightly. “There isn’t much room, not enough for three, but I could move to Beata’s. Or she might take you in. She likes having odd birds around, if you know what I mean. Except it would be expensive to stay there. Do you need money? I have plenty now.”

  In some ways, David hadn’t changed at all. Still overeager, tongue tripping over his thoughts. “So do I,” Michael said, moving to the window and gazing down at the busy sunlit street. A wagon piled with turnips and cabbages rolled past. A pretty girl and her hook-nosed chaperon lifted their skirts to cross a puddle left by the morning’s rain. Two men paused, arms waving as they argued about something.

  Everyday life. He knew nothing about it. He had always preferred the shadows, with a quick escape at hand from wherever he chanced to be. Not for a moment had he considered making a public display of himself, and imagining it put a sour taste in his mouth.