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‘It is—if what he wants is wealth and vast estates, about six houses, and all the political power and influence he chooses to exert from a place at the top of English society.’
‘And if he does not want it?’ Perhaps Nick could give it up. He did not love his father, he did not seem to be pining for England. Hope fluttered fragile wings.
‘There is no remedy for that. He cannot renounce the title, only death can free him,’ her father said drily. ‘If he does not take up his inheritance then all that he will become responsible for will be neglected, dealt with at arm’s length by agents. I do not think that Nicholas could do that. There will be hundreds of people involved.’
The floor seemed to shift again. ‘Then he needs a wife who is born of the aristocracy, does he not? One who knows what to do to help him, one who will be accepted.’
‘He is marrying you.’ Her father said it with a gentleness that only made the pain worse. Pity. He understands what this means, he understands that once Nick has given his word he keeps it. He will insist on marrying me.
‘Ha,’ Anusha agreed. It was as though suddenly she could only think in Hindi. And with the change of tongue came the realisation of what she must do.
The women of her family had walked down singing to the pyres, rather than lose their honour to conquering armies. She had inherited that sense of honour, too. In the agony of a broken heart she would sacrifice everything that she now treasured and hoped for—the reconciliation with her father, her love for Nick—rather than stand in the way of his duty and his honour.
‘Anusha?’
She struggled to find the English words. ‘I am sorry, I keep...I am keeping you from your work, Papa. I will see you at dinner time.’ Four hours before dinner to plan and prepare, perhaps an hour or so afterwards. Nick would be coming home late, as drunk as a lord. She bit her lip to stop the sob of desperate laughter that threatened to escape. How right he had been in his prediction. Hysteria would not help, now she must be cold as ice. When he sobered up and started to think straight she must be long gone or she would have no hope of escape.
* * *
‘Nicholas sahib. Lean on me.’ Ajit stood by the step down from the carriage.
‘I’m not that drunk, Ajit.’
‘Yes, you are, sahib.’
Nick clutched the doorframe, missed the step and was neatly fielded by Ajit’s wiry strength. ‘So I am. Drunk as a lord.’ He’d said that to Anusha, hadn’t he? It had seemed funny then. It probably still was, but he seemed to have forgotten how to laugh. Still, this felt good—nothing was real, everything floated, he was feeling no pain whatsoever, except whatever was digging its talons into his heart.
‘You are going to bed now, sahib.’ It wasn’t a question. Ajit pushed and pulled him up the steps and into the hall past the startled watchman. ‘Quietly, sahib. Laurens sahib and the memsahib will be asleep. They do not want to hear your singing.’
‘Al’right.’ The corridor was bending oddly and the floor was swaying like a rope bridge over an up-country ravine, but Nick struggled on until a final shove from Ajit landed him neatly on his bed, head to the end, buckled shoes on the pillow. ‘Go’way. Tha’ you.’
‘Shoes, sahib.’ Ajit pulled them off, then started on his neckcloth.
‘Go‘way,’ Nick repeated. ‘Go‘bed.’ The darkness swirled dangerously when he closed his eyes, but he fell into it gratefully.
* * *
‘Nicholas sahib! Wake up!’
Earthquake? Nick dragged his eyes open and squinted at Ajit’s face. No, the room was still, the man was shaking him. ‘What’s the matter? And what the hell is the time?’ It was still dark and his head felt like a bag of hot, wet sand.
‘Half past three by the clock, sahib. Someone has stolen Rajat.’
‘When?’ Nick pushed himself upright and struggled against dizziness and nausea. He’d been back an hour and the blood in his veins was fighting a losing battle against the brandy.
‘The groom saw when he stabled the carriage horses. The stall is empty, the saddle and bridle gone.’
‘But—’ Something was wrong with that. Nick tried to work it out. ‘Rajat would kill anyone who tried to take him, so would Pavan.’
‘I know.’ Ajit clutched his turban. ‘I think and think—perhaps he was drugged?’
‘Or taken by someone who he was used to.’ What little blood was circulating seemed to drain to his feet. ‘Oh, no, she wouldn’t.’
