“The point,” Carlyle reminded him. “You must have one.”
“The maharajah wants them back.”
Carlyle suppressed a yawn. He was not trying to seem indifferent, but he was utterly exhausted and feeling rather like he had been run over by a horse and wagon. “I see. I mean, I think I do. Perhaps I should not admit to a thing.”
“Ha-ha. You are making a joke and I appreciate it. We meet as friends. But our position is that none of them belong to you or Miss Fowler.”
“You are entitled to your opinion, Mr. Tagore.”
The other man hesitated and tried another tactic. “Produce them at once.”
Carlyle regarded him through his good eye. “I just might, if I had them.”
Tagore relaxed, but looked at him narrowly. “Are they on your person?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “If they are, I cannot take them from you. Be reasonable, Mr. Jameson. You of all people know what a maharajah can do. His sword is swift. His reach is long.”
“Then kill me,” Carlyle said wearily.
“A rash action. It is our feeling that the Queen’s ministers might take it amiss. Although you are replaceable. Another man will quickly take your place. We know every British secret agent in our country.”
“India is a thousand countries, Mr. Tagore,” Carlyle said. “And they seldom agree. We are keeping the peace as best we know how.”
Mr. Tagore scowled fiercely. “That is a subject that might be better left alone. But let us get back to the diamonds.”
“What about the rubies and sapphires?”
The other man waved dismissively. “Valuable as they are, the maharajah feels that it was fated for you and Miss Fowler to have them. In memory of her father, his dear friend, he has decided to give them to you as a wedding gift.”
Carlyle’s eyebrows shot up. “But we are not going to be married.”
“According to the palace astrologer, you are. Perhaps not soon, but it will be an auspicious coupling. The maharajah extends his congratulations. He says that a good wife is a joy.”
“He should know,” Carlyle muttered. “His eminence has quite a few of them, as replaceable as I am. Whatever happened to the favorite?”
“She lives now in the house of the maharajah’s auntie, who sees to it that she is unhappy. But being unhappy is better than being dead.”
“Perhaps it is the best that could be hoped for.” Carlyle sat up straight and his voice strengthened. “Then thank him for his kind thoughts regarding me and Miss Fowler. And thank him for his gift. Every new household should have an adequate supply of rubies and sapphires.”
Mr. Tagore laughed appreciatively. “I enjoy your sense of humor, Mr. Jameson. I forgot to mention that the maharajah says you may also keep Lakshmi.”
“In England she is a free woman.”
The other man only nodded. Carlyle rubbed his aching chin with a light hand, thinking over the offer. It was more or less what he’d expected. It had been only a matter of time before someone caught up with them, and now that it had happened, he felt an odd sense of relief.
Susannah had not empowered him to answer for her, of course, but he might as well. Mr. Tagore was right enough in saying that none of the gems belonged to her. The maharajah could have his gigantic diamonds back-if the old fellow wanted to give them the lesser stones for old times’ sake, who was Carlyle to say no?
“Mr. Tagore,” he said at last. “Tell me what you think the rubies and sapphires are worth. We may not need so many.”
The Indian man calculated the sum in his head, then named it.
“That will do very well,” Carlyle said with a smile. “On behalf of Miss Fowler, I accept the maharajah’s gift.”
Chapter Six
They had moved from Albion Square to the Surrey countryside and set up housekeeping in a manor that was nearly new, although it had changed hands several times. There was no changing the climate, however, but the extent of their land enabled Carlyle to create a remarkable garden. For the first time since her return to England, Susannah felt that she could breathe.
He had hired the local stonemason to build her an open-air pavilion that overlooked a reflecting pool. At the moment the pool reflected nothing, being no more than a large, rectangular area of mud. But when it was fully dredged, filled and banked with stone, it would be very like the idyllic place where they had once played chess.
A pastime which they once again enjoyed, now that Carlyle could live as a gentleman. His brother, the earl, did not enjoy so grand a vista or so great a house. Carlyle’s proliferating nephews had taken over every room they could, and the unfortunate earl hid from them in his library, where he was writing a scholarly book about newts and salamanders, his new passion. He had given up on his wife and women in general.
A peacock strolled by, dragging its spectacular tail over the grass. It peered at Susannah as if she did not belong in its domain, and stalked away. She adjusted the bag slung over her shoulder and looked inside to be sure that her paints and paper were inside.
She had vowed to chronicle the construction of their love nest inside and out. The interior decoration had been completed first, in light and airy colors that reminded her of India. She had insisted on avoiding bric-a-brac, heavy curtains, and excess furniture-not that Carlyle cared about such things. He gave her a free hand where the house was concerned, preferring to concentrate his efforts on the garden, drawing up ambitious plans that required an army of men, supervising the removal and replanting of trees to create the vista he desired, and bargaining at the local fair for a flock of decorative sheep to keep the lawn short.
The velvety, close-cropped grass prickled under her bare feet. There was no one to see, no Mrs. Posey to scold her for going about barefoot. She had retired with a pension they provided, and seemed quite happy to do so. But some of the other servants had come along-Mr. Patchen and Molly being two.
Susannah had even sketched their portraits as they went about their daily routines, as she wished to remember it all. Molly in the kitchen, stirring an earthenware bowl at a stout pine table. Mr. Patchen on his knees transplanting crocus bulbs, a concerned look on his face as he patted down the covering earth. And Carlyle himself, riding about his little Eden on a big bay horse he had named Tagore, for some reason. She supposed he wanted to remember India too. Perhaps he’d had a friend by that name.
She found her favorite rock to sit upon-it was very large and quite flat, rising from the ground as if it sought the sun that warmed it. Susannah settled her bottom upon it and took her painting things out of the bag. She pulled out another book that Carlyle had given to her before they moved away from London. Her father had made it for her.
But he had instructed Carlyle not to give it to her right away. She was glad enough of that, because it meant much more to her now. He had told her that the heavy envelope in his hand was from her father and nothing more, and when he’d left her alone with it she’d opened it to find a scrapbook, an unexpected gift that had let her cry at last. Without her ever knowing of its existence, the book had been created over the course of her twenty-three years by her father, with a few early entries from the mother she had never known.
On its pages, he had jotted down his fond recollections of her as a very young child. Her refusal at the age of three to yield the right of way to a big white cow in a Jaipur street. The cow had prevailed, but she had called it a very naughty cow and its owner had requested baksheesh to salve his pride. Then there was the gaily decorated little wagon in which she took her dolls, Indian and European, out for an airing-he had done a wonderful sketch of it and many other drawings of Susannah.
His swift pen had captured her sturdy body and cropped hair, and a characteristic look of mischief in her eyes, as well as a definite and stubborn pout. But her father wrote that her pout that would turn quickly to a smile at the sight of an animal or bird, which he deftly sketched as well.