“He’s a man. They are expected to go on a grand tour.”
“Why can’t ladies do the same? Why should we be fashioned like good little puppets whose strings will be passed from one master to the next? Tied down, hearth-bound, and miserable.”
Sarani did not have a reasonable answer. She’d always thought the same. If the boys could do it, so could she. Though England was new to her, she’d seen quite a bit of India on travels with her father, and he had not hesitated to take her along in spite of her sex. Odd that a country that was viewed as backward by England had more progressive views of women in positions of power. Her friend Manu had exceeded all expectations and surpassed all limits as the queen of Jhansi in her own right, riding into battle like the warrior she was, not in the least bit inhibited by the fact that she was a woman.
A wet-haired Ravenna peered at her. “What are you reading over there?”
“Wuthering Heights,” Sarani said. “Do you know it?”
She scowled. “I’m all in favor of vengeance right now.”
“It’s more than just revenge,” Sarani said. “It’s about the darkest of passions, loss, and the balances of power. And in the end, perhaps it’s about allowing ourselves what we deserve.”
“Heathcliff is like Rhystan. Hard of heart, ruthless of mind, and empty of soul.”
Sarani cast her a stern look. “Ravenna, your brother might be a cold and exacting man, but he’s not soulless. And he loves you. He only wants what’s best for you.”
“By forcing me to marry?”
“By seeing you safe. I wish I had someone left to care enough to do the same.” The hard words were out before she could stop them. “I have no one left in the world.”
Besides a cousin who wants to murder me.
She didn’t add that last part.
“I am sorry,” Ravenna said, her soft voice contrite. “But you cannot understand what it’s like to be forced into an unwanted position.”
“I understand more than you know. Before my father died, he betrothed me to an odious man twice my age without my approval or consent.”
Ravenna blinked. “Not to Rhystan?”
“I did not know the duke then…” The lie felt sour on her tongue, but then she froze, her eyes snapping to Ravenna, who wore a guilty look on her face. “What is that look?”
“Nothing.” She wrung her hands, her cheeks going red. “It’s not Asha’s fault but she might have mentioned that you and my brother knew each other from when he was an officer. She slipped and called you Princess Sarani. And I heard Rhystan in the coach saying something about five years ago.” She bit her lip as Sarani felt the bottom drop out from beneath her feet. “You’re the girl, aren’t you?”
Heaven help her, Sarani quailed on the inside. She placed the book carefully down on her lap and calmed her erratic breaths. Speculation wasn’t the truth. “Which girl?”
“I overheard my parents arguing years ago about Rhystan and some letter my father had received from an admiral or some such overseas.” Ravenna paused. “They spoke about a girl. An Indian princess with an English mother.” Sarani’s heart sank. “That’s you, isn’t it.”
She drew a breath. “Ravenna…”
“Don’t treat me like a birdwit. I know it’s you. I’ve seen your likeness before, you know. Did you know my brother carries a miniature of you in a locket? I discovered it when he came back for the funeral. He was quite in his cups, you see, clutching it as though it was his most precious possession and cursing it in the same breath.” She quirked her lips. “The girl was younger, of course, but I see the resemblance clearly now. I always knew she was special.” She laughed. “I’d even told Penelope about it to prove that Rhystan was mad for someone else and she should set her sights elsewhere.”
Sarani frowned. Why would the duke have kept a portrait of her? As a talisman? A reminder of his distaste?
“I won’t tell anyone,” Ravenna whispered. “It doesn’t even matter to me who your parents are.”
She swallowed, meeting the girl’s eyes. “It does to me.”
“Are you truly a princess?”
“I used to be.”
A pleat forming between her brows, Ravenna stared at her. “How does one stop being a princess?”
“By burying her.”
* * *
Rhystan raked a hand through his hair as he stared at Gideon over a pint at the small dockside tavern near where the Belonging had been dry-docked for repairs. He’d needed a drink after the day he’d had. A robbery, of all things. The servants had been in a flurry because no one had suspected the young chimney sweep, who claimed he’d been sent by the duke himself.
“So you’re saying that someone broke into your house in Mayfair?” Gideon asked, thick dark brows rising.
“Stole a few loose banknotes, rifled through the study, but nothing of great value was taken.” He frowned—for a robber, his study would have been a veritable treasure trove. “Either it was a terrible thief or they were there to scout the place.”
“You suspect trouble?”
Rhystan took the last swallow of his whisky. “I don’t know yet. Tell the men to keep an eye out here as well. Could be simpleminded thieves.” He let out a breath. Or it could be something more. “Any more news on the ship that was following us?” he asked. He’d begun to doubt that the ship behind them had been anything but another trade ship following the same route.
“Nothing, but another ship put into port a week ago, resupplied, and left a day later,” Gideon said with a frown. “An Indiaman vessel with not a drop of cargo and a handful of tight-lipped crew. Couldn’t pry a word out of them. Red only found out that they’d come from Bombay after greasing some palms and checking with the customs docking logs.”
“Any idea where they went?”
“I put a couple men on a clipper to follow them.”
Rhystan blew out a breath. “Good man.”
“How’s the Duchess of Terror?” Gideon grinned. “Does she miss me? I reckon I could get her to soften up after a few pints. We almost had a moment at the funeral.”
“She had you tossed out on your arse by the largest footmen we had,” Rhystan said dryly. “And banned from ever returning to Huntley House.”
“Best day of my life,” Gideon said, raising his tankard.
Rhystan laughed and lifted his as well.
“And what of your bride-to-be?” Gideon asked slyly.