“Are you threatening me?” Rhystan asked in a silky voice.
Markham shook his head. “Only if you consider it that way. Think of it as incentive. I’m a businessman now, Your Grace.”
An underhanded businessman if he was resorting to extortion, not that that was any change from what he’d been charged with or his unscrupulous dealings in the opium trade. Rhystan’s eyes narrowed on the former vice admiral’s stained coat and the pallor of his skin. He refused to be intimated by anyone, and yet he could not put his family or Sarani into such a position.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then the Times and the ton will have a lovely new scandal to froth over.” Markham rose but dug into his pocket for a crumpled slip of paper. “That number will be sufficient for now. I’ll give you a day or two to secure the funds, but make no mistake, Duke, a scandal will ensue if you don’t comply.”
Rhystan didn’t deign to look at the paper lying between them on the desk. “What makes you think I won’t have you thrown on a convoy bound for the Americas the minute you walk out of here?”
Markham tutted, his face smug. “Because I have taken measures to ensure my safety. A message with strict instructions to be delivered to the Times if I am not heard from within short order. Good day, Your Grace. I look forward to a lucrative business relationship.”
After the piece of filth left, Rhystan clenched his fists, resisting the ferocious urge to flip the desk over. Calm, he needed to be calm. And he needed to think. There was no way he was going to pay a fortune—he glanced at the obscene number written on the paper. Blackmailers like Markham did not go away.
“Morton,” he called out and wrote out two quick notes on pieces of parchment.
“Yes, Your Grace?” the butler asked.
“See that these get to Mr. Longacre and Gideon Ridley down at the Green Stag on the north bank of the Thames at once.” He paused, eyes narrowing on his butler. Servants were excellent sources of information. “I need to know everything there is to know on that man who was just here, Markham. Any and every detail about his dismissal. Pay who you have to.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“And call for my carriage,” he added. A little reconnaissance at his club wouldn’t hurt.
* * *
“How on earth anyone can imagine that using this racquet to hit a shuttlecock over a patch of lawn while sweating one’s thighs off underneath all these layers is entertaining is utterly beyond me.” Ravenna collapsed on the bench beside Sarani, her face flushed with exertion. She gulped down a glass of cool lemonade.
“Battledore and shuttlecock is wonderful exercise,” Sarani said, lifting a brow after Ravenna’s rather indelicate burp. It was a good thing that Asha was their chaperone, though they did not really need one in the privacy of their gardens. She had heard much worse from her own mistress, especially when she and Tej used to have contests to see who could belch the longest.
“Saying that word is unseemly, Ravenna,” Clara, Ravenna’s bosom friend, chided, walking over with her own racquet in hand after retrieving the feathered cork that had been trapped in a bush.
“Cock?” Ravenna asked. “Sara said it, too.”
Clara blushed and then clapped a hand to her mouth. “No, the women’s body part, and Lady Sara said shuttlecock, which is entirely different, as you well know.”
Ravenna grinned. “Don’t be a prude for Sara’s sake. Besides, how is ‘thighs’ beyond the pale? Sara’s been teaching me much worse words she learned on my brother’s ship. She’s one of us, truly.”
Clara looked uncertain, and Sarani almost laughed. With friends like Penelope, no wonder the girl wasn’t sure whether she would be summarily shunned for not exercising proper decorum.
“The East India Company officers in India used to call the game poona.”
Clara plopped down beside them in a flurry of muslin skirts, eyes widening with interest. “What was it like? Living there?”
“Hot,” Sarani said with a laugh, fanning herself. “But a different kind of heat than here. There were the same rules for the nobility in court of course—dresses, petticoats, and the like.” She speared a glance at Ravenna, who was listening intently. Sarani was grateful that the girl had been true to her word and not mentioned her other royal half. “But in the villages, it was so vibrant. The women wore draped garments of woven silk and cotton in so many colors.” She lowered her voice. “Some of them did not wear undergarments beneath the wrap. At least until English concepts of modesty demanded that they wear a blouse called a choli.”
Ravenna’s and Clara’s eyes went wide, and then they both collapsed into giggles. “God, what I wouldn’t give not to wear a corset!” Ravenna said. “Sounds divine!”
Ravenna glanced at Asha, who was sitting quietly nearby. “Do you have any of these types of wraps?”
The maid froze, eyes darting to her mistress, but Sarani grinned. “I might have saved one or two. Shall we dress you in one, then?”
Both girls squealed with delight. “Oh, yes, please!”
“Just don’t let the duchess know or she will likely say that I’m corrupting you with my heathen ways.”
They laughed again, and then Clara’s eyes goggled as her laughter turned into awkward spluttering, her face going nearly puce while she fought for breath. The reason for her choking was quickly apparent as the duke strode down the garden path toward them.
As always, Sarani’s chest squeezed at the sight of him. She had no idea how a man became more handsome with every passing day, but he did. Today he wore a navy coat that hugged his broad shoulders, a silver-stitched waistcoat, and gray striped trousers. His hair was windblown and his cheeks flushed as though he’d just been out on a bracing ride. He looked downright edible. Sarani flushed at her unruly thoughts and ducked her head.
Too late—Ravenna was already staring at her and grinning. “You’re besotted with my brother, admit it!”
“I am not.”
“You are, too. You went all calf-eyed the minute you saw him.”
Sarani blushed. “You are being silly.”
“Silly but right.”
But the duke was already upon them before she could form a reply. Sarani’s breath caught, her senses running amok as he came to a stop, bowing to them, those forceful eyes falling upon her like a tangible caress. “Ladies. No, no, please don’t get up.”
“Your Grace,” Clara squeaked, while Sarani murmured the same.
“Brother, dearest, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Ravenna squinted up at her brother. “Do hurry up. You’re interrupting a rather fabulous conversation about fashion. Sara’s going to let us try on some of her clothing from India.”