The duke’s gaze fastened to her, and Sarani fought to keep from squirming. The last time he’d seen her wear anything like a sari had been at the river, and that garment had been partially transparent even over a chemise. She seemed to recall him clutching his coat to his lap as if he’d die without it, and at the time, she’d been confused. Now that they’d been intimate, she knew exactly what it signified.
Her face warmed. “It’s all in good fun, Your Grace, I assure you.”
Rhystan opened his mouth and shut it as if he, too, was reliving the same memory. Sarani closed her eyes to avoid looking at his groin. Because that would be unseemly.
“I need to speak with you,” he said. “Alone.”
Grinning widely, Ravenna bit her lip as though she had something to say, but at the sharp look on her brother’s face, she curbed her tongue and grabbed Clara’s hand. “Don’t mind us, we’ll be just over here, hitting feathered bits of cork and sweating like piglets.”
Sarani bit back a laugh before standing to join Rhystan a few steps away. “What do you wish to speak to me about?”
“Markham has demanded money.”
She faltered. She hadn’t expected that. “How much?”
“An exorbitant amount,” he said, raking a large hand through his hair in a frustrated motion that would account for how messy it’d looked earlier. “I’ve just come from my club. Markham was stripped of his property by Lord Canning himself and discharged with disgrace. He was accused of conduct unbecoming an officer under court-martial and found guilty by the viceroy for levying his own taxes on the locals and running a smuggling ring.”
“Good heavens,” Sarani whispered.
“He has a mountain of debt, which means he’s desperate—at least enough to threaten a peer with extortion.”
“Will you pay him?”
“No,” Rhystan said, causing her heart to tumble to her feet. “Scum like him can’t be stopped. He’ll just keep coming back for more.” He paused, seeing the distressed expression on her face. “Do you trust me, Sarani?”
They were the same words he’d said to her a lifetime ago in Joor.
Sarani stared at him, seeing nothing but sincerity in those steel-blue eyes. She sucked in a breath, searching them. He held her fate in his palm.
“I do.”
Twenty-Two
The first part of his plan required a bit of stalling on Rhystan’s part. He accomplished that by having Longacre deliver an official letter from the bank to Markham’s rented apartments, stating that the requested funds would take some time to gather. A week was the best he could stretch it to without making the man suspicious, but he was leaning on the fact that the disgraced vice admiral needed the money.
The second part required more finesse. Finesse because Rhystan wanted nothing more than to beat the man to a bloody pulp for daring to blackmail him. But he needed something on Markham—something that would make the bastard sweat. In the meantime, he’d directed Longacre to pay off Markham’s creditors and consolidate his debt.
From what Gideon had dug up, the man had a reputation for being a swindler, and he had a number of enemies. Someone would want his pound of flesh, and Rhystan was prepared to supply it. Unless, of course, Markham agreed to stand down. The duke would deal with Talbot summarily, too, but that was for later.
An eye for a fucking eye.
He stared at Sarani, who had insisted on joining him at the Green Stag where he was meeting Gideon for an update on Markham’s enemies. She caught his look across the wooden table and sent him a jaunty grin over her mug of ale.
Once more, she was dressed as a young man, in a pair of trousers, a tweed coat, a plain waistcoat, and a cap. All her glorious dark hair was tucked neatly away. She’d taken a kohl pencil to her upper lip to sketch in a thin mustache. It would fail any close inspection but passed muster at first glance, though the black shading did call attention to her indecently full lips. They were currently moist and glazed from the last sip of her ale. Which made him want to lick it off her.
Not the time and place, clearly.
Rhystan studied the woman in front of him. God, he wished they were back on the Belonging. He wanted to see the hint of those freckles across her nose pop in the sun, see that jet-black hair loosened and wild, watch her be unencumbered and happy and not have to answer to anyone but herself.
The rarest ruby among prosaic diamonds.
Everything about her sang to him. Her beauty, her wit, her sense of justice as well as mischief. As evident from the current sparkle in her eye, it was obvious that she loved the subterfuge. Or perhaps it was the feeling that being back near the docks brought. He had to admit, he felt the same, as though a garrote around his neck had been loosened.
“Where did you get the togs?” he asked.
“Borrowed them from Tej,” she replied with a wink. “We’re the same size, now that he’s filled out a bit.” She paused, observing him. “He told me that you were sending him to school.”
“He deserves an education.”
She stared into her mug. “Even for a humble houseboy?”
He gave a shrug. “Tej is smart. I’d rather not let a perfectly good mind go to waste. And besides, when he does take up a trade and becomes the best at what he does, I can hire him. So it’s all in my own best interest.”
The way she was looking at him was worth everything. She stared at him as though he’d gifted her the stars and the moon, her green-gold eyes limpid with gratitude and affection.
“It’s a small thing,” he said.
She shook her head. “It’s no small thing! You’ve changed his life. You’ve given him an opportunity to make something of himself.” She drew in a soft breath. “It means so much. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I did it for you.”
Her eyes glittered. “Rhystan.”
Sod it. He stood, nearly knocking over the chair in his haste. He wanted to yank her into his arms and throw her over his shoulder, but instead he gave a rough jerk of his head for her to follow him. Biting her lip in a way that made him harder than he already was, she nodded. He practically limped down the corridor leading to a backstreet.
Rhystan waited just inside the door, near what looked like a storeroom, his heart pounding a staccato in his chest until she walked by, the scent of her like a red rag to a turkey-cock. He hauled her to him and pressed her into the nook, filling his palms with her luscious bottom. He kicked the wooden slat shut behind them.
“Hell, Sarani, these trousers,” he whispered, nuzzling into her fragrant neck. “They’re criminal on your legs. On this arse.”