“Something besides her breasts,” I suggested.
He shrugged. “They are lovely, but not as matchless as her eyes. Englishmen,” he said with a moue of displeasure, “do not always appreciate the subtleties of difference in the shades of brown. They see skin and hair and eyes which are dark and think, ‘Eh, this is all the same.’ But no! God has wrought each with a poet’s hand, giving tones and shades. One must look closely in order to see, do you understand? And no one sees as well as Julien d’Orlande,” he added, puffing out his chest. “The maharani has eyes like polished gems, full of light and intelligence. She is accustomed to command. She does not drop her eyes modestly like an Englishwoman, but she lifts her chin and dares one to look away. I find her enchanting, although she does not eat enough,” he added with a frown. “It is often the way with those raised in that part of Asia. They have not the habit of sugar, so their taste for sweets is fruit, always fruit! I tempt her with my delicacies and always she sends the maid to say, ‘My mistress will have a mango.’ A mango!” He rolled his eyes in despair. “Where is a mango to be found in England in April, I ask you?”
“So how do you satisfy the lady’s appetites?” I asked demurely.
He grinned at the double entendre. “You converse like a Frenchwoman. I cannot give her the mango. Such a thing does not exist here in this season. So one day, in despair, I created one from marzipan. I took the almond paste and sculpted and painted and tinted until it was exquisite, impossible to tell from the real thing. I sent it up to her and she sent it back and asked it be given to the poor for their pleasure. But she dispatched her grandson to bring me her compliments.”
“Her grandson?” I asked, widening my eyes.
“A nice enough boy—a man, I should say. Perhaps twenty or a little more. He is shy, but the sort of shyness which means he sees much. His grandmother is a strong personality, you understand. He has not many opportunities to put himself forwards. But it is easy to see that he adores her and she him. He is learning her ways.”
“What sort of ways?” Stoker inquired.
“The way of the leader,” Julien replied succinctly. “The maharani is a most alluring woman, but she is not languid. She does not lie about and order her servants to attend her and think of nothing but her clothes. She entertains often, many men of politics and business. For her, India should be free. She speaks openly of such things. It was the mission of her husband, you understand. But he was killed, many, many years ago.”
“Was it, perchance, thirty years ago?” Stoker asked.
“Something like that,” Julien said. “I do not know the details, only that she has been a widow for a very long time, and she carries on his work, speaking out for the independence of India.”
“Like Lakshmibai,” Stoker said.
Julien tipped his head. “Who is this?”
“Lakshmibai was the Rani of Jansi, a place in northern India. During the rebellion in ’fifty-seven, she led her own troops into battle. She fought and died for the independence of her people. Britons think of her as a dangerous rebel, but to Indians who want to be free of our empire, she is quite the heroine. They say she is buried under a tamarind tree and that her spirit inspires those who would cast off their oppressors.”
“A most interesting woman,” Julien observed.
“Indeed, and any woman who follows in her footsteps is bound to make a stir,” Stoker said.
“All the travel to whip up support, the quiet efforts to arm those who embrace resistance—I imagine it must all be terribly expensive,” I mused.
Stoker nodded. “Certainly. Anyone truly committed to the cause cannot spend their days farming or breeding livestock or doing any other work to make money. They must be supported. And, as you say, weapons are costly.”
“The maharani is staying at an expensive hotel,” I went on. “I am curious about the state of her finances. Many of the Indian princes are fabulously wealthy.” I was thinking particularly of the Nizam of Hyderabad and his extravagant lifestyle. It was said an entire wing of his palace was devoted to his clothes, for he never wore the same ensemble twice. Other princes, however, lived in much quieter style, scarcely more affluent than the average English squire. I wondered where the Maharani of Viratanagar fit into this picture.
Julien brightened. “But I can tell you that,” he said with some pride. “Her clothes and jewels are extraordinary, but she does not have many. She dresses like the queen she is, yet I have seen her already in the same ensemble though she has been here only one week. She eats simply, rice and vegetables, and her jewels are those handed down through the family. When one of the rajas from Uttar Pradesh comes, he takes the whole of the upper two floors, every suite for his family and his court officials. They order everything on the menu, and his wife and daughters spend every day shopping. The parcels that are delivered—they come every minute of every hour, dresses, boots, ribbons, furniture. Not the maharani. She does not shop. When she entertains, it is over tea, made with spices over a brazier in her own rooms. She has serious conversations with serious men.”
“She might be short of money,” I ventured.
Stoker shrugged. “Or she is simply frugal and bent upon her purpose in coming here.”
“Whatever that may be,” I finished. I rose and pulled on my gloves. “Thank you for your time, Julien. It has been pleasurably instructive, as ever.”
He kissed me again on both cheeks and pressed a wrapped packet of marzipan mice into Stoker’s hands for the journey home. Our business finished earlier than we expected, we left a note for Harry with a porter, informing him that we were returning to the Belvedere and telling him to meet us there. I believed what I had told Stoker regarding the unlikelihood of Harry discovering the Eye of the Dawn in our absence, but I saw no point in tempting fate. The sooner we were back in the Belvedere, the sooner we removed any temptation from Harry.
We gave the note to the porter and emerged onto the street. Stoker fished the packet of marzipan mice out of his pocket and tore into it with gusto.
“Really, you cannot wait until we are in the cab?” I began, lifting my arm. Before he could respond, the driver of a vehicle waiting at the curb lifted his whip to acknowledge me. I opened the door just as I noticed the unusual height of the driver, possibly six and a half feet, I would have guessed, with bright blond hair under a greasy cap that had been jammed low on his head. I paused, one foot on the step, my hand on the open door as I stared into the dimness of a compartment whose windows had been entirely covered with heavy black oilcloth.
“Miss Speedwell,” said a low voice. “Get in.” I had not seen the figure, shrouded in black and tucked into the shadows of the far corner of the conveyance, but I could just make out the glint of a small revolver aimed at my head.