“We are sorry to intrude so abruptly,” I told her. “But I am afraid the manager at the front desk proved uncooperative to our request to announce us.”
Her smile was thin. “It is of little consequence. I know who you are.” She waved a hand towards the sofa opposite her and Stoker and I sat, perching on the edge of the settee. Harry stood behind us, and I suspected J. J. was still in the foyer, listening to every word.
“Mr. Templeton-Vane and . . . Miss Speedwell, is it not?”
“And our associate, Mr. Spenlove,” I told her. “I must congratulate you on your sources,” I said.
The smile deepened. “I have friends in your government. Discreet friends who sympathize with my politics.”
“With independence for India, you mean?” Stoker inquired.
“Self-rule,” her grandson corrected sharply. “We are dependent upon no one.”
“I meant no offense,” Stoker replied, careful to keep his voice neutral.
There was a cut high upon the young man’s cheek, marring the smooth perfection of his skin. “I am sorry for that,” I said, nodding towards the injury. “If I had known who you were, I would have been perfectly happy to hand over what you came for.”
He snorted, and his grandmother patted his hand, murmuring a few words in Hindi. “I do not ask you to excuse my grandson,” she told us. “His skepticism of Europeans is an honest result of the invasion and occupation of our country. I hope in time he will come to trust that we have some friends here, although not as many as I would like.”
“You may count us among them,” Stoker said boldly.
She laughed, a strong, mirthful sound from low in her belly. “I am not surprised, Mr. Templeton-Vane. Several of my meetings this week have been with a Sir Rupert Templeton-Vane. A close connection of yours, I am told.”
“My elder brother,” Stoker said in obvious surprise. “But you astonish me. I knew he worked in some capacity for the Foreign Office. I was not aware he had a stake in the affairs of India.”
She shrugged. “At the beginning of the week, he was merely open to the possibility. Now he supports us, albeit quietly. I have asked him not to make his feelings known publicly. He can do far more for our cause by working from within.”
She tipped her head to one side. “But I do not think you have come to discuss politics?” She did nothing so vulgar as hold out her hand, but the intent was clear. Stoker reached into his pocket and withdrew one of his red bandanna handkerchiefs. He had knotted it securely around the jewel and he presented this to the maharani.
“An interesting choice,” she said. “Your bandanna comes from India, did you know that? We call the technique of dyeing it bandhani. It came to this part of the world when there was a fashion for snuff. The habit left white handkerchiefs badly soiled with the stains of tobacco, so these patterned handkerchiefs from our country were the perfect solution. Of course, we make them in all colors, not just this Turkey red, but it is possible the Englishman has a limited imagination.”
With deft fingers, she unknotted the cloth and folded it back to reveal the diamond’s shimmering fire. Even in its humble wrapping, it was mesmerizing. The maharani said nothing for a long moment, then touched it with a fingertip, her expression reverent.
“It is just as I remember it,” she said softly.
“Did you wear it?” I asked.
She nodded. “On my wedding day. The parure was a gift from my husband. It was stolen from us during the rebellion.”
“We suspected as much,” Stoker told her. “When Lady Hathaway spoke of how she acquired it, she was less than informative.”
The maharani gave a short laugh. “No doubt. The Hathaways were staying with us when the rebellion broke out. My husband, the maharajah, and Sir Geoffrey worked closely together. They were friends, and the Hathaways often spent summers with us at our palace in the hills. My relationship with Lady Hathaway was not as close as that of our husbands,” she said dryly. “I found her badly educated and unsympathetic. But we were cordial. Our positions and our husbands demanded it. As the troubles began, the Hathaways decided to withdraw to the English fort for their own security. There was much confusion at the time, you understand, and so when the jewels went missing, there was no way to prove who had taken them. But I knew,” she said.
“How?” Stoker inquired.
“A woman knows when another woman wants something of hers,” I replied.
The maharani inclined her head. “Exactly so. The envy of a woman is not always easy to conceal. I had seen her eyes linger too often upon my jewels, and I confess, I wore them constantly when she was in our home. I knew she had nothing to rival them and it rankled her to see them around the neck of a woman she considered inferior.”
“She stole them,” her grandson burst out. “Like a common thief.”
“But we could not prove it,” the maharani went on. “I went to my husband with my suspicions and he refused to broach the matter with the English government. He said matters were at a delicate pass and we could not afford to bring trivialities into the mix.”
“Trivialities!” I exclaimed, looking at the diamond.
“It was a point of pride with him that he could afford to replace them,” she said. I eyed the elaborate collar of emeralds and rubies at her throat.
“He certainly did,” I remarked.
“This? Paste,” she said. “Like all of my jewels. Everything he gave me has been sold to raise money for the cause in which we believe so passionately.”
“All of them?” I gaped at her, looking from the heavy girandole earrings to the stacks of bracelets encircling her arms from wrist to elbow.
“All,” she said firmly. “I would sacrifice everything to see my country free of English rule. Even to the greatest of my jewels.” She patted her grandson’s hand. “Although I would prefer this one to take rather fewer risks.”
“You fuss too much,” Lord Bhairav said, ducking his head. “I was not harmed, and even if I were, it was a small price to pay to return the Eye of the Dawn to its rightful home.” He looked to us, and for the first time, I saw humor in his dark gaze. “Have you worked it out yet? Our plan to restore the Eye of the Dawn?”
“Almost,” I said slowly. “Let us return to the theft of the jewels. They were taken during the mutiny by Lady Hathaway, who later brought them to England. The maharajah refused to raise the matter with the English authorities in India, so she got away with them, but you never forgot they were your property,” I said, nodding to the maharani, “and you raised your grandchildren with the story.”
“Grandchildren?” Stoker asked.