The Sandalwood Princess by Loretta Chase Read Free Book Online Page B

You’re going to have to hang on. But of course you will,” he added encouragingly. “Fifty thousand pounds, and half that’s yours, my lad. There it waits, safe and snug in the bottom of the trunk. You’re not going to pass up twenty-five thousand quid, are you? We’ll get you a pair of roly-poly tarts, one for each arm. And we’ll dress you like a lord—shining boots from Hoby, one of Locke’s hats, and Weston’s best cut of suit. It’s Weston now, you know, for the Beau’s brought him into fashion.”
    On through the long afternoon and into the twilight, Philip sat by his servant and talked until he was hoarse, because words were all he could offer. He must give the man reason to live, to hold on. If Jessup held on this night, if he managed to sleep a bit, perhaps he’d wake stronger tomorrow. Perhaps he’d swallow a bite then, and grow stronger yet.
    If and if, perhaps and maybe. Philip Astonley had never felt so helpless since the day, fifteen years ago, he’d made his decision. Was this the end of it, or the dream that never quite came true, but never quite proved false, either? Trapped on a ship bound for England, his one friend in the world about to die, his worst enemy about to kill him? The Falcon had always known he’d be murdered one day. He was not afraid to die. He was simply curious: Would Padji snuff him out quickly, or would the giant take his time, to draw the thing out with supreme, unruffled Indian patience?
    However the end came, it would be his own damned fault, Philip reflected disgustedly. Rage edged to the surface again. The rani... imbecilic Randall... the woman...
    Jessup groaned. Banishing his growing fury, the Falcon focused mind and energy on keeping his servant alive.

Chapter Four
    Morning came at last , and Jessup finally fell into exhausted sleep. He was sinking, though. His colour had deteriorated to grey.
    Philip recalled the surgeon’s words: “Maybe you can get him to mix up one of those messes for your master.” He’d have to hazard it. There was a chance the Indian would recognise him. On the other hand, Jessup at present had no chance at all.
    After all, Philip—in the disguise of a plump, prosperous hookah merchant, complete with beard and thick padding— had merely passed Padji briefly in the hallway of the rani’s palace. For the robbery, he’d shaved and foregone the padding. Thus Padji was unlikely to equate the merchant with the robber. Would he note a resemblance between Mr. Brenuck, valet, and the thief, though? Perhaps not. Philip had, as usual, disguised his voice that night. The Falcon could mimic virtually any masculine voice he heard, and more than a few feminine ones. What Padji had heard was an excellent imitation of the Bhonsla Raja.
    His decision made, Philip dressed quickly but carefully, discarding any garments that still bore traces of agarwood. The expensive incense was too distinctive. He would have to adjust his posture and stride. He’d imitate Monty Larchmere’s stiff and graceless valet.
    That left one’s countenance, but it was too late for cosmetic adjustments. Virtually everyone on board had already seen him. In any case, Padji could not have seen the robber’s face in the unlit passage. Even the rani— who was aware the merchant was the Falcon or the Falcon’s accomplice-would recognise the eyes only. Padji hadn’t her opportunity to study the ersatz merchant at close hand. Had they ever seen Jessup, though? Philip swore under his breath. Never mind. The Indian might make the connexion. He might not. Half a chance, then.
    Philip headed for the upper deck and turned towards the forecastle, hoping to find the cook there. A confrontation in plain view of others was vastly preferable to a private one in the galley’s hot confines.
    Philip had scarcely taken five steps before something struck the back of his head. Instinctively, the Falcon’s hand went for the knife under his coat, and he whirled round. His glance darted about,