Heart of Light (60 page)

“I've looked at him,” Sofie said, as she remembered the man's smile, and the large sharp fanglike teeth that protruded from his thin lips. “There is nothing that could prevail upon me to consider marriage to—”

With a clatter, Mrs. Warington set Sofie's silver-handled brush upon the polished mahogany dressing table. “Sofie, listen. You are old enough to know the truth. And the truth is, the chances of us finding you a respectable marriage with an Englishman in either England or India are next to none.”

“I know you're going to say this is because I have Indian blood, but . . . Mother! Plenty of girls with more Indian blood than I have married exceedingly well. And besides—”

“Yes, doubtless,” Mrs. Warington said. “Your father's grandmother married very well, but she brought with her an immense dowry accumulated by her Nabob father. Enough for no one to say anything about her blood, or about the fact that her parents never married and her mother was nothing but her father's native bibi. Yes, Sofie, money covers a multitude of sins, but that's where we fail, for we have none.”

“No money?” Sofie asked, somewhat shocked.

A shadow crossed her mother's features. For a moment, the greenish eyes meeting hers in the mirror looked away.

“But you sent me to England!” Sofie protested. After all, only a small minority of girls got sent to England for their education, and certainly not those born to the very impecunious. Officers' brats, as a rule, stayed in India. As did almost any girl with any Indian blood. “And Papa inherited his mother's money, and—”

“We spent all our money sending you to England,” her mother said, looking down, seemingly wholly absorbed in arranging Sofie's hair, and therefore not looking at Sofie in the mirror. Sofie wished she would look up and meet her eyes. Then she might judge the truth of her mother's words. Unnatural or not, she didn't feel as though she could trust her. “There is none left for your dowry, but surely you must understand what you owe me and your father. We ruined ourselves for your education. The least you can do is consider the marriage we arranged for you.”

Sofie was stunned into silence by this consideration—a silence that subsisted till she was mostly dressed and her mother left to allow Lalita to drape a shawl artistically around Sofie.

As soon as the door closed behind Mrs. Warington, Lalita looked at her mistress and said, with remarkable understatement, “You don't like him?”

“Like him?” Sofie said. “How could I? Lalita, he's the most despicable—” She didn't notice her own voice rising until Lalita put her finger to her lips.

“The other servants say he's not . . . Not what he seems,” she said, in an urgent murmur. “His kingdom is very distant, but there are rumors . . .” She made a gesture, midair, as of someone averting a curse. “They call it the kingdom of the tigers, and it is said all English who go there disappear.”

“But . . . what could he want with me?” Sofie asked, bewildered. It all came down to that one question. Granted, this man was a local ruler of some distant domain, but why would he want her? What could he possibly see in an English miss freshly returned from Britain that would justify a promise to make her his only wife? “I don't think he's ever even glimpsed me.”

Lalita looked grave, an expression ill-suited to her normally smiling countenance. “He told your father he saw your face and heard your name in a seeing. That you were the only one for him.”

“He told my father . . .” Sofie repeated, as she absentmindedly arranged the folds of the shawl. “But you don't think it's true?”

“I . . . don't know. I think . . . I mean, I know he was very interested in your dowry.”

“My dowry?” Sofie asked, shocked. “I have a dowry? But my mother said . . .”

“The ruby,” Lalita said.

Sofie stared, astonished. “The ruby?” It wasn't that she didn't know what Lalita was talking about.

She knew well enough. The jewel was all that remained of her father's half-breed grandmother's dowry. The money had been spent, and the other jewels had been sold. All except the ruby.

The only reason it had been preserved was that though it was deep bloodred and of exceptional size, it was also flawed. A dark crack at its center marred not only its aesthetics but its magical properties as well. You could feel power flowing off the jewel, but it was erratic—now starting, now stopping, as unpredictable as the lightning that crossed the sky at monsoon season. And as likely to be harnessed for anything useful. Why, then, would the Raj want that? Surely he was neither crazy nor stupid?

It had to be an excuse, and the excuse had to mean that he wanted
her
. But why?

“I don't understand it, either, miss,” Lalita said, and shrugged. “Only, all the talk in the servants' hall is that he insisted on the ruby for your dowry.”

Sofie shook her head. In the middle of her room, she could see her reflection in the mirror without turning her head fully. Half glimpsed through the corner of her eye, she looked to herself like a comely woman, shapely enough to command love where her dowry could not demand respect.

She didn't think much of her dark locks, or her honey-colored skin. But she had to admit she looked well enough.

Desperately, she thought of her days in London, and the carefully chaperoned balls she'd attended. There had been several men who had tried to fix their favor with her—though she supposed that her mother would say they did it in the belief that her father had made his fortune in India. Perhaps they did. Sofie had always been a little suspicious of those men who declared they'd fallen in love with her after one look, or that one glance from her was enough to sustain them for days. She was doubtful of the ones who sent her roses and other flowers and danced attendance on her night and day, with no encouragement and very little sustenance.

But one man hadn't been like that. In her mind rose the image of Captain William Blacklock—slim, dark-haired, and ravishing in his red regimentals. He had told her he would marry her if he could, but he didn't want her parents to think him a disgraceful fortune hunter. Well, they couldn't think that now.

Her mind brought her, unbidden, the image of the man her parents had chosen for her. Beside Captain Blacklock, he didn't even seem to be the same species. And Sofie had no doubt whom she preferred.

Captain Blacklock had shipped to India three months before she did. He'd told her he was being sent to Meerut with his regiment, to put down some disturbance related to weres. Sofie had never heard of weres in India, except in her nursemaid's stories, so she wasn't sure she'd heard Captain Blacklock right.

But she remembered Meerut. She had no idea where it was, but she knew it was somewhere in India. Surely she could make it there? She must run away from home anyway. She had decided that as soon as she'd looked at the cruel, inhuman face of the unknown prince.

In his last words to her, William Blacklock had said he would gladly marry her if their circumstances permitted. Surely if she could make it to his side, he would not refuse her now?

Without a fortune, surely she was not beyond his reach.

Peter Farewell stumbled down the streets of Calcutta, looking like a drunken man but feeling all too starkly sober.

A tall Englishman with dark curls, his classical features—whose symmetry could have shamed the marbled perfection of ancient statues—were marred only by a black leather eye patch over his left eye. The right one, as though to compensate, shone brightly, and often sparkled with irony.

Many a woman had gazed into that eye and been captivated by the verdant depths that seemed to hide all promises and sparkle with possible romance. Peter Farewell knew his gaze's power and had consciously avoided capturing any hearts when he could not offer his own in return. For the last ten years, he'd known he wouldn't make a good husband. Once, he'd dreamed of a world where he could live like anyone else—a world where he loved and could be loved. Now he did not know what dreams he had, if any. All he had was a mission. One at which he was failing miserably.

He walked blindly through Calcutta. He'd arrived here six months ago, and was staying in one of the palatial mansions of Garden Reach—that place inhabited by East India Company employees and their families. The vast houses would make most noble families in England blush with envy, and it put Peter's own inherited estate, the rambling Summercourt, to shame.

Summercourt
. . . As his mind dwelt on his ancestral house, his hand plunged into the pocket of his exquisitely tailored suit to feel a bundle of papers. He did not need to take it from his pocket to see its text floating before his gaze as vividly as if he were reading. The top line read:
To Peter Farewell, Lord Saint Maur
.

He hadn't needed to read the next lines—though he had—nor the twelve pages following to know what his estate manager was telling him. That Peter's father was dead. That Peter was now the only heir to that ancient and noble family name descended from Charlemagne.

The manager's faithful account of Peter's inheritance made Peter groan. He'd received the letter by bearer just before dinner, and how he'd got through the meal, he'd never know. He'd left immediately after. He'd come, without quite knowing how, all the way to Esplanade Row, where he now stared at the impressive facade of Government House. Like his estate manager's letter, it resonated with the power of the expected and the prearranged. The manager never said it, but it was clear in his every word that he expected Peter—who, for the last ten years, had been abroad and sown his wild oats, such as they were—to return and shoulder the name of Farewell, the title of Saint Maur, and the responsibilities and needs of his house and retainers.

Not that there was much. At least, there hadn't been when Peter had last seen it. The estate consisted of a large, rambling farm, and an assortment of smaller farms let to various tenant families. It supported a shabby gentility akin to the life of a wealthy farmer, with pretensions that would make the Royal Family's seem small.

But compared to the way he had been living, it would be paradise. He couldn't think of his north-country domains without longing for the smells of the fields around his house. He craved the twang of local speech; the Sunday afternoons in semi-deserted streets; the parks visited by serene families, the children named for kings and queens; the museums; the lending libraries; the places that had sheltered his childhood when he was, in fact, still full of illusions. When he still thought that he might grow up to be Peter Farewell, Earl of Saint Maur, scion of a noble family.

Only it couldn't be. Oh, England had shape-shifters aplenty among its noble families. Despite the law's command that they all be killed upon discovery, it was an open secret that several noble families threw out weres now and then.

But all known noble weres were foxes, or dogs, or—at worst—wolves.

There was even a charming story of a Scottish nobleman who turned into a seal at the waxing of the moon. But Peter didn't have that innocuous a form. His other shape was a dragon. An eater of humans. A killer.

It was beyond the pale to even think of such a dangerous beast being tolerated. Witness the story of Richard Lionheart, trudging his weary way home from the Crusades, only to be put to death because more of him was a lion than just his heart. The laws that had allowed John Lackland to execute his older brother and lawful sovereign were still extant. And still enforced.

Early tomorrow morning, he'd pen a letter for his manager, apprising him of his intent to never return. The man would be disappointed. He would possibly be heartbroken, destroyed by such a complete break with the past and by his internal certainty that Peter did not care about house or family. Let him think it. If that kept Peter's secret—and if it kept Peter safe—it was enough.

Peter would stay in India and try to fulfill his mission here. He'd find Soul of Fire, the ruby once used to bind all the magic of Europe to Charlemagne. Six months ago, on the highlands near Darjeeling, he'd separated from Nigel, who might be his last friend in the world, and he'd promised Nigel that he'd find the ruby. And then he'd reunite with Nigel—who held the ruby's twin, Heart of Light, which would attract Soul of Fire like a beacon—so Nigel could return both stones to the oldest temple of mankind, at the heart of Africa.

Neither man knew what would happen once the jewels were returned to the temple. They'd been convinced that such an act was necessary to prevent horrible catastrophe. But Peter didn't think it would in any way improve his life or his material circumstances. He presumed he would still be circumscribed by his curse, still separated from normal men and limited in how close he could live to them. Yet, since his visit to the temple six months ago, the curse had been so slight and so easily controlled that he'd dared to dream. Perhaps once the rubies were returned, he would be free. . . .

But now, after six months of following a long-dead trail for the ruby that Charlemagne had used to bind magical power to himself and his descendants, Peter had grown to believe the jewel had been cut up or destroyed, and no longer existed. His scrying instruments and all his attempts at divination had led him here, to Calcutta, and then the trail had vanished.

Meaning he'd live out his days in India, futilely trying to find an artifact that couldn't be found.

He'd already broken his father's heart through no design of his own, on that cold morning so many years ago, when his father had discovered Peter's secret. He had packed his son up and told him to get out—and stay out. Money would find him, but Peter must not—he must never—make his way to Summercourt again. He remembered his father's dour face and the instruction to “seek some form of employment that will not disgrace you. And strive not to commit more sins than needed.”

Did his father know, then, that it would be the last time they'd see each other? He had to, didn't he? He'd told Peter to stay away and never let their paths cross again.

Something caught at the back of Peter's throat, something that might have been laughter or tears; he wasn't sure which. He looked up, trying to find something to fix his eyes upon, something that would take his mind off his own misery and the final renunciation of his inheritance, his birthplace—his own being—that he must do in the morning.