Veils of Silk (41 page)

Though he didn't say so, Laura knew that he was thinking how stressful it would be for them to be together with nothing to occupy their time. As she went into her bedroom to prepare for her bath, she silently echoed Ian's hope that the maharajah would not delay long in summoning them.

Their hopes were fulfilled with startling speed. Laura had barely completed her bath when a chamberlain entered and announced that His Gracious Majesty Rajiv Singh, son of heaven and ruler of earth, was ready to receive his guests. There followed a frantic ten minutes while Meera helped Laura dress.

In honor of the occasion, Laura donned a conventional day dress, complete with corset. She hoped Rajiv Singh appreciated her efforts on his behalf. Then Meera hastily coiled Laura's hair into a tawny knot at the back of her head. A picture of respectable British womanhood, Laura joined her husband in the drawing room, where he was patiently giving the chamberlain his full name, titles, and honors, for use in announcing him to the maharajah. He had also changed his clothing and looked as distinguished as a man with a rakish eyepatch could.

As they left the apartment, Ian seemed his usual imperturbable self; but as Laura looked at him from the corner of her eye, she thought his expression was too controlled. Speaking under her breath in English, she said, "Aren't you glad that we'll be getting this over so quickly? You look dubious."

"I just have an overly suspicious mind," he murmured. "Amir Nasrullah of Bokhara was very affable when I first called on him. In fact, his hospitality was splendid right up to the moment he had me tossed into the Black Well."

Her brows knit in concern. As they went down the stairs, she said, "Is your intuition saying that something is wrong, or is this just natural caution?"

"The latter," he said without hesitation. "The situations are entirely different. Nasrullah was known to be mad and he hated all Europeans. In contrast, Rajiv Singh is one of the cleverest, sanest princes in India."

They spoke no more until they reached the vast chamber where the maharajah held audience. Called a
durbar
room, it glittered with crystal, gilding, and shining marble. Dozens of chattering, lavishly dressed courtiers lounged around the edges. Laura had the dizzy impression that there were more jewels present in this one room than could be found in all of England.

Amidst so much dazzle, she almost missed seeing a raised step ahead of them, for the diffuse light in the durbar room cast few shadows. Immediately she realized that if it was hard for her to see, it was probably impossible for Ian. She took a firm hold of his arm, as if she were nervous and wanted his support. Ignoring the fact that he stiffened when she touched him, she said under her breath, "A step upward, about two strides ahead."

With her warning, he was able to avoid stumbling. "Thanks," he murmured after they had both negotiated the step successfully.

Though there were no more steps, she kept hold of his arm until they reached the Persian carpet in front of the dais that held the throne. The chamberlain announced, "Ian Cameron, Lord Falkirk of Falkirk, fourteenth Baron Falkirk and seventh Baron Montieth, late of the 46th Native Infantry, and Lady Falkirk."

Ian bowed and Laura curtsied. Then she raised her head and looked at the maharajah. From across the room he had been just another glittering figure, but now her eyes widened. Though she had heard of Rajiv Singh's power and intelligence, no one had mentioned that he was handsome enough to earn any woman's admiration. Tall and fit, he was probably in his late thirties. Under a scarlet, bejeweled turban he had humorous dark eyes that studied his visitors with shrewd interest.

The maharajah said in flawless English, "Welcome to Dharjistan, Lord and Lady Falkirk. I understand that you wish to speak with me?"

He was of the warrior caste of Rajputs and had the natural authority of a born leader of men. He also had the directness of a military man, and Ian responded with equal directness. "Yes, Your Highness. My wife is the niece of Colonel Pyotr Andreyovich Kushutkin, who claimed acquaintance with you."

The Rajput's face lit up as he transferred his gaze to Laura. "Ah, you must be the one he called 'his little Lara'?"

"Yes, Your Highness, though I use the name Laura now."

"How is my old friend Pyotr Andreyovich?"

"I regret to say that he is dead."

Rajiv Singh sighed. "A great pity, but not a surprise. It was a dangerous trade your uncle plied." He regarded her with interest. "Pyotr Andreyovich said his young niece played chess very well. Are you as good as he was, Lady Falkirk?"

"Uncle Pyotr taught me," she said demurely.

A gleam showed in the maharajah's eyes. "That's a strong recommendation." His expression became thoughtful. "I had half forgotten, but your uncle left a small casket of personal effects here. Is that why you have come?"

"Yes, Your Highness," Laura replied. "Before his death, he wrote me a letter wherein he mentioned the casket, saying that he had left it with you."

"It will be delivered to your chambers as soon as it can be located." Rajiv Singh gave an engaging grin. "It's somewhere in the treasure room. Quite safe, but the place is cluttered, so some searching will be required."

His gaze returned to Ian. "You're a soldier, Lord Falkirk?"

"I resigned my commission when I inherited the title," Ian explained, "but before that I was in the army."

"Very good. You should be interested in a troop review that I will be holding in a few days." The Rajput smiled. "I'm rather proud of my army. I hired the best officers in Europe to train it, and I've provided the finest weapons. With the Punjab in turmoil and the frontier tribes always a threat, I must be prepared. If you have suggestions for improvements in drill or equipment, I shall be glad to entertain them."

"Your Highness is most gracious," Ian said. "Though I have no special expertise beyond that of other officers, I would be honored to watch the troop review."

His face as eager as a boy's, the maharajah leaned forward in his massive gilded throne. "Have you experience with artillery?" When Ian nodded, Rajiv Singh said, "I have been told that Russian cannon can fire twelve times a minute, but I have trouble believing that. Is such a rate possible?"

"Whoever said that exaggerated," Ian replied. "The best crews I've seen can only do about seven rounds a minute and for accuracy, four rounds a minute is better. Why waste one's fire?"

"Certainly the number of hits is more important than sheer speed," the Rajput said thoughtfully. "Do you think… ?"

Laura's attention wandered as the conversation became technical. Then a richly dressed lady-in-waiting came forward and beckoned her to come up on the side of the dais. "Please to come, Lady Falkirk," she said haltingly.

It seemed rather bold to move so close to the maharajah, so Laura glanced at Ian. He had seen the interchange and nodded that it was all right, so Laura followed the lady-in-waiting up the steps and across the level surface of the dais, less than a dozen feet from the throne. Absorbed in his conversation with Ian, Rajiv Singh ignored her, and none of the heavily armed guards paid any attention at all.

It appeared that her guide intended to walk straight into the wall. Then Laura realized that what she had thought was a mural was actually an embroidered fabric panel that covered an opening about six feet wide. It was a purdah curtain, designed to protect a highborn Hindu lady from the stares of the vulgar. The material was so sheer that light and dark could be distinguished on the other side.

Without hesitation, the lady-in-waiting parted the curtain and walked through, then turned and again gestured for Laura to follow. Alive with curiosity, Laura stepped through the curtains, and found herself in another world.

The small room behind the purdah curtain was decorated with a richness that would have made Aladdin's cave seem plain, and the air was redolent of a complex, haunting perfume that implied both innocence and age-old wisdom. Yet it was the woman sitting calmly on the cushioned divan who made Laura catch her breath in wonder. She must be the maharani, and she was the quintessence of eastern loveliness, with dusky skin and huge, dark almond eyes that seemed to see and understand everything. The tiny, starlike gems that spangled her white silk bodice and sari made her look like an Oriental version of the queen of fairyland.

Laura dropped into her deepest curtsy. As she straightened, she searched her mind desperately for the correct etiquette for dealing with royalty. If she made a mistake, would she and Ian be tossed into the nearest dungeon and forgotten? Asiatic rulers could be an arbitrary lot. Deciding that basic courtesy was a good start, she joined her hands and bowed her head. "Namaste."

With a delighted smile, the woman in white returned the greeting, then said in painstaking English, "I am Maharani Kamala. I am wanting to welcome you to Manpur, Lady Falkirk."

"Thank you, Your Highness." Laura wondered if she should say more; it was royalty's right to lead the conversation.

Kamala tilted her head to one side, her torrent of ebony hair shimmering beneath her transparent veil. "You are most lovely, Lady Falkirk, but not in the usual way of Britishers. More, more…" With a twinkling of gold bangle bracelets, she waved her hand as she searched for a word.

Switching to Persian, Laura said, "In fact I am not British but of Russian blood, Your Highness, with some Tartar ancestry."

The maharani's face brightened. "Ah, you speak my language beautifully, Lady Falkirk," she said in Persian. "My husband wishes me to learn English and I have been studying it for some time, but I have much to learn." Gracefully she indicated a cushioned footstool. "Pray take a seat. Another day we might converse in English so that I can practice, but now it is a pleasure to speak freely. Though I have longed to make the acquaintance of a lady of your nation, few of your countrywomen come to Dharjistan, and I've never met one who spoke Persian well."

"It will be my pleasure to answer your questions, Your Highness." Laura soundlessly crossed the thick carpet, then seated herself. "But pray forgive me if I make an error in court etiquette, for I am unfamiliar with the ways of royalty."