The Tiger Prince (5 page)

’ve never seen anything like it.” Ian stared in revulsion at the four-foot statue on the carved teakwood table. “What the hell is it?”

“A superb work of art.” Ruel reverently touched the golden drops of blood dripping from the dagger brandished by the sari-clad woman who was the central figure before he circled the table to view the statue from every angle. “By God, look at her expression. I wonder how he caught the malevolence….”

“I have no desire to look any longer at that heathen idol. This Prince Abdar must be a very peculiar man to have such an object in his reception room, and
I cannot see how you can call it—” Ian broke off and grimaced ruefully. “Yes, I do. Gold. You would think Satan himself beautiful if he wore a cloak of gold.”

Ruel grinned over his shoulder at him. “Not just a cloak, but perhaps if he were fashioned as splendidly as this fascinating lady.” His gaze returned to the statue. “I wonder who the artist was.”

“Probably some twisted soul dead these many centuries.” Ian suddenly frowned. “And you’re not to ask Prince Abdar about this atrocity. I’ve heard these heathens are a bit sensitive about their gods and goddesses, and I have no desire to be thrown to the crocodiles.”

“You’d have nothing to worry about. They’d choke on you,” Ruel murmured. “That stiff backbone and rigid moral fiber would strangle them.” He squatted to get a better view of the statue. “Now, me they’d gulp down with no trouble. Sin is always more appetizing than virtue.”

“Stop mouthing nonsense,” Ian said gruffly. “You’re not as wicked as you—”

“Oh, but I am.” Ruel smiled mockingly. “As you should know, considering that hellhole you dug me out of a few months ago. I have no more moral fiber than a tomcat and no desire to develop it. You’d best leave me and go back to Maggie and bonnie Scotland.”

“Margaret.” Ian’s correction was automatic. “You know she hates to be called Maggie.”

“Margaret,” Ruel substituted solemnly. “You really should go back to Margaret, cool misty hills, and sanity. You don’t belong here, Ian.”

“Neither do you.” Ian paused. “This heathen country isn’t a decent place for any civilized man to live.”

“It’s more civilized than most of the places I’ve lived for the past twelve years. You should have been at the gold camp at Zwanigar.” He shook his head. “On second thought, you probably shouldn’t. The crocodiles there were human, and you’re much too honorable to have survived it.”

“You survived it.”

“Only because I became king of the crocodiles.” His
smile gleamed white. “And learned how to use my teeth.”

“All the more reason for you to come home. This damnable Eastern savagery isn’t good for you.”

“It’s only a place like any other.” Ruel’s smile faded as he saw Ian’s unhappy expression. He knew Ian hated being away from Glenclaren, but his brother had been surprisingly patient and helpful since they had arrived in Kasanpore. He said quietly, “But I promise I won’t offend his royal highness with flippant remarks after all your trouble to obtain this audience for me.”

“I have no faith you will get what you wish from this prince, but I knew you wouldn’t give up without at least an interview.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t.”

“Besides, my efforts will probably be of no help,” Ian said. “The colonel said Prince Abdar has no fondness and little to do with his father, the maharajah.”

The last trace of mockery faded from Ruel’s expression. “You still have my gratitude for making the attempt. I know you think this venture is foolishness.”

“Gratitude?” Ian looked startled, and then a slow smile lit his craggy, homely features. “Careful, Ruel, gratitude is one of the softer emotions. Therein lies the path to virtue.”

“I’m in no danger.” Ruel’s stare returned to the statue. Something about it was making him uneasy. No, it wasn’t the statue itself, he realized, but its place of prominence in this chamber of the palace, a position that indicated its importance to the man who possessed it. He said impulsively, “You’ve done your part. I can handle the matter now. Why don’t you go back to the hotel and wait for me?”

“You may need me.”

“Look, I’ve been batting around this part of the world for a hell of a lot longer than you have. I know how—”

“We’ll see.”

“I promise I won’t let Abdar feed me to the crocodiles, dammit.”

Ian didn’t answer.

“All right, stay, but let me do the talking. I have an idea Abdar and I will have no problem understanding each other.”

“I’m the elder. It’s only fitting I put through the request.”

Dear God, he actually meant it, Ruel realized. Ian didn’t realize those seven years meant nothing. Ian’s life at Glenclaren had plodded steadily on its tranquil course while his own had whirled as if caught up in a monsoon.

“God forbid you do anything that isn’t fitting.” He reached out and followed the dagger with his index finger. “And me from doing anything that is. Have it your own way. It was just a fleeting thought.”

“A kind, protective thought.” Ian’s stern expression softened. “Another step.”

“It wasn’t a prot—” Ruel threw back his head and laughed. “Dear God, you’ll not to be satisfied until you have me wearing a halo. How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not—”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I see you’re admiring my statue. Is she not a thing of beauty?”

Ian and Ruel turned to see an Indian dressed in a knee-length dark blue silk jacket, white silk trousers, and white turban. Tall, slim, graceful, the man moved lithely across the mosaic floor toward them. “I am very proud of my goddess. She is very dear to me.” He stopped before them. “I am Abdar Savitsar.”

The prince’s face was plump, unlined, almost boyish, but his large dark eyes gave a curious impression of flat blankness, like an onyx that has never been faceted.

“Your Highness.” Ian bowed slightly. “It is very kind of you to receive us. I am Ian MacClaren, Earl of Glenclaren, and this is my brother, Ruel.”

“English?”

“Scottish.”

Abdar waved a casual hand. “It is all the same.”

“Not to a Scotsman,” Ruel murmured blandly.

Abdar turned to face him and Ruel stiffened with sudden wariness. In spite of the childishness of that face,
he felt the same uneasiness as when he had regarded the statue.

After studying Ruel for a moment, the prince returned his gaze to Ian. “You do not look like brothers. I see no resemblance.”

“We are only half brothers,” Ian said.

Abdar’s glance dropped to Ruel’s hand resting on the golden dagger of the statue. “You should not touch her. For a foreigner to touch the goddess is sacrilege.”

Ruel’s hand fell away from the statue. “My apologies. The texture of gold begs to be touched, and I’ve always found the temptation irresistible.”

Abdar’s gaze suddenly narrowed on Ruel. “You have a fondness for gold?”

“It’s more of a passion.”

Abdar nodded. “Then we have found a meeting ground. I, too, have such a passion.” He moved across the room and seated himself on the turquoise cushions of a finely carved peacock chair. “Colonel Pickering told my secretary you wish to ask a boon of me. I have little time. State your request.”

“We wish an audience with your father, the maharajah,” Ian said. “We’ve been in Kasanpore over two weeks trying to secure a meeting with him.”

“He sees few people these days. All he cares about is his new toy of a railroad.” Abdar’s lips curled in a bitter smile. “But I am surprised you did not succeed in your quest. My father believes the British are his true brothers and even sent me to Oxford to be educated. He cannot see how the British queen seeks to make a puppet of him and Kasanpore.”

“We have a business proposition for your father that has nothing to do with the politics of either India or England,” Ian said. “All we ask is ten minutes of his time.”

“It is still too much.” Abdar stood up. “I cannot help you.”

Disappointment rushed through Ruel before he caught a flicker of expression on Abdar’s face that caused his disappointment to vanish. He was too good a poker
player himself not to realize this was no dismissal but an attempt to intimidate them. “Cannot or will not?” he asked softly.

“Insolence,” Abdar said. “You are very arrogant for a second son.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but it has always been my philosophy that a man shouldn’t be afraid to lose what he doesn’t have.” He paused. “And that he shouldn’t ask for anything he isn’t willing to pay for.”

“And what are you willing to pay for my influence on your behalf?”

“What do you want?”

“Why should I wish anything from you?” Abdar smiled contemptuously as he threw out his hand to indicate the splendor of their surroundings. “Look around you. Do I appear to be in need?” His lips twisted. “The jewel I wear on my little finger could probably buy your Glenclaren.”

“Possibly.” Ruel leaned against the table. “But wanting sometimes has very little to do with need. Why did you agree to receive us, Your Highness?”

“As a courtesy to Colonel Pickering.”

Ruel shook his head. “I don’t think so. You’ve displayed no overwhelming fondness for the British.”

“Then why should I permit you to come?”

“Why, indeed?”

Abdar hesitated before allowing a slight smile to touch his lips. “It may be that we can negotiate. There is something I desire that you may bring me.”

“And that is?”

“A man.” He nodded at the statue on the table. “A goldsmith named John Kartauk.”

“He created this?” Ruel’s gaze returned to the goddess. “Superb.”

“A genius. My father brought him from Turkey six years ago and bestowed on him our royal patronage. Kartauk created many beautiful objects to grace our palaces.” Abdar’s lips tightened. “And then the ungrateful dog spurned our generosity and ran away from us.”

“Ran away?” Ruel’s brows lifted. “How curious.
Why should an artist so favored find it necessary to run away?”

Abdar glanced away and did not answer at once. “I am not good with English. I merely meant he had left us with no farewells.”

Abdar’s English was better than his own, Ruel thought cynically, and the prince had meant exactly what he had said. “And gave no reason?”

“Great artists are often unstable and given to fancies.” Abdar shrugged. “However, I am willing to forgive him and take him back.”

“How kind.”

Abdar chose to ignore the irony in Ruel’s tone. “Yes, it is. But I must find him in order to persuade him to return.”

“Perhaps he’s no longer in Kasanpore,” Ian said. “He is still here. I’ve recently seen an example of his work.”

“Where?”

“You are aware of the railroad my father is having built from Kasanpore to our summer palace in Narinth?”

“We could hardly miss it,” Ian said dryly. “Everyone in the city appears to be laboring on it.”

“My father is like a child with a new toy. He imported this Patrick Reilly, a construction engineer, from England, to build it, and talks of nothing else. He is concerned only with engines and whistles and velvet-covered seats that—” He broke off and drew a deep breath. “I do not like these new ways. This railroad is an atrocity. Anyway, my father decided he desired a golden door carved with wondrous designs to grace his private car and insisted Reilly provide one.”

“Rather an extravagant demand.”

“Not for a maharajah.” Abdar lifted his chin haughtily. “It is our right to demand what pleases us from those beneath us.”

“And did Reilly provide what your father demanded?”

“Eventually. My father told him if he did not furnish
the door, he would pay him nothing and find another construction engineer to finish the railroad.”

“I can see how that might have proved an incentive,” Ruel said dryly.

“The door was carved by John Kartauk.”

“You’re certain?”

“I know his work well.” Abdar’s lips thinned. “The door is an exquisite abomination.”

“Exquisite abomination,” Ruel repeated. “It would seem to have to be either one or the other.”

Abdar shrugged. “My poor English again.”

“The solution seems simple enough. Ask Reilly where your artist is to be found.”

“Do you think me a fool? I did ask and he claimed he had no knowledge of Kartauk. He said his ward found a man in the town to do the work, and when I questioned her she would tell me nothing. She said he was only a local goldsmith and had left for Calcutta directly after he finished the door.”

“She? A woman?”

Abdar nodded jerkily and his words were suddenly heavy with venom. “Reilly calls her his ward, though the slut is undoubtedly his whore. Her name is Jane Barnaby, a bold piece with no manners and an unbridled tongue. She frequents Zabrie’s house of shame, where she mixes and sleeps with foreigners and low-caste workers and shows no—”

“Bribe her,” Ruel cut into the tirade.

“I do not offer money to whores and liars.”

“Pity. It’s such a useful tool.”

“However, I have set watch on her and she has not met with Kartauk in the past two weeks.”

“Perhaps she told the truth and he did leave for Calcutta.”

“He could not have left the city! Kasanpore is mine. No one draws a breath here without my knowing it.”