The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) (16 page)

“Very good, my lord.”

Derek waited until Bellowes had retreated and they were alone, then he turned to Calla. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to wait elsewhere until I sort the matter out?”

“This has to do with Ram?”

“Almost certainly.”

Apprehension fluttered through her belly, but she refused to give in to the nerves that assailed her. She lifted her chin, meeting her husband’s eyes. Forcing a note of calm certainty into her voice, she replied,
“In that case, I would like very much to be present.”

“I suspected as much.”
He nodded toward a pair of elegant mahogany Queen Anne style chairs positioned against the wall. “In fact, short of strapping you into one of those chairs and assigning the stoutest maid in my employ the chore of sitting on you to hold you in place, I doubt I’d be able to keep you away.”

He gave a curt nod. “All right, then.” After a moment’s hesitation, ushered her down the corridor toward the rear parlor. As they drew near, the buzz of murmured Hindi reached her ears. Derek opened the door to reveal a group of Indian sailors, perhaps as many as two dozen, crowded into a room that could comfortably hold half their number.

The moment she and Derek entered, silence descended.
Stark tension filled the air. Calla studied the men. They were a rough lot, dressed in little better than rags. Here and there a clean shirt showed beneath a worn coat. She counted one pair of decent boots among them. It wasn’t their attire that captured her attention, however, but their general stance. They exuded the aggressive air of men who had been pushed too far and were ready to fight.

With a firm hand, Derek stationed her near the door. He strode to a position in the center of the room, facing the lascars.
For what seemed an eternity, he didn’t speak. Instead he simply regarded the sailors, silently establishing his position of authority and control. 

“Welcome,” he said at last, speaking Hindi. “You are guests in my home, and will be received with the honor that position deserves.”

His meaning was clear: this would be a civil exchange. As if on cue, three parlor maids brushed past Calla, staggering beneath the weight of trays overburdened with tea and refreshments. Derek gestured for them to deposit the trays on a sideboard. They did so, then scurried from the room.

“Who among you will speak?” Derek asked, returning his attention to the lascars.

One man stepped forward. He was tall and thin, older than most of the men present, his hands gnarled, his face worn and wrinkled from a life spent on the open seas. Despite his ragged appearance, he carried himself with an air of dignity. “I am Mir Patel,” he said. “I will speak.”

Derek nodded in
silent greeting.

“You have offered five
hundred pounds for the safe return of Ram Daas,” Patel said.

S
hocked surprise surged through Calla. Her gaze shot toward Derek.

“I did,
” he affirmed

“This is a generous offer,” Patel conceded. “But i
f we give the boy to you, how can we be sure he will be safe, and not merely handed over to the men of the Custom House?”

“You have my word on it,” Derek returned flatly. “The boy will have my protection.”

Mir Patel studied Derek for a long moment, as though silently measuring his words against some inner code of honor. “Very well,” he said at last, seeming to accept the promise. “But before we proceed any further, my men and I have two conditions.”

Derek
folded his arms over his chest and waited..

“We don’t want your money, sahib.”

“Oh?”

“Amit Gupta, the murdered
serang
, left a wife and five children. We would have the reward you offered go to her.”

Approval glinted in Derek’s eyes.
“Done.”

Patel nodded.
He paused again, carefully weighing his words. “The second will not be as easily agreed, but is even more important.”

“What
is it?”

Mir Patel glanced at his men, then looked back at Derek. He drew himself up. “For years, you were known to us. But we, your people, were not known to you. You would not recognize us,
would not claim us as your own.”

Derek studied the man in silence, waiting.

“We need someone to speak for the lascars. We are good men. Hard-working, worthy men who have been used and then cast aside. That must end. You are a powerful man. We ask that you recognize us. Speak for your brothers from India. We need a voice that will be heard by the English.”

Calla didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She fel
t the balance of the room shift as the weight of every gaze fell upon Derek. Her heart sank. It was too much. They asked for too much. She looked at her husband.

The Tiger of the
Thames. An English gentleman who exuded wealth and status. A man who had left his days as a barefoot boy in Calcutta long behind him. A man who had devoted years establishing himself as a proper lord of the realm. A man who built a shipping empire, a sterling reputation for financial acumen, and a vast fortress, complete with an army of servants, to call home—

“I
can promise you more than that,” Derek replied, interrupting her thoughts.

Patel tilted his head.
“Oh?”

“
I will do more than give you a voice. I will see to it you receive justice. Justice in an English court for Amit Gupta.”

Calla’s breath caught. Her heart swelled with pride. She let out a low sigh and shook her head. How foolish she was to think she would only love her husband when they were in bed together.

“That will be difficult.” Patel said, a troubled frown on his face. “I know the English. If you align yourself with men such as us, it will cost you your reputation. Your business affairs will suffer.”

“Perhaps.” Derek shrugged. “But I have recently realized that the cost of silence is higher.”

A
keen murmur ran through the group of lascars. Patel gave a low, deferential bow. “My men and I were wise to seek your counsel, sahib.”

On those words
, Patel’s men parted ranks. A figure in the back shrugged off his baggy coat. He removed the turban that hung over his brow, and then the thin linen scarf that covered the lower half of his face.

Ram Daas.

Joy, as bright and warm as the Indian sun, flooded through her. Ram moved toward her in his familiar loping gait, a bashful grin on his face. Heedless of propriety, Calla wrapped him in a tight hug, and then drew back to look at him. “You’re not hurt?”

He shook his head. “No, but…
” he paused, looking embarrassed. He cut a glance at the sideboard. “I am hungry.”

“Of course you are!”

Laughter spilled from her lips. Taking his arm, she ushered him toward the sideboard and surveyed the foodstuffs the maids had delivered. English tea, scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, dainty sandwiches filled with an assortment of egg, cucumber, or watercress. Ridiculous fare to serve hungry lascars, she thought. Truly absurd. Another wave of laughter bubbled up inside her. Her head swam with happy resolutions. Now that Ram had been found, she would simply have to hire a cook who was skilled in the art of preparing Indian cuisine.

In the meantime, she poured tea and filled plates,
distributing the elegant finger foods to the rough group of seamen. Once she’d finished, she prepared a bite for Derek and Mir Patel, who were deep in conversation at the other side of the room. She approached and passed them each a plate.

Patel smiled
and nodded his thanks. Speaking to Derek, he said, “Your wife is a good friend to the Hindus.”

“Yes,” Derek agreed
, regarding her warmly. “She is.”

Chapter
Eighteen

Derek glanced
across Lady Williston’s crowded ballroom. How many formal English house parties had he suffered through over the years? Too many, he reckoned, not bothering to count. In any case, this one was different. This was the first social event he’d attended with his wife by his side. He glanced at Calla, silently drinking her in, then reluctantly dragged his attention back to the conversation at hand.

“An
English education is both unnecessary and unkind,” Lady Aubreyton declared as the talk drifted—as it so often did—to the problem of what to do with the natives in India. “It only serves to raise their expectations and make them more miserable with their current state.”

“Here, here, Lady Aubreyton.” Major Kittery nodded in robust agreement.

“It is enough that we bring the blessings of civilization to the lower orders,” put in Sir Philip Crawley, his mutton-chop whiskers bristling with righteousness. “We have done our Christian duty. Any more than that would be casting pearls before swine.”

Derek’s gaze met Calla’s.
She rolled her eyes, and there it was—the smile that had entranced him so thoroughly the first time he’d seen it. Her slightly lopsided grin that somehow managed to convey both keen observation and an endless appreciation for life’s absurdities.

Crawley
stopped abruptly and shot an anxious glance at Derek. “That is, I didn’t mean that as an insult to your people…”

“My people?”

“Er, not that I meant you are one of them…”

“
Hindu,” Derek supplied. “And that’s quite all right. I am one of them.”

The group around them shifted uncomfortably.
Crawley’s face suffused with color. “But I thought—”

“Really,” drawled Jonathon
Hollinshed, thoroughly enjoying Crawley’s discomfort. “Keep up, man. Of course he’s Hindu. Just look at him.”

A titter of laughter spread through the group.
Understanding he’d once again become the butt of a joke, but not understanding why, Crawly performed a stiff bow. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just spotted an acquaintance.”

The
rest of Crawley’s circle of admirers quickly followed suit, dispersing themselves among the magnificent crowd.

“I see
our friend neglected to bring his monkey this time,” Jonathon observed.

“Pity. I think my bride would have enjoyed having it as a pet.”

Calla tilted her head to one side, as though seriously considering the proposition. “Would it shock Society were I to adopt a pet monkey?”

“
It would indeed,” Derek said. If she wanted one, he would turn London inside out until he found her one of the damned things. He would fly her to the moon and back if that was what she desired.

He watched his
bride tap her pretty finger against her chin. “Hmm. Perhaps not.” She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Screechy little pests. Besides, I’ve always had a fondness for tigers.” She turned to Jonathon and apropos of nothing, inquired, “Do you know my husband’s full name?”

Jonathon sh
ook his head. “I don’t think I do.”

“
Derek
Arindam
Jeffords. Hindi for
slayer of enemies.”

“
My. That’s quite dramatic.”

“
Quite appropriate, as well,” she declared loyally, sending Derek a look of such unrestrained devotion he nearly blushed.

The orchestra struck up the opening notes to a lively quadrille. George Little, third son of the Earl of Cheverly, approached them and gave a polite bow in greeting. ”Lady Keating,” he said, “I believe I have the honor of claiming this dance.”

Calla curtsied prettily. With a parting smile to Derek and Jonathon, she allowed Little to escort her onto the dance floor. Derek’s gaze followed her as she moved through the dance. She wasn’t hard to spot in her gown of ruby satin, a striking chestnut-haired beauty swirling amid a sea of pale blondes costumed in pastels.

“She’s become quite the toast,” Jonathon observed.

“Yes, hasn’t she?”

Jonathon cocked one dark blond brow and raked his gaze over
Derek’s clothing. “Interesting choice of apparel, by the way.”

“This?” Derek looked down at the gray
silk, knee-length garment he wore. “It’s called a
kurta
.”

“
Well done. Quite the heathen. They’re thinking it of you anyway. They’ve been thinking it for years. Might as well shove it in their faces.”

“My wife tells me I look quite distinguished.”

Jonathon let out an inelegant snort. “Love is blind.”

Ignoring that, Derek said,
“Did you just call me a heathen?”

“Absolutely. You always have been.
In the finest sense of the word.” Their eyes met and he raised his glass in salute. “It is also my honor to call you a friend.” As they were treading dangerously close to expressing actual heartfelt sentiment, which was clearly not done among men, Jonathon brusquely changed the subject.

“By the way, what happened to Ram Daas? Was he able to provide Inspector Nevins with a description of the men who murdered Amit Gupta?”

“Yes. English.”

Jonathon gaped. “
English? That’s all?”

Derek shrugged. “It was dark and the boy was frightened.”

“
Good lord. If he didn’t know anything, why didn’t he simply stay put?”

“Obviously t
hat would have been the wiser course. Instead, he reacted in a blind panic and ran.” Derek thought for a moment, considering his brief acquaintance with Ram. “He’s young and in a hurry to grow up. He was looking for adventure and a way to send money home to his family. He had no idea what he’d blundered into, or how to get himself out of it.”

“So it was all for naught.”

“Not at all. Two lascars aboard the
Ariel
witnessed the attack but were afraid to come forward. I’ve guaranteed them my protection. They’re willing to speak to Nevins, and to testify in court, should it come to that.”

Which it very likely would
, Derek thought with satisfaction. The days of Cecil Henry and his ilk operating the Custom House like their own private fiefdom were about to come to a close. And about bloody time. His only regret was that he’d turned a blind eye to the injustice of the situation for so long.

Jonathon shook his head.
“Remarkable.”

“Yes. Isn’t she?” Derek returned, his attention drawn back to Calla.

Perhaps it was the festive mood of the evening, or simply the alcohol he’d been consuming, but whatever the cause, Derek felt loose and relaxed. Watching Calla dance, he experienced the unexpected thrill of showing her off, coupled with the sated complacency of knowing she belonged to him. Other men might gaze at her appreciatively, but he would be the one to take her home and bed her.

Giving voice to his wandering thoughts,
he said, “Do you remember the first time you looked at a girl, and rather than seeing some annoying creature dogging at your heels, what you saw took your breath away?”

A
slow smile drifted across Jonathon’s face. “I do.”

Derek nodded. His
related the last time he and Calla had seen each other in India. The unrelenting heat had driven nearly all of Calcutta indoors. But there they were, just the two of them, galloping along the banks of the Hooghly River. The image seared itself into his memory—one of those rare moments in life where he was simultaneously watching the scene as if from above, while still part of it. He remembered all of it in vivid detail. A gangly brown boy and a reckless white girl. The marshy scent of the river, the sweat of the horses, the furious curses of the men whose midday naps they had disturbed.

Most
of all, he remembered Calla. Her hair, loosened from the unruly ride, cascading down her back. The mud splattering her ankles and her skirts flying in wild disarray. Her eyes sparkling with joy and a beaming smile on her face, fully alive and thoroughly feminine. In that instant, Derek was set upon by an emotion he would later classify as lust, but this was its purer cousin. Admiration. Recognition of beauty that was unique and rare in the world, beauty that deserved special notice. Even as a young boy he’d seen it—that essential spark in her that could only be appreciated, never conquered.

The wild one.

The troublemaker.

His
jaanu
.

Life went on. He’d left
India for England, and the memory had been pushed aside until Calla reappeared in his life. Until she’d smiled that smile of hers and turned his well-ordered life upside down.

“And?” Jonathon queried, pulling him out of his reverie. “Who won the race?”

“
She did.”

Which was quite all right with him. He would happily spend the rest of his days chasing after h
er. His gaze moved back to Calla, watching her movements as she glided effortlessly through the final steps of the quadrille.

Beside him, Jonathon gave a snort. “You’re making a h
orrid spectacle of yourself, you know.”

Derek arched one dark brow. “I thought we’d already discussed the
kurta
.”

“I’m referring to how disgustingly in love you appear. You’re a fallen man. The Tiger of the
Thames has become a domesticated kitty. Appalling.”

“
Actually, it’s not so awful. You ought to try it.”

Jonathon
frowned and swirled his drink, studying the amber depths as though looking for an answer there. “As it happens,” he said, “within the month I expect to announce my engagement to Lady Lila Featherstone.”

Derek, who’d been about to take a sip of his drink, arrested the motion in mid-air. “I had no idea. My felicitations.” His gaze shot across the roo
m to the woman in question. “She’s lovely.”

“Yes.
Isn’t she.”

Derek cast a glance at his friend.
As far as matches went, it would be considered a good one. Jonathon was a viscount. The Featherstone family was wealthy and powerful. Both Jonathon and Lady Lila had been blessed with striking blond looks. Still…something was missing. He read no amorous hunger in Jonathon’s expression, no infatuation in his tone. But then again, neither had he been enraptured of Calla when he’d agreed to take her for a bride.

“As you said, she’s lovely,” Jonathon remarked, as though convincing himself.
He seemed to give a mental shake and forced a cocky grin. “At least you will not see me fawning over my wife in public. In matters of the heart, I intend to remain fully in command of my dignity.”

That would be a shame
, Derek thought, but he kept his counsel to himself. Less than a month ago, had anyone tried to convince him he would be happy to have his emotions turned upside down and his dignity thrown out the window, he would have thought them the worst kind of fool. Now, well, now he knew better.

The
dancers bowed to their partners and quit the dance. Derek watched Calla move toward him. Their gazes met and held. From the corner of his eye he saw Lord Anthony Stylles—presumably Calla’s next partner—stride in her direction. One look at Derek and the man abruptly reversed course and faded back into the crowd.

Calla blinked in surprise, then looked at Derek.
“That was a rather ferocious glare,” she admonished.

He shrugged
, not the least bit repentant. “It served its purpose.”

“What purpose was that?”

“Getting you back into my arms.”

“But
Lord Stylles was my dance partner.”

“
Not anymore.”

He placed his hand at the small of her back and drew her to
back onto the dance floor. They moved gracefully through the opening steps, then he twirled her playfully, catching her off-guard and causing her body to brush against the length of his. She gave a soft squeal and laughed, gripping his hand more tightly. The scent of her perfume drifted through the air, affecting him more powerfully than any intoxicant he’d ever known.  Yes. Exactly what he needed. A tantalizing tease of what was to come once they were alone.

After a moment she said,
“That was a rather intense conversation you were having with Viscount Brooksbank. But it seemed to end abruptly.”

“Yes. I suppose it did.”

“Everything all right?”

“
He accused me of being madly in love with you. I had to walk away.”

“Oh?”

“He’s unbearable when he’s right.”

“
Oh
.”

Her lips parted and she stared up at him, her Bengali-blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
Derek couldn’t look away.
This
emotion
was what he wanted to explain to Jonathon, but he doubted he could ever properly put into words. Like watching a candle melt in the sun, the wax softening and pooling on a table. Perhaps chemically it remained the same, but it no longer resembled its original form. The transformation was that total. Thus it was for him. He was a different man. He could no longer imagine his life without Calla in it