The Sandalwood Princess Read Free

you are!”
    “Exactly. As I so carefully explained, she means to kill me if I’m not gone by tomorrow, so I’d better work fast, hadn’t I?”
    Philip slipped his knife into its sheath and fastened it to the sash he wore under his long muslin kurta. With the loose shirt he wore muslin trousers. For the evening’s endeavour, these would be less encumbering than the dhoti’s complicated draping. His toilette complete, Philip returned his attention to the now grim Randall.
    “Don’t mope, Randy,” he said. “I don’t plan to get killed. The lady wants me gone, and I will oblige her. But I’m damned if I m leaving without it. I’ve never failed yet, and a man must consider his reputation.”
    “You’re mad,” said Randall.
    The blue eyes flashed. “Have a glance in the other room, my lad,” Philip said in a low voice. “Have a look at what the witch’s done to Jessup. I can’t pay her back as I’d like, because the curst female’s too precious to our superiors. But I’ll repay her as I can, that I swear.”
    ***
    The Rani Simhi resided in a vast mansion on the banks of the Hooghly at Garden Reach. Though the English had built these Pauadian palaces exclusively for themselves, the Indian princess was an exceptional case. The Governor-General, Lord Moira, had personally overseen the previous resident’s eviction, in order to provide the enigmatic Indian woman a domicile befitting both her status and her usefulness to His Majesty’s government.
    This night, she celebrated her fifty-fifth birthday. The palace was packed with guests both British and Indian. She appeared briefly, to receive the company’s good wishes, then, according to her custom, retired to her private rooms. Though in so many ways unlike other native women, she chose to imitate them in leaving the responsibilities of hosting to her sons.
    Since the party was held in her honour, she might have lingered if she chose. This night, however, she had one visitor whose company she wished to enjoy privately. So she explained to Amanda Cavencourt when the latter voiced regret about keeping the princess from her guests.
    “You leave tomorrow for England,” said the rani. “We may never meet again. Besides, they are all idiots, and tiresome.” She made a slight gesture with her hand, and a large, jewel-encrusted hookah was brought forward.
    “Your brother, for instance,” she went on, as she examined the mouthpiece. “Generally not a stupid man, but he has married foolishly an ignorant woman. If she were not so ignorant, she would love you. Instead, she hates you, and drives you away. I detest her.”
    “Two women cannot rule one house,” Amanda said calmly. “My presence is a constant irritant. Or perhaps embarrassment is more like it. My ways aren’t hers and never will be, so there’s always friction. You understand,” she added.
    The rani studied the silken-clad woman who sat cross-legged opposite her. “I understand she would fly into a rage, could she see you now. I am told she considers the sari indecent.”
    Amanda grinned as she took up her mouthpiece. “She’d certainly drop into five fits if she saw me smoking this.” She gave a defiant shrug, and drew on the hookah with practised ease.
    She knew her erratic attention to deportment merely aggravated her sister-in-law’s dislike. In time, Eustacia might have nagged her wayward relation into more acceptable behaviour. Unfortunately, no lessons, no reminders, however regular, could change Amanda’s appearance.
    Her light complexion resembled too closely the mellow ivory lightness of the natives of the northern Ganges. Glossy dark brown hair, rippling in duck waves, framed the oval of her face. Thick black lashes fringed large eyes of a peculiarly light, changeable brown. The bones of her countenance strongly defined, the nose straight and well-modeled, the mouth wide and overfull, Amanda’s face was far too exotic for European beauty. More mortifying to Lady Cavencourt,