The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Read online

  The Wedding Bed

  By

  Ava Archer Payne

  Copyright 2014 by Ava Archer Payne

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Chapter One

  London, 1845

  The monkey was putting on one hell of a show.

  Derek Arindam Jeffords, Lord Keating, allowed his gaze to drift back to the small, screeching creature for perhaps the third time that hour. Apparently the monkey’s presence at the East India Company’s winter gala had not been deemed titillating enough on its own. Someone had gone the extra step and costumed the creature in the uniform of an Indian sepoy.

  As a consequence, the animal wore a bright red military jacket, a pair of baggy junghiers, a cummerbund, and a brilliant blue turban atop its tiny skull. Whoever was responsible for the creature had even thought to provide the beast with a miniature carved wooden rifle, which the monkey had been trained to hold against its left shoulder while it strutted across the table, mimicking the soldier it was meant to portray.

  Lord Henry Carston, sitting beside Derek, let out a loud guffaw at the monkey’s antics. “That’s the thing, isn’t it?” he chortled. “Little beastie looks just like ‘em!”

  Derek lifted his glass of bourbon and swirled his drink, but didn’t bring it to his lips. Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he asked, “Just like who?”

  “Why, the natives, of course. Who else would it be?”

  “Ah,” Derek returned. “The natives.” He tipped back his glass, enjoying the liquor’s smooth burn as it coursed down his throat. Let it go, he told himself. Let it go. Perhaps he could have, had he not made the mistake of glancing around the room.

  That evening’s gala was slightly different from others preceding it. A select group of Hindus, guests of one of the Directors, had been invited to join the festivities. Honored and excited, the women had arrived outfitted in their finest saris. The men donned silk kurtas, their dress every bit as formal and as colorful as their wives’ native garb.

  Unfortunately, the evening had been less than a success. After an initial bout of stilted conversation between the English hosts and their Hindu guests, the Hindus had retired to one corner of the room, where they appeared to be making valiant attempts to be amused, rather than offended, by the monkey’s antics. Derek, however, had no difficulty being offended on their behalf.

  “Exactly what is it that calls to mind the natives?” he asked, turning the full force of his gaze on Carston. “The creature’s dark limbs, leering grin, or its excited grunts and squeals?”

  Carston blinked in surprise. “What’s that?” He turned toward Derek, dull confusion written on his face. Slowly realizing his words had somehow caused offense, he shook his head. “Why, I didn’t mean to disparage your countrymen.”

  “My countrymen?”

  “I, mean… Well…You are one of them, are you not?”

  “Them?”

  Carston’s eyes darted to the group of Hindus, then back to Derek. He started to speak, but then seemed to think better of it and drained his glass instead.

  “I think I follow his meaning,” put in Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank. Derek had met Jonathon his first year at Eton, when they’d both been thirteen. A reckless wager—who would be the first to scale the dormitory roof—had resulted in a broken wrist for Jonathon and near expulsion for Derek. But that inauspicious beginning had led to a friendship of surprising depth.

  “Do you?” asked Carston.

  “Certainly.” Jonathon leaned toward Derek and gave a knowing nod. “I believe he’s referring to your swarthy brethren.”

  “Precisely!” gushed Carston, his relief almost palpable. Obviously mistaking Jonathon’s sarcasm for sincerity, he blurted out, “Not that it’s your fault, Lord Keating. Not at all. No one blames you directly. Had your father known a barony would one day rest upon your shoulders, surely he would not have sullied your blood by marrying a native.”

  Stunned silence swept across the table. Jonathon shattered it with a sharp bark of laughter. “Good God, man. You may be an idiot of the first water, but surely even you’re not stupid enough to malign the man’s mother. At least not directly to his face.”

  “I only meant, er…that is…” Carston stammered. His face drained of color. A fine sheen of perspiration formed on his upper lip.

  All eyes swung to Derek.

  The man to Carston’s left—the third son of a grossly indebted earl, who obviously had difficulties enough in his own life to contend with—gave a discreet cough and shifted his chair slightly backward, as though attempting to distance himself from the mayhem he assumed would shortly follow.

  He needn’t have bothered. Derek had no intention of creating a scene. Carston wasn’t worth it. Young and excitable, the man was simply unable to handle the gin he drank in regrettably copious amounts. In truth, his only real crime was being drunk enough to say aloud what nearly every man there already thought.

  Still. Impossible to let the insult go unchallenged. He leaned back in his chair and fixed his gaze on Carston. In a tone of silky menace, he inquired, “Was there a point you were attempting to make?”

  Carston gave a violent shake of his head. “I, I beg your pardon, Lord Keating. I meant no offense. Truly.” He shot to his feet, gave a curt bow and took his leave, scurrying across the room and escaping into the crowd like a rat vanishing through a floorboard.

  The rest of the table cleared just as quickly as the other gentlemen with whom they had been sitting suddenly recalled urgent obligations.

  Jonathon cast a glance at their newly vacant chairs, a few of them still rocking at the swiftness of their former occupant’s departures. “Well, that was pleasant,” he drawled, not bothering to mask his smile. “London’s finest. And one wonders why you don’t seek our company more often.”

  Derek released a curt breath that conveyed his utter contempt better than any words possibly could have.

  At last report, the city of London was estimated to enjoy a population of nearly two million souls. Yet he seemed fated to spending his time with the same group of idle sycophants, bloated men and their heavily jeweled wives, trailed by an endless parade of preening sons and empty-headed daughters. The exalted society of the East India Company.

  But then, he had not come to enjoy their hospitality. Especially when he was tired and edgy and had enjoyed precious little sleep in the past forty-eight hours. He’d over-leveraged his most recent cargo and was anxious to find a buyer. It was commerce he sought, not companionship. In retrospect, it was foolish in the extreme to have come at all. It had been a hunch—an ill-formed hunch, admittedly—that had led him there. A vague conviction that when the talk turned to trade, some sort of agreeable barter could be reached.

  Obviously that wasn’t going to happen. Not that evening. And certainly not with the honorable gentlemen in attendance.

  Returning his attention to Jonathon, he said, “You know, it’s beginning to occur to me that my welcome here may not be as warm as I’d hoped.”

  “As if you give a damn.”

  “I don’t.”

  “A fact that is as gloriously obvious as the rouge on Miss Bellingham’s nipples. Remarkable, no?”

  Derek followed Jonathon’s gaze toward the lady in question. A notable actress had taken the shocking liberty of darkening her nipples before stepping onstage in a costume of filmy white gauze, causing an overnight sensation. In the weeks that followed, it was all the rage f
or society’s more daring young ladies to follow her example. Miss Bellingham, outfitted in a pale yellow gown, had clearly taken pains to ensure her breasts received the same fervent attention.

  “Remarkable,” Derek allowed, though his voice was devoid of any real interest. The sport of seducing and bedding beautiful women—a game that had kept them happily occupied for more years than Derek wanted to acknowledge—had recently begun to loose its appeal.

  He scanned the room one last time, not sure what he was looking for, just something. Once again, his gaze came to rest on the damned monkey. The admiring crowd had only served to heighten the creature’s excitement. It screeched and leered, bouncing up and down. It lifted its tiny wooden rifle and pointed it, but rather than firing, the animal squatted and blew its lips together as though passing wind, drawing gales of laughter from its audience.

  Derek clamped his jaw shut. He needed to leave. But first—he slipped a five pound note on a passing waiter’s tray. “Bring me the monkey.”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  Jonathon cocked a brow at him but said nothing. Derek watched as the waiter, an elderly native dressed in the formal livery of a footman, returned moments later with the tiny beast clinging to his shoulder.

  “Remove its costume.”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  The waited did as instructed, placing the discarded garments on the table. Derek stood. He reached for the monkey and held it firmly in his hands. The creature was desperately over-stimulated, its tiny heart drumming wildly against its chest. Derek waited, holding the squirming monkey until its panting ceased and its heartbeat settled into what he assumed was a more regular rhythm.

  “Ahem. Pardon me. Lord Keating?”

  Sir Philip Crawley stood scowling across the table. Crawley, a retired colonel with Her Majesty’s 32nd Regiment, was a short man, his florid face framed by thick blond mutton-chop whiskers. His ego was as swollen as his belly. Gathered behind him was a group of assorted hangers-on, presumably the same group that had thrilled at the monkey’s antics just moments earlier.

  “I assume this creature belongs to you, Crawley?”

  “Indeed. No need to send a man over. If you’d wanted a closer look, you might have just—”

  “I think we’ve all seen enough.”

  Crawley’s eyes narrowed. He cut a glance over his shoulder at his audience of rapt onlookers, then turned back to Derek. A superior smirk lifted the corners of his mouth.

  “It’s just a bit of harmless levity. Surely even you can appreciate that, Keating. No harm done. Why, the creature’s not even male. It’s a girl.”

  He reached for the monkey, but Derek regarded him stonily, as though silently daring him to attempt to remove it from his grasp. Crawley hesitated, his cheeks flushing crimson as he lowered his arms.

  “Female is it,” Derek murmured, returning his attention to the tiny beast.

  A crystal bowl brimming with an assortment of exotic fruit sat in the center of the table. Flanking the dish was a pair of flickering tapers. Derek overturned the bowl with his free hand, carelessly spilling the fruit across the table. He gathered up the discarded sepoy uniform and dropped the miniature garments in the bowl.

  “In that case,” Derek continued, “if you insist on costuming the creature, might I suggest a dress. As well as a velvet robe, crown and scepter. And a name. Perhaps…Victoria.”

  Shocked gasps echoed through the crowd. Crawley’s jaw fell open. A look of horror overtook his expression.

  “The queen?” he choked out. “Her royal majesty? Outrageous. I would never presume to—”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Certainly you’re aware what a grave insult that would be.”

  “Ah. And we wouldn’t want to give offense, now would we? How fortunate that we are both in agreement.”

  Derek doused the tiny uniform with the last of his bourbon, then touched a candle to them. The garments ignited with a satisfying whoosh.

  Crawley’s face shifted from deep pink to a magnificent shade of purple. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it and snapped his jaw shut. The rasp of his grinding molars was audible.

  Shrugging, Derek turned. He lifted a fig from the spilled fruit and fed it to the monkey. The creature grabbed it with a shriek of delight and scampered up a potted palm. It leapt into in an enormous crystal chandelier and settled in to enjoy its bounty.

  “Enjoy your evening, Crawley.” Derek bowed politely, then sent a parting nod to Jonathon. “Brooksbank.”

  He strode away, leaving Crawley clenching his fists behind him and Jonathon, thoroughly amused, lifting his glass in a silent salute.

  Chapter Two

  Had the world been arranged to his liking, Derek would have found his coach waiting for him the moment he exited the reception hall. But events had lately seemed determined to conspire against him, so it came as no surprise to discover his coach was nowhere to be found. As the evening was young, his driver had apparently assumed he wouldn’t be immediately needed and had taken himself off. Once a runner found the blasted man, he would have to queue up behind the long line of fashionably late arrivals.

  In other words, Derek would have to wait.

  He swore under his breath and contemplated leaving, walking a few blocks and hailing a passing hansom, but the unseasonably cold night air diminished the appeal of that prospect. It was possible that his mood could have been blacker, but he doubted it. Issuing a curt instruction to a passing footman to bring him a drink, he ducked into a salon just off the entry hall. He found himself in a small reception room meant for intimate gatherings, rather than the grand gala occurring just steps away. At the moment the fire was dead and the lamps had been turned down low, rendering the space cold and inhospitable.

  Perfect. Exactly what he wanted.

  He settled into a wingback chair arranged before the hearth. A few minutes later the doorknob clicked and the door swept open. “Here,” he called over his shoulder, assuming it was the footman with his drink.

  The soft rustle of skirts against the marble flooring told him he was mistaken.

  Long ingrained courtesy brought him to his feet. Turning, he found not one, but two women silhouetted in the doorway. They made a comical, perhaps even caricaturish pair. A short, squat Hindu woman dressed in native garb, accompanied by a tall, thin English woman dressed in a plain cotton traveling costume that was primly buttoned up to her chin.

  For a moment, an awkward silence filled the room. Then the Hindu woman, who Derek guessed to be somewhere in her late forties, brought her palms together and gave a low bow. “Shubh Sundhya.” Good evening.

  He gave a perfunctory bow in return, but when he spoke his tone was cool and dismissive, letting them know their invasion of his solitude was not welcome. “Good evening.”

  The women exchanged pointed glances, as though each silently urging the other to speak. Neither one did. Guessing the nature of their difficulty and impatient to be rid of them, Derek took the situation in hand.

  “The ladies’ retiring room is down the hall.”

  The Hindu woman shook her head. “It is you we seek.”

  A note of unpleasant alarm rang in his mind. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We have been waiting for a private moment to speak to you,” the woman continued, a touch of censure in her voice, “regarding the situation in Calcutta. Obviously, the matter is of grave personal importance.”

  So that was it. Missionaries, he surmised distastefully. That explained both their austere manner of dress and their purposeful intrusion upon his evening. If they’d hoped to impress him with their pleas to bring light to the ignorant masses, they’d grossly miscalculated. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss charitable donations,” he informed her. “If you wish to pursue the matter, petitions for alms may be left with my secretary—”

  “Alms?” The woman drew herself up, bristling with indignation. “We have not come for charity. We regret intruding u
pon your evening, but what choice did we have? Surely we should have expected you would make some arrangement for our arrival.”

  “Your arrival?”

  “In England.” The woman sent him a reproachful stare, and Derek had the sinking sense of being unwillingly pulled into some god-awful farce. Incredible. Just when he’d thought his evening couldn’t get any worse. Before he could extricate himself, she doggedly continued, “You remember Miss Staunton?”

  He gave the English woman standing beside her a cursory glance. “No.”

  “Miss Calla Lily Staunton, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Staunton,” the Hindu woman said, stressing the name as though it should have particular meaning to him. It didn’t.

  And then, suddenly, it did.

  Growing up, his mother’s best friend and closest companion had been Mrs. Charles Staunton, an English woman married to high-ranking Company official. Unlike Derek, who had been an only child, Mr. and Mrs. Staunton had produced six offspring, all of them female, and all of them named after flowers. Rose and Daisy, Violet and Petunia, Daffodil and Lily…or some such nonsense. The sickly-sweet floral names, like the girls themselves, blurred together indistinguishably in his memory.

  What he did remember—in vivid detail—were their visits. Like a swarm of biblical locusts, the Sisters Staunton had descended upon his peaceful Bengali home and thrown it into utter chaos, filling it with high-pitched squeals and giggles, petticoats and kittens, china dolls whose nappies needed endless changing. Against his will they had dragged him into their alien feminine world, subjecting him to games he had no interest in playing: rescue the princess, tea with the Queen, dances and dress up.

  And while God in his mercy had unleashed the locusts only once, he had been set upon on an annual basis. He’d come to dread their visits, regarding the Sisters Staunton as the single most offensive blight on his boyhood. They stayed for weeks, as suffocating and oppressive as the heat that built and built, until the monsoon season finally arrived to drive them away.