The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Page 9

  Of course. But Derek had assumed it was an English boy she had been trying to find, not a native. But before he could address the matter with her, she whirled away from him to face the inspector, her expression one of stark fear.

  “Is Ram all right? Has something happened to him?”

  “As far as we know, the boy is unharmed. It is, however, imperative that we find him.”

  “Find him? What do you mean?”

  “What is this about, Inspector?” Derek cut in.

  Nevins sighed. “Forgive my indelicacy,” he replied, “but I think, given the circumstances, it would be best if I speak plainly.” He looked at Calla. “One week ago, hours after the Ariel docked, a crewman aboard the vessel was murdered.”

  Calla gasped. Her hand flew to her throat. “Ram?”

  “No. Not Ram Daas,” he hastened to assure her. “The dead man was identified as Amit Gupta, forty-two year-old native, the ship’s serang.”

  “But, you cannot imagine Ram had anything to do with it,” she said, shaking her head in swift denial. “I can vouch for his character, if necessary. Besides, he’s only a boy. He’s barely past sixteen!”

  “No, I don’t believe Ram Daas committed the murder,” Nevins said. He hesitated for a moment, carefully selecting his words, and continued, “However, I suspect he saw the men who did kill Gupta. I think that’s why he’s taken himself off the ship and gone into hiding.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Calla protested. “If he saw who did it, why would he need to go into hiding? Why wouldn’t he simply report them directly to the authorities?”

  “It is difficult to go to the authorities,” Nevins answered, “when it is the authorities who have perpetrated the crime.”

  Bloody hell. Derek dragged a hand over his face and rose. “The Custom House,” he said. It was more a statement than a question.

  Nevins shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. That was my conclusion as well.”

  “I don’t understand,” Calla interrupted, looking from Derek to the inspector. “The Custom House? What does that mean?”

  Every day, ships like the Ariel and the Makara crowded the piers, their hulls brimming with rich cargo from around the world. Vast fortunes were made and lost depending on which ship could get their goods to market faster. And therein was the crux of the matter. Nothing moved—not an ounce of tea, a bolt of cotton, or a keg of wine—without the express written approval of the agents of the Custom House.

  Bribery was so commonplace it was rarely remarked upon. To a degree, that was an acceptable part of doing business at the East India Docks. But even that had its limits. Of late, a small group of agents had grown shockingly aggressive, prowling the docks at night like marauding gangs, using threats and physical force to collect outrageous fees.

  He explained as much to Calla. She listened quietly, interrupting from time to time with piercing questions that served to demonstrate a keen intellect and nimble grasp of the situation.

  When he finished speaking, she turned to Nevins. “I take it the unfortunate Mr. Gupta resisted the Custom agents’ attempts at coercion?”

  “Evidently.”

  “How can you be certain Ram witnessed the attack?”

  “He was seen on deck with Gupta shortly before the murder occurred. That, coupled with the fact that the boy felt sufficiently threatened to go into hiding, seem to point in that direction.”

  Exactly the same conclusion Derek would have drawn. The Custom House employed hundreds of agents. The majority of whom (with the exception of the aforementioned bit of graft to properly grease the wheels) were decent, hard-working men. The difficulty lay in ferreting out and identifying those few rogue agents who’d gone violent. Until now, apparently. Now there was a witness who could speak out against them—a fact that was both a blessing and a curse. If Ram was found by the men who killed Gupta, the boy’s life would be worth less than a handful of rupees.

  “Well,” Nevins said, “Given what we know, I suggest we direct our energies to finding Ram Daas.”

  “Of course,” Calla said. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

  Derek swung around to stare at his bride. “Absolutely not. It’s far too dangerous for you to be involved.”

  “I already am involved. Ram is my friend.” Her voice contained no hesitation, no fear, just cool certainty that she would step into—that Derek would allow her to step into—the middle of the mess.

  A small tremor of alarm shot through him as he perceived a dangerous trend, one he had heretofore overlooked. She had defied tradition by deftly assuming the management of her household in India. She had defied convention by settling a bride price on herself, rather than allowing her mother and sisters to languish as unmarried, destitute spinsters. Now she was openly defying him.

  He had married, he realized, a woman of spunk, intelligence, and determination. All fine and well. But that did not mean he would indulge her whim on every issue. Better she learn now who commanded the household.

  "And if I were to insist that you remove yourself entirely from the search for Ram Daas, it being far too dangerous and unseemly an undertaking given your new station as Lady Keating?"

  "I would recommend you do no such a thing."

  "You would disobey me?"

  "In this instance, yes."

  Derek stiffened. "I'm afraid you overestimate your influence in this matter. I need only inform Inspector Nevins that you are not to be contacted again on any matter pertaining to Ram Daas. I will likewise inform my staff, servants, and associates at the docks."

  Heavy silence filled the room. "Yes, you have that authority," she agreed at last. "But if you do, I will resent you for it and that resentment will fester between us for the remainder of our married life."

  "Perhaps that is a risk I am willing to take."

  “Very well.” She returned his stare with one of glacial self-assurance. "In that case, I have no choice but to wait for Ram Daas to contact me.” She gave a light shrug and tapped the letter she’d written against her palm. “Or for that matter, anyone else who has seen this.”

  Her letter. How had he forgotten it? He could not recall a single instance when he had blundered so thoroughly. Had he thought the matter through, rather than reacting on emotion, he would have remembered the letter. The missive had already brought Inspector Nevins to their doorstep. It was only natural to assume that others had seen it as well and would soon come looking for her.

  He inclined his head, holding out his palm. “May I?”

  “Certainly.”

  Derek scanned the note. Warm, affectionate, and familial in tone. Worst of all, his new bride had invited the boy—a lowly native who was no doubt being pursued by half the undesirables of London—to tea. Good Lord. She might as well have waved a red flag. If you’re looking for Ram Daas, come to me! I can help find him!

  Derek swore under his breath. But rather than admit defeat directly, he temporized, "Has it occurred to you that the inspector and I are perfectly capable of finding the boy on our own?”

  A worried frown knit her brow. "I don’t think so. He will not understand the intricacies of Custom House authority versus Metropolitan Police authority. I’m hardly certain I do. He will merely perceive he is being chased, and therefore feel threatened. On the contrary, he knows me. He will see me as a friend, one who cares that he is safe.”

  “A friend?” His voice came out rougher than he’d intended. “That is absurd. The boy is a lascar…a native.”

  She blinked. “Of course. I know that.”

  “You are an English woman.”

  “I am aware of that, as well.”

  Derek fought the urge to throttle her. It was all so simple, yet his headstrong young bride didn’t seem to understand. Proper English women did not care what happened to young, native boys. Proper English women did not acknowledge that young, native boys even existed—let alone invite them to tea.

  “Besides,” Calla continued, sweeping his objections away with a wave
of her hand, “neither you or Inspector Nevins know what the boy looks like. How could you possibly find him?”

  Once again feeling like a prize idiot, Derek’s gaze shot to Nevins. The inspector had drifted off to the far end of the room, endeavoring to give them some privacy during their heated exchange. He stood with his hands folded behind his back as he studied a framed landscape, attempting, without much success, to convey the impression of a man who had not been blessed with a sense of hearing.

  “Inspector,” Derek clipped out. “I assume the Ariel’s bosun was able to provide you some description of the boy.”

  Nevins removed a small leather-bound book from his pocket and flipped through the pages as he strode toward them. “Yes, here it is. Native of India. Medium height, slender build, brown skin, dark hair and eyes.” He looked up and grimaced. “Very helpful, indeed. I think that description would answer to nearly every native in London, if not all of England.”

  Derek grit his teeth. “Mrs. Singh—”

  “Never met Ram,” Calla finished for him. “She was hired as my chaperone a week before our ship departed.” She worried her bottom lip, then looked up at Derek, her gaze soft and imploring. “Ram’s only crime was coming to England in hopes of providing a better life for his family. Just as I’ve done. If our situations were reversed and I was threatened or in trouble, I have no doubt he would do anything he could to help me. I couldn’t live with myself if I did nothing to help him.”

  And there it was. Nicely done. His new wife, he belatedly realized, was a formidable opponent. Blithely ignoring the typical weapons in a female arsenal—tears, hysterics, and shrill pleading—she had used intelligence and stubborn logic to prove her points, and when that had failed, appealed to his chivalry and sense of justice. Her last words were particularly hard to ignore. The image of Calla, alone and in danger in London, bothered him more than he cared to admit. If Ram could be depended upon to come to her aid, honor dictated that they help the boy.

  That did not mean, however, he was pleased with the turn of events. But short of passively allowing Ram to be found and hurt or possibly killed, it was their only logical move.

  Derek held her gaze for a long, silent moment, then cocked his head in the direction of the doorway. “Bellowes!”

  Bellowes, seemingly unperturbed by the strident summons, entered the parlor and gave a deferential bow. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Have Thomas ready the carriage. Lady Keating and I have need of it this morning.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Calla’s face lit up. There was no other way to describe it. She drew in an excited breath and clasped her hands to her chest, as though she’d just been promised some thrilling adventure, rather than a trip to the East End slums to search for the boy. Her plush, kissable lips parted in a broad, dimpled smile. Her eyes sparkled, for God’s sake.

  “Thank you.”

  Pushing aside the ridiculous temptation to bask in the glow of her approval, he sternly admonished, “You will recall what I said earlier. This undertaking is both dangerous and unseemly. You are entirely unfamiliar with the operation of the docks, the Custom House, and the shipping trade. Therefore, I will expect you to defer to my judgment on all matters pertaining to the search for Ram Daas.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Yes, my lord. Ha. What utter bollocks. Derek saw her response for what it was: a blatant attempt to allow him to save face in front of the inspector, as well as a stab at restoring domestic harmony. She needn’t have bothered. The meek, submissive expression looked laughably out of place on her face. The woman didn’t have a single meek or submissive bone in her body.

  Which was, he realized with a jolt of surprise, perfectly all right with him.

  On the heels of that thought, came another. It was his task to guide his new bride through the subtle nuances of London Society, not dangle her as bait in a deadly game of Custom House thievery. The woman might not know any better, but he did.

  All of which led to one single, essential question: What in hell had gotten into him?

  Nevins collected his hat and gloves. Derek accompanied him to the front foyer, where the inspector paused. He studied Derek unguardedly, as though satisfying some inner curiosity. “It is my understanding, Lord Keating, that you don’t normally concern yourself in native affairs.”

  “No,” Derek returned flatly. “Never.”

  “In that case, I am most grateful for your assistance.”

  “I expect you know how fruitless this exercise will be.”

  “Perhaps.” The inspector shrugged on his overcoat, adjusted the brim of his hat, pulled on his gloves. His eyes met Derek’s. “The boy will have many enemies searching for him. That much is certain. I thought it only fair that Ram have a few friends looking for him, as well.” He deposited his card on a sterling salver. “I am available day or night, should you need to reach me.”

  Derek bit back a sigh. He wasn’t much of a gambler, but he’d taken enough turns at the table to recognize when the odds were stacked against him. Thousands of Indian seamen arrived annually on England’s shores. Ten thousand or more had permanently established residence in London. And their task was to locate one lone boy who didn’t want to be found?

  Impossible.

  Chapter Nine

  India. Well, not exactly India, but likely as close as Calla would ever find in London. Since her arrival in England, she’d seen the “better” parts of the city—St. James, Mayfair, Hyde Park, even the shops of Piccadilly. But nothing compared to what she saw now. Derek had instructed his driver to deliver them to the Shadwell district of London’s East End. Here the dark, dusky faces of lascars, the Indian sailors who manned the ships, swarmed through the streets.

  As she alighted from the carriage, an icy breeze whipped around her, stinging her cheeks. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes and peered around her. For a moment, she could only gape as she tried to absorb it all.

  The sounds. All of it loud and raucous. Coarse, cockney English. The musical Hindi of her youth, liberally mixed with Punjabi, Persian, Cantonese, and a broad assortment of languages and dialects whose names she could only begin to guess.

  The sights. Everywhere she looked, motion. Bustling carts, wagons, and drays. Ramshackle warehouses and dilapidated tenement apartments. Fighting dogs and feral cats. Women and children of every race and nationality poring over the flimsy goods offered in dim little shops and rickety market stalls.

  Then there were the smells. She’d acquainted herself with dozens of new scents since her arrival in London—both pleasant and unpleasant—but here the fetid, marshy odor of the Thames was finally overtaken. Calla breathed in the sharp tang of tea, combined with the heady aroma of spices, wines, and incense. Layered beneath that, the pungent mixture of unwashed bodies, alcohol, cheap perfume, burning coal, and horse dung. The stench of piles of refuse untended and left to rot.

  “This way.” Derek took her elbow and guided her down the street.

  Calla cast him a glance from beneath her lashes as they walked. He surveyed the busy scene not with the wonder she felt, but with an expression of grim purpose. So this, too, was marriage, she thought. She’d won the battle, pushed to have her way, and as a result she’d created a rift with her husband she didn’t know how to mend.

  “Are the streets here always this crowded?” she asked, barely matching his pace as they jostled through the teeming population.

  “No.”

  “That’s good.”

  “They’re worse in the spring.”

  So much for polite, conciliatory banter. She sighed. “You’re angry with me.”

  He gave a brief shake of his head, but didn’t slow his step. “The fault is mine, not yours. A gently bred young woman does not visit the likes of High Street—or anywhere else in the East End, for that matter.”

  “Even if you’re accompanying me?”

  He gave an abrupt, humorless laugh. “Especially if I’m accompanying you.”
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br />   “What does that mean?”

  For the first time since they had exited his carriage, his gaze settled on hers. He drew her to his side in the middle of the busy sidewalk. She was afraid they might obstruct traffic, but they barely impeded the flow. Pedestrians streamed around them on both sides, barely sparing them a glance.

  “Aside from the obvious danger,” he said, “in the estimation of London Society, your presence here will serve to demonstrate an appetite for the dark and depraved—an appetite I not only indulge, but encourage. Rather than protect you, I’m leading you deeply astray.”

  She brushed away his concern away with a dismissive shake of her head. “How fortunate for me that I don’t care a whit for Society’s approval.”

  “That’s a rather reckless approach to establishing your reputation as Lady Keating.”

  She felt a small, defiant smile tug at the corners of her lips. “If you wanted a better woman, you should have married her.”

  His expression sobered. Calla instantly regretted her flippant remark. Her words had been meant as nothing but a glib repetition of what he’d said to her, but perhaps she’d pushed him too far. Her mother and sisters accused her of being too outspoken. Too confident and headstrong. What men wanted in a wife, they told her, even more than grace and beauty, was a demure woman who was eager to bend to her husband’s will. Perhaps, she thought, she’d already ruined any chance they might have had for marital contentment. But to her profound relief, his next words put her at ease.

  “But then I wouldn’t have you,” he said.

  The moment stretched between them. In the span of a single heartbeat, what had begun as a mere exchange of words turned strangely physical. Calla was suddenly acutely aware of her body. Her nerve endings sprang to life. She felt every bump and jostle of the passing throngs, as well as the vibration of a nearby door slamming shut. She swore she could even feel the pounding of the horses’ hooves echo through her bones. But most of all, she felt a firm, sharp tug deep within her belly, as though an invisible string was pulling her to Derek.