Sweet as the Devil Page 4

  “Many thanks,” Jamie gasped, collapsing against the caboose wall.

  “Dinna think ye were up to that leap,” the elderly Scotsman said blandly. “A right daredevil ye are.”

  “My gillie’s—coming down . . . from the hills—to . . . meet me.”

  “At Inverness?” Inverness was the gateway to the hills. Dragging air into his lungs, Jamie nodded.

  “Ye dinna live up that way, do ye?” He tapped his ear. “A bit o’ accent I ken.”

  “I visit in the summer.” Jamie’s breathing was partially restored. “May I buy you a drink?”

  The elderly man smiled. “Ye’re a closemouthed scamp. Ye can share a drink with me”—he held up his cigar—“once I’ve smoked me fill.”

  “My pleasure, sir. I’ll see you inside.” With a bow, Jamie opened the caboose door and made for the club car. The moment he entered the crowded lounge, he was hailed. “Blackwood, over here!” Lord Rothsay waved from the bar.

  Threading his way through the throng to the bar, Jamie smiled and took the whiskey Rothsay held out to him.

  “You smell of cunt,” the earl said with a smirk. “And you’re still in last night’s evening rig. She must have been good.”

  “Afternoon, Dougal. Nice day. Traveling home to the wife and family?” The men knew each other from the summer war games they’d both competed in as youths. Rothsay was a Sandhurst fellow.

  The earl grunted. “Have to occasionally.” He reached out and plucked a golden hair from Jamie’s shoulder. “Anyone I know?”

  “I’m sure you do.” Jamie raised his glass. “Cheers.” He drained the liquor, set the glass down, and signaled for another.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Bastard.”

  “That’s my job.” Jamie turned to smile at the bartender, who held out another glass of whiskey.

  “Speaking of bastards, how is that aging libertine Ernst doing?”

  “Same as ever. Cheers.” Jamie tossed off the whiskey.

  “I heard rumors he’s making himself amenable to Banffy in Hungary and the powers that be in Germany.”

  Jamie nodded at the bartender and pointed to his empty glass before answering. “Ernst thinks he’s another Bismarck,” he said. “I keep reminding him that even Bismarck eventually overplayed his hand. Leave the bottle.” He handed the young barman a large banknote and picked up his refilled glass.

  Rothsay’s brows rose. “Keep that up and you’ll have to be carried off at Inverness.”

  Jamie grinned. “Care to wager?”

  “Five hundred says you won’t last.”

  “You’re on.”

  “With most men I’d say they were drinking away some female entanglement, but with you I know better. Did you discover your conscience?” the earl asked with a chuckle.

  “Not unless you discovered yours.” Rothsay preferred opera tarts, cancan girls, and his pretty maidservants more than his wife, not exactly uncommon in the fashionable world. Dougal and his wife had agreed to disagree in the civilized way of the upper classes and lived on friendly terms. Gossip had it Lady Rothsay found solace with a parade of young, handsome grooms, which might account for the increasing size of Rothsay’s family.

  “Don’t have a conscience,” Dougal complacently replied. “Take after my father, who couldn’t remember our names or that of my mother come to think of it. We Rothsay men are a ramshackle lot all bound for hell, but in the meantime,” he said in the frank, easy way he had, “I’m indulging in my pleasures—the lovely ladies foremost—and the devil be damned.”

  Jamie raised his glass. “A fair exchange. I’ll drink to that.”

  “Amen and God bless all the willing jezebels,” Dougal returned with a lecherous wink.

  In the end, Rothsay lost his five hundred, although Jamie was definitely feeling no pain when he quit the train at Inverness.

  Davey Ross was waiting on the platform, his cap in hand, a broad smile on his face. “Mornin’, sair. You look mighty happy.”

  “Damn right. I’m escaping civilization—and I use the word loosely.”

  “You’ve come to the right place, sair. The ends o’ the earth we are. This way, sair,” he said, leading him toward the stables. “Yer flask is in yer saddlebags and a change of clothes if ye like.” This wasn’t the first time Jamie had come north from some woman’s bed. “Our sour mash turned out damned near perfect this season if I do say so meself.”

  “Excellent. Perfect whiskey, comfortable clothes, and your fine company. Surely the gods are in the heavens.”

  “Don’t know aboot that, sair. But the coverts and the salmon are prime this year. Along with that devil of a horse you like. He knew ye were acomin’ afor we did. He’s been right frisky of late.” He lifted his hand in the direction of the large black snorting and pawing the ground. “As ye can see.”

  “Hello, Athol laddie,” Jamie softly said as he came up to him and gently stroked the stallion’s powerful neck. He briefly rested his forehead against the soft coat and inhaled before raising his head and smiling widely. “Ah—the smell of heather. Now I know I’m home. Hey, hey,” he said as Athol nuzzled him. “You think I brought you something?” Pushing the horse’s nose away, he slipped his hand in his pocket, withdrew some sugar lumps he’d obtained from the bartender on the train, and held them out on his open palm.

  “That there brute squealed like he caught the scent of a filly in heat when I saddled up my mount. He weren’t about to be left behind.”

  Jamie had raised Athol from a colt. “We’re friends,” Jamie murmured, “aren’t we, laddie?”

  As if he understood, Athol lifted his head and softly snorted.

  “There, you see?” Rubbing the stallion’s ear, he grinned at Davey. When the thoroughbred was finished eating, Jamie wiped his palm on his pants, unbuckled his saddlebag, and extracted his worn flask. Drinking a long draught, he handed it to Davey, undressed in the stable yard, and soon was wearing his Highland uniform: buckskin pants, riding boots, a homespun shirt, and a jacket made from his family’s hunting plaid. “There now. I feel whole again,” he said with a smile, taking back his flask and shoving it in his pocket.

  “Ye’ll feel even better, sair, once you get a good night’s sleep. Ye’re a wee peeked, sair, from a tad too much o’ civilization—eh?”

  “A tad too much of everything, Davey,” Jamie said, swinging smoothly into the saddle and nudging his mount into a turn. “I’m looking forward to a good long rustication.”

  The two men rode slowly through town. Once into the open country, Jamie set Athol into a canter, a pace their mounts could sustain for the hours necessary to reach the hunting lodge. Travelers didn’t as a rule brave the high mountain trails, but then none of them had Davey Ross for a guide, nor bloodstock that could navigate the treacherous paths with sure-footed competence. Although the owner of Blackwood Glen could have found his way to his hunting lodge blindfolded and drunk as a lord.

  The latter very much the case that morning.

  AS THE SUN rose high in the sky over the spring green hills of the Highlands and the two riders had finally entered Blackwood land, events were unfolding halfway around the world that would seriously impact Prince Ernst. By extension, Jamie. And more extraordinarily, Sofia Eastleigh.

  Earlier that day, Rupert, Ernst’s heir, along with a small party from Vienna, had been feted with all the pomp and circumstance of the Nizam of Mysore’s opulent court. The Europeans had been splendidly entertained with sport commensurate to their rank and particular to India—a tiger shoot.

  Before dawn, Rupert and his companions had been transported in gilded howdahs atop richly caparisoned elephants through a jungle teeming with blooms and redolent with sweet scent, finally coming to a halt in a clearing cut from the lush undergrowth. A limpid pool lay beyond a screen of bamboo. It was the water source for the animals in the surrounding area, and just prior to the rainy season, with water scarce, a great variety of gam
e came to drink.

  Skillful organization was required for a tiger hunt, along with accomplished shikaris (hunters) who knew the country and the animals’ habitat and temperament. Most crucial was the necessity of safeguarding the nizam and his guests. Nothing was more dangerous than a snarling tiger breaking from cover at a full gallop. The man-eating beasts were known to attack elephants, even charge the howdahs in a flying leap, and they could carry off a man at lightning speed. A mother with cubs was particularly fierce, liable to take the offensive without provocation. The Europeans had been warned.

  At the sound of a single gunshot signaling the beginning of the drive, a sudden tension filled the air. And a moment later, blaring horns and banging drums indicated that the nizam’s vassals were on the march, forcing the beasts of the jungle to flee before them.

  As Prince Rupert and his colleagues waited under the blazing sun, a native shikari stood behind each howdah, ready to hand over the loaded guns. The elephants had been prodded by their mahouts into a line facing the oncoming drive. Regardless of the oppressive heat, the advancing drumbeats prompted a cold sweat on tyro brows.

  After what seemed an eternity to the novices from Europe, flocks of frightened birds abruptly burst from the jungle in a frenzied cloud, the shrill cries of monkeys terrorized by the tigers underfoot rose into the air, and the hunters were warned of the imminent approach of game.

  The shikaris quickly passed over the guns, and short moments later eight roaring tigers broke from the jungle and scattered in every direction. The well-trained elephants stood firm, a dozen guns opened fire in a wild explosion, and the indiscriminate slaughter commenced.

  The bag that day was thirteen tigers, six leopards, four cheetahs, and several score lesser game. Afterward, pictures were taken by the nizam’s court photographer; the smug foreigners, their guns in hand, lined up behind the splendid array of exotic animals spread at their feet.

  As the nizam intended, his tiger shoot afforded peerless pleasure to his guests. Regardless that British rule was universally hated in India, he was obliged to offer his hospitality to them and their European compatriots for the sake of the dominions his family had ruled for a millennium.

  Better artifice than prison.

  And he had many sons to advance.

  The return to the palace was a raucous affair as the young aristocrats shared and compared shooting experiences, the exhilaration of danger met and conquered adding a piquant satisfaction to the lively discourse. Servants riding alongside the elephants served cool wine to the guests, the drink quaffed down like water in the blazing heat.

  After the party alighted at the palace and everyone had rested and bathed, a sumptuous dinner was served in the nizam’s cool, perfumed garden lit with hundreds of lanterns strung from the trees. Endless courses and wines, fruits and delicacies were served while poets recited ghazals—the Urdu or Persian love lyrics intrinsic to an evening’s entertainment.

  In due course, musicians arrived, accompanied by beautiful, shapely dancers who launched into an enchanting performance of indigenous dances. The young men from Vienna were captivated by the sensuous, overtly erotic choreography and particularly enticed by the ladies’ diaphanous garments that left nothing to the imagination.

  Wine continued to flow copiously, a servant always at the ready to refill the guests’ cups; golden hookahs were lit and passed around, affording bliss of another kind. Before long, couples began to wander off to indulge their passions.

  An extremely voluptuous natch girl had attracted Rupert’s notice, her curvaceous body a potent lure to the eye, her explicit sexuality appealing to more carnal sensibilities. She was ravishing and available, and he’d never denied himself the pleasures of the flesh. What handsome young man of wealth had? Not that the scantily clad, bejeweled dancer wasn’t an extraordinary treasure; she put his former lovers to shame, her scent alone a tantalizing aphrodisiac. It was inevitable that when she said in charmingly accented English, “Show me, how do you say, your virile member,” Rupert laughed and replied in unaccented English, “It would be my pleasure.”

  Once they were ensconced in his commodious bed and had gratified their carnal appetites for an enchanting period of time, Rupert decided she was quite remarkable—a tantalizing vixen with an incredible gift for sustaining sensation. He would remember this night with fondness. Then she gently nibbled on his cock, curtailing his musing, his erection quickly rose once again, and he softly groaned as every delicate nibble and piquant lick brought his blood to boiling point. But when he climaxed that time, a strange lethargy overcame him—not unpleasant . . . comforting in a way, like falling asleep in a bed of jasmine. Ah—that was her scent, he thought as he drifted off. Jasmine . . .

  The instant Rupert’s breathing slowed into that of deep sleep, two men who’d been watching the couple from behind a half-closed door quietly entered the room. One remained at the door, the other moved soft footed toward the bed. With a curt nod he dismissed the woman lying beside Rupert. The dark-haired beauty sat up, pushed aside the sheer silk curtains enclosing the bed, rose to her feet, gathered up her jewelry, and nude and splendid, walked from the room without a backward glance.

  Rupert didn’t stir, the slow-acting sleeping potion she’d slipped into his wine having taken effect.

  Von Welden’s agent glanced over his shoulder. His accomplice dipped his head, signaling that they were alone. The trim, middle-aged man who traveled with the party as a factotum for Prince Reiger turned back to the fair-haired youth resting peacefully on his back. Pulling a coil of silk cord from his pocket, he slipped the garrote around Rupert’s neck and expertly strangled the heir to the duchy of Dalmia.

  It was not a random act.

  Rupert had been a marked man since he departed Vienna.

  While Rupert had no personal enemies, a number of impersonal circumstances had led to his death. An ancient covenant certified that the duchy of Dalmia would revert to the Habsburg crown should the Battenberg line expire. Prince Ernst could remarry and sire a child, but he was in his fifties, which suggested that even should a child result, that child would likely be a minor on Ernst’s death. The obligatory regency would ensue, which was even more likely to prove unsuccessful if history in that unstable region followed convention.

  However, the need to hasten the end of the duchy of Dalmia was prompted by more than ancient covenants. Quite apart from Ernst’s imprudent meddling in Austrian politics, and more pertinent, was the fact that gold had been clandestinely discovered in the Dinaric Alps that formed the eastern border of Dalmia.

  As minister of police and virtual dictator of Vienna, Count Von Welden had naturally been privy to the report. Venal to the core and in need of sizeable funds to finance the Versailles-like estate he was building in Hungary, he’d calculated that the transfer of Ernst’s lands sooner rather than later would better serve his purposes.

  Von Welden was prepared to make Prince Ernst an offer he couldn’t refuse, and he rather thought the prince would accept. Ernst was a selfish man, and left without an heir, he’d likely see the wisdom in the old saw about a bird in the hand. Or so the minister of police confidently surmised.

  When the coded telegram from India was placed in Von Welden’s hand, he read it and subsequently allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. Then he called in his secretary and dictated a message to be delivered to Prince Ernst.

  Von Welden’s spy network was pervasive. Very little apart from the occasional whispered comment was free of censorship or the watchful eye of the secret police.

  The minister knew exactly where and with whom Prince Ernst was taking his pleasure.

  CHAPTER 5

  RUPERT’S BODY HAD been packed in ice and shipped home on a swift steamer via the Suez Canal. When the container was opened wharfside in Dalmia and Prince Ernst saw the ligature marks around his son’s neck, he immediately began to compile a list of his enemies. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that Rupert had been killed by a native in some capric
ious act of violence. Especially when the cable had come from Prince Reiger, who was one of the most reactionary of the government’s advisors and no friend of his.

  Directly after the funeral, Ernst took himself up to Vienna in search of answers. The conspiracy to murder Rupert would have originated in the capital.

  Stepping down from his carriage in the courtyard of the palace that had been in the Battenberg family for centuries, he was overcome by a rare melancholy. He was not by nature an emotional man, but with Rupert’s grievous death, he faced a stark reality. Barring a precipitous marriage resulting in an heir, he was the last Battenberg. No brothers or uncles, sisters or aunts, no cousins survived.

  Merde. The last thing he wished to do was remarry, he thought, walking across the ancient cobbles toward the massive bronze entrance doors.

  His marriage hadn’t been congenial.

  Marie had chosen to live apart from him, and her death, while not a surprise, had, in truth, been a relief. The invalid role she’d adopted so as to avoid not only his company but also Rupert’s had killed her in the end—or perhaps it was the incompetence of her cher ami, Doctor Meynert, who prescribed opium for any or no ailment.

  As the huge double doors opened before him, the suits of armor standing row upon row in the entrance hall met his gaze, as did the scores of swords and shields decorating the walls, memorials all to his long-ago ancestors. And other things never changed as well, he thought as his indestructible butler approached. “Good afternoon, Heinrich.”

  The tall, regal butler bowed. “Good afternoon, Excellency. May I offer you the very deepest condolences from myself and the staff.”