Page 75 of The Princess Stakes
Rhystan knew without a doubt that the earl would have been aware of his altered circumstances after his father’s death. The tragedy had been the news of London for months. The false ignorance was a deliberate slight, that Talbot still saw him as that weak, green lad of an officer. Well, he wasn’t that boy anymore, nor was he the normal kind of duke.
He let his rage show in his eyes. “Walk. Away.”
The earl’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Do you really wish for me to elucidate?” His voice lowered to a snarl. “Walk the hell away, Talbot.”
“Please, Your Grace,” Sarani whispered, touching his sleeve. “Don’t make a scene, for Ravenna’s sake, if not mine. It’s what he wants.”
“Always so clever,” Talbot said, his eyes pinning her. “We looked for you, you know, after your father’s body was discovered. Such a pity.” His sly tone indicated it was anything but, and Rhystan felt Sarani stiffen beside him. “It was speculated that you’d been taken, but the new maharaja insisted you were dead.”
“The new maharaja,” Sarani echoed.
“Your cousin Vikram.” He rolled his eyes and gave a theatrical sigh. “Though who knows with you natives and your falsifying of heirs willy-nilly to keep it in the family.” His voice lowered. “Then again, he isn’t precisely the actual heir, is he, Princess Sarani?”
Sarani gasped, her eyes darting to the ballroom where people were craning their necks without shame, and she took a step closer to Rhystan without realizing it. He wanted to comfort her, reassure her that they could not hear, but he did not move a muscle, his stare narrowing on Talbot. He opened his mouth but Sarani spoke first.
“Why are you here, Lord Talbot?”
“Vice Admiral Markham… You remember your superior officer, don’t you, Your Grace?” Talbot said. “Shall we say that I received the most interesting piece of correspondence requiring my immediate presence in London.”
Rhystan’s fists clenched at the mention of both Markham and a letter. The story of his life was apparently repeating itself. This time, he knew that the culprit had to be his own meddlesome mother. Who else would make those connections between the present and his past? He would wring her interfering neck. Right after he dealt with this conniving piece of shit.
The earl went on, oblivious to his impending fate. “It inquired about an English lady, but strangely enough, including a locket with a miniature resembling”—his calculating gaze slid to Sarani—“none other than you.”
“A miniature?” Rhystan’s heart pounded, remembering the robbery at his residence. The thief must have been commissioned to seek out only the locket.
But why? For what purpose? His gaze slid to Sarani’s ashen countenance.
Unless someonewasalready here…looking for her.
Twenty-One
“I wish to leave,” Sarani said to no one in particular.
Her brain spun with a noxious concoction of fear, dread, and powerless rage. Who could have written to Markham? There was only one answer, truly. Rhystan’s mother had the only motivation. She could not have wanted to be rid of Sarani so badly, could she?
Of course she could. The dowager duchess was ruthless, especially when it came to what she felt was best for her children. Sarani had seen that same protectiveness with Ravenna, though the duchess hid it behind a facade of detachment. She loved her children, but she had a strange way of showing it. But perhaps that was the English way of things.
Despite her roiling emotions and the nausea pooling in the pit of her stomach, Sarani did not blame the duchess. The past would have caught up to her sooner or later.
Right now, she needed to get away from Talbot, from Markham—that odious, bigoted brute had to be here somewhere—before she did something unforgiveable. Her kukri were burning a hole in their sheaths against her legs. She only had to slip her trembling fingers through the concealed slits at her hips, and they would be in her palms.
Not that she intended to murder a man in the middle of Mayfair.
She just needed not to feel powerless.
Sarani jutted her jaw, using the very people who had been staring unabashedly all evening. “Let me pass, Lord Talbot, or I swear to everything holy that you will regret it.” She shot the earl a scathing glance. “Unless you don’t give a fig for your reputation, that is, because I have no qualms making a scene to end all scenes.”
“Wait.” Rhystan’s voice reached her, but she could not look at him now, or she would fall into his arms. And she needed to be strong. For herself.
Holding her head high, she swept past the curious onlookers toward the exit. She would call for a hackney if she had to. Her gaze scanned the crowd for Ravenna as she made her way over to the entrance salon to retrieve her cloak, but there was no sign of her. She glanced briefly at the duchess, who, like her son, had not deigned to wear a mask and whose face remained impassive. Then again, the untouchable dowager duchess would never lower herself to show emotion in public.
A body cut into Sarani’s path, halting her progress.
“I told you,” Penelope spit out viciously.
Sarani grimaced, stifling the urge to shove the girl aside. “Told me what?”
