He’d place a bet at five.
He watched how a frown folded itself on her smooth forehead. “In what way did I tell you?”
“Kumari of Bikaner.”
He bit down a smile. She really thought he was born yesterday, did she? Bikaner was a city in Rajasthan that he had plans on exploring.
“I did tell you I was to travel to India in several months’ time, so naturally I studied the history and culture of the country. Some basic Hindi as well. My knowledge of it is, admittedly, execrable. But Kumari, or rather, Raj Kumar—it means prince, yes? Prince of Bikaner.”
There was a hint of alarm in her eyes. “I didn’t think that anyone would know this.”
He felt the devil of an imp to tease her, so he leaned forward. “Kumari can also mean damsel, I daresay.” In fact, it was the more precise meaning of the word. Unmarried girl, damsel, princess …
She paled.
He took out a cheroot and offered it to her. He saw the denial on her lips. Then she braced her shoulders, reached out her hand—she had long, tapered fingers—and took it.
He watched in anticipation what she was going to do with it.
She rolled it in her hand, clueless what to do next.
“Kumari was my mother’s name,” she muttered.
Ah. Indian mother, and very likely, British father, he presumed. He was wondering why she didn’t take on her father’s surname. Who was she? What was her story? The mystery!
He offered her fire. She took a quick draw, coughed, and blinked her watery eyes.
“Is there a register here?” she asked out of the blue.
He paused in lighting his own cheroot. “Register?”
“You know. A book with names. Of all the members who are in the club. And their addresses. Where they live.”
“Naturally. The White book of members is legendary.” He blew out the smoke with great satisfaction and cherished the illicit feeling that he was smoking in the presence of a woman.
She pressed out her cheroot in the ashtray with more force than was necessary. Shame, for the cheroot was of excellent quality. “There is someone I am looking for.”
“Who are you looking for?”
She visibly struggled with an answer. He saw mistrust flare up in her eyes.
“My dear Kumari. If you want me to help you—”
“I never asked for your help.” She jutted out her chin.
He sighed. “No. I suppose you did not. No doubt you must have realised that without my help you would’ve never made it into here.”
He gestured to their surroundings. “I must admit, I am keen to learn what the reason for your adamant insistence is to become a member at White’s—aside from the obvious ones. So, you are looking for someone. You might as well let me help you with it.”
Her face shut down. It couldn’t be clearer that she trusted him as much as the mouse trusted a cat. Not that he had the intention of harming her. He was motivated by—well, what exactly was it? The alleviation of boredom? Wasn’t that what motivated any of his decisions lately? He’d decided to go to India because he was bored with it all. English society. English food. England. The infernal rain. Everything was so damnably bland.
Now here was a youth—a woman in boy’s clothes, to be precise—who was as un-English as a woman could possibly be.
She fascinated him.
He couldn’t recall the last time he was fascinated by anyone. Yet he felt himself compelled by something more than just the alleviation of boredom. He could not yet identify what it was.
Her face, an open book, reflected her inner struggle. “I am looking for Marcus Smith,” she finally said.
