Chapter 9
Alworth tossed a newspaper on the dining table. They’d dined lavishly on lamb cutlets, ham and peas, a selection of cheeses, strawberries and Neapolitan cakes. Pen felt she’d never eaten so much. But then they had to celebrate the outcome of the duel.
“Did you know that White’s has the entire range of newspapers in the morning room at your disposal? One reads the most interesting things in newspapers, especially old ones.” He handed her a glass of sherry. “I dug a bit in the archives the other day—I enjoy reading old newspapers, you know—an entirely useless pastime of mine—and I encountered an interesting story. I am curious about what you think about it.”
Pen nipped at the sherry. “Another gossip column?”
“Not entirely. Now listen, closely. It’s a story about a Rajasthani princess who’d eloped with an English captain.”
Pen, who’d taken too big a gulp from her glass, coughed.
“It was the story of the day. The captain had completely integrated into the Indian way of life. I daresay he must have become Indian himself. What love this must have been.” He mused. “What had his name been again? Ray, Reed, Reid, something or other.”
Pen’s coughing turned to wheezing.
“Apparently, they had a daughter. One wonders what has become of her?” His eyes bore into hers, one eyebrow raised in expectation.
Sweet heavens. He knew.
He knew she was Penelope Shakti Reid, daughter of Adita Kumari, Princess of Bikaner and Captain John Reid.
Not only that, but he also knew that she knew he knew. A tumble of confused thoughts and feelings assailed her. Was her charade over now? Would he openly call her out on it? Would she get thrown out of the club?
She hid her face in the napkin, waiting for the coughing to cease.
“My dear Pen, you ought not to drink alcohol if it does not become you. A glass of water, mayhap?”
“I am fine,” she said in a strangled tone.
“What do you think of that story? A fairy tale, is it not?”
She nodded jerkily. “Yes. Undoubtedly. A fairy tale. You ought not to believe everything you read in newspapers.”
He lifted one corner of his mouth. “You are entirely correct.”
With a whirling mind, Pen disposed of the content of her glass in the plant next to her, not caring whether he saw it, or not. The plant had already started to wilt.
“I daresay you know more about this particular fairy tale. Do you care to tell me the true story?” He’d crossed his legs, pulled out a cheroot and rolled it between his fingers.
Tell him her story? Now? A group of men had just entered, laughing, and started a game of cards by the window.
She licked her dry lips. “I think not,” she whispered. She was more shaken than she cared to admit.
He frowned. “After all this, you still will not tell me, will you?”
“I—I am sorry. It’s just because—Not now.”
“Very well, Pen. Not now.” His tone was coolly disapproving.
Would he stop staring at her?
In-between two puffs, he said, “It is an amazing tale, especially if it turns out to be true. Can’t help but wonder whether love indeed has the power to make a man give up his entire heritage.” He curled his lips in disbelief.
“Ah, yes, you don’t believe in love.”
It seemed they were to carry on the charade as before. She breathed a sigh of relief. She did not know how to behave in the company of Alworth as a girl dressed as a man. Knowing that he knew her secret, maybe had known for quite some time already, made her feel very self-conscious.
Pen felt like she could not bear it one minute longer in his company. She jumped up. “I will be off now, sir.”
