Free The Duke of Shadows by Meredith Duran

from her the same question: "Any chits for me?"
    "Nahin, memsahib," the most recent arrival said solemnly, wiping imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth while she flicked surreptitious glances at the gentleman across the table. "Early, memsahib, very early for chits."
    "Yes, I know," Emma murmured. Silly, to feel so uneasy.
    Against her will, she put her fingers to her lips. Would he kiss her again before he saw her off? The possibility that he might refrain made her distinctly anxious.
    A door crashed open in the distance. Mr. Hosegood, in the process of refilling his glass, knocked the bottle over with a jerk. They exchanged a glance of surprise, then turned as one to the door. From the hallway came the rapid ring of boots. Just before the footsteps reached the morning room, she recognized Marcus's voice, pitched low in a curse.
    She came to her feet. What was he doing here? Monday morning was parade rehearsal at the camp!
    He opened this door with equal brutality, then paused on the threshold, his harsh breathing the only sound save the rhythmic dripping of claret from tablecloth to floor. His red military uniform, usually so immaculate, was covered with dust; his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. Someone had hit him hard across the face; one of his eyes was black, and his nose was swollen and bruised, perhaps broken. His bloodshot eyes darted about the room in frantic fashion, fixing on nothing.
    Cold slid down her spine. Something was terribly wrong.
    She lowered herself back into the chair. "Well, good heavens." Her voice sounded queer to her, comically prim. "Can't you see we're having breakfast?"
    He glanced at her, as though just now taking note of her presence. "Where's the Resident?"
    "At the government office, I suppose. Where else would he be?"
    Marcus nodded, still out of breath, and looked to Mr. Hosegood. "You," he said, and tossed him a pistol. It splashed into the puddle of claret, and Emma flinched—braced for a discharge that did not come. "Ride like hell to the Joint Magistrate's. Tell him I can't find the Resident and he needs to close the bloody gates."
    "But … but…" Mr. Hosegood sprang up, backing away from the table and gun. "Really, sir, who are you, and why—"
    "I'm an officer of the Indian Army and if you do not go right now, I'll hold you responsible for the deaths of hundreds of British citizens."
    Mr. Hosegood gaped dumbly. Marcus snarled and lunged a pace toward him. The man snatched up the pistol and scrambled to the door.
    Marcus stood there for a moment longer, stuffing his hands into his pockets and tilting his head. When the sound came of the front door slamming, he nodded and fell into a seat. There followed a short silence, in which Emma held herself still, not daring even to breathe. Then his eyes lifted to hers; they gleamed so strangely, she wondered if he had been drinking, too.
    "Well then," he said, and then continued, in the casual tones of someone describing the plot of a mediocre novel, "A large contingent of mutinous soldiers is attempting to cross the Jumna river into Delhi."
    "Oh?" The response of a dedicated nonreader, designed to discourage further conversation.
    "Yes. It may be too late to shut the gates."
    "Indeed," she said politely. "So Mr. Hosegood is on a fool's mission, then."
    He shrugged. "I couldn't say."
    Emma laced her hands together in her lap, squeezing hard to channel a tumult of foreign emotions. "Shouldn't you be mustering the troops?"
    "Good God!" He shoved to his feet and began to pace. "Come to reality, you stupid little girl. The troops are native. They will not fight their own countrymen!" His own words seemed to stun him; he lapsed into a brooding silence. Last week, in this very room, he'd boasted to the Resident of his regiment's loyalty. Apparently something had happened at the Ridge to change his mind.
    She swallowed hard. "Then we should flee." She rose, her thoughts painfully lucid. She could not wait for Lord Holdensmoor to come.