Free The Tiger's Lady by Christina Skye Page B

“I fear I have yet to learn your English ways, my dear Helene. I did not realize until now that you have yapping bazaar dogs here in England just as we do in India.”
    “Why, you—” The baronet heaved himself ponderously to his feet. “I’ll call you out for that! That is, if you were a gentleman, I would. But that is something scum like yourself can never be!”
    Sir Humphrey’s companion tried to tug him back to the divan, but he shoved her roughly aside. “Aye, ’twould do England a great deal of good to rid itself of slime like yourself. Bloody strange state of affairs, indeed, when a decent Englishman can’t go about his business without running into a heathen face wherever he goes.” The man’s color deepened to the unhealthy hue of raw beef left too long in the sun.
    “Enough, Sir Humphrey!” Amber eyes snapping, Helene moved between the two men. “You appear to have enjoyed too much of my champagne, sir. You would do best to let Zara escort you upstairs and show you a more pleasurable manner of working off those ill humors of yours. Zara has told me how much she’s been missing you, haven’t you, my dear?”
    Immediately the woman nodded violently, tugging her companion away toward the stairs hidden behind a line of potted palms.
    Although less obvious, Helene was quick to maneuver her own companion away, too.
    They ascended the grand marble staircase in silence, neither speaking until they reached a private suite of rooms at the rear of the second floor. Inside gaslight flashed from mirrored tables, crystal chandeliers, and erotic etchings in gilt frames.
    It was not a tasteful room nor even a comfortable one, but that was not Helene’s intention.
    Rather the room was bold, aggressive, and ornate, just like its owner. Just the way her clients liked their rooms to be.
    All except for this man, who was perhaps the strangest of all her visitors.
    As soon as the door closed, Helene rounded on her companion. “Are you mad?” she demanded.
    “Don’t press me, my dear.” The rajah’s voice was low and very dangerous. “Not tonight.” Suddenly his intonation seemed to change, the stiff formality giving way to the quick, clipped tones of a native English speaker. “By heaven, what I need is a drink, not your moralizing.”
    “Will you have tea?”
    He cocked an eyebrow. “Of the sort you stock? All dust and fannings, and inferior fannings at that. I think not.”
    Helene’s eyes flashed. “Pray, forgive me, Your Excellency. We’re fresh out of Dragon Well and Padre Souchong and your other exalted types. We can’t all be connoisseurs, after all. And my customers couldn’t care less about the kind of tea I stock.”
    Her visitor simply laughed. “No, I don’t expect they would. But your whiskey is excellent and will more than suffice, Helene. Don’t let my little peccadilloes disturb you.”
    “I shan’t,” his hostess snapped. “Don’t worry!”
    The rajah’s eyes were as hard as he stalked to a rosewood cabinet and poured himself a generous amount of whiskey. In grim silence he tossed the liquor down, then poured another. Only then did he glance back to his silent companion. “You do not join me?”
    Tight-lipped, Helene shook her head.
    The rajah shrugged. “Humphrey is bloody lucky he still holds his tongue between his teeth.”
    “So are you. Whatever had you in your head?”
    For answer, the bearded man only drained his glass.
    “I hardly understand you! First you engage a suite of rooms in my house expressly to maintain your anonymity. Then you do the one mad thing which would ensure the loss of that anonymity!”
    “Nearly did, my dear Helene. And I thank you most humbly for your timely intercession.” His glass was refilled and emptied once again. “I fear I am not quite rational tonight.” The man’s dark eyes glittered, fixed on the firelight. “I can see the bloody thing even now. No, I can feel it almost, hot and malevolent, as if it were still within my