Her Master's Touch Read online

  HER MASTER'S TOUCH

  by Patricia Watters

  HER MASTER'S TOUCH

  Patricia Watters

  Copyright Patricia Watters 2011

  Published at Smashwords

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  AUTHOR'S NOTE: The finest black opal known to exist stirred great interest in the French court when Napoleon Bonaparte, at the height of his power, presented it to Joséphine de Beauharnais, who wore the opal with great frequency. So intense were the brilliant red flames emanating from its fiery core that the magnificent opal was named the Burning of Troy. After Empress Josephine's death in 1814, however, the Burning of Troy disappeared without a trace. One hundred years later, it turned up in Vienna, Austria. Where it spent those intervening years remains a matter of conjecture.

  HER MASTER'S TOUCH

  She's the mystery debutante of the season, who arrived on the London scene as if from out of nowhere. But Lord Damon Ravencroft knows her dark secret. Two years before, when she was roaming with Gypsies and living by her wits in India, he hired her as a housemaid and she stole from him a rare and valuable opal once belonging to the Empress Josephine. Damon intends to be compensated for its loss, which set him back years in his quest to prove his innocence in a crime he's accused of committing. The sizable dowry that comes with Lady Elizabeth Sheffield's hand in marriage is a start. It's also his price to keep her secret from all of London. But there's more to the marriage of convenience Damon proposes than Elizabeth anticipated, but by the time she learns what it is, she's trapped in a marriage to a man who both stirs her passions and fuels her resentment for the man she was forced to wed.

  PROLOG

  Shanti Bhavan Plantation; Calcutta, India – 1870

  A hideous little man with owlish eyes, a head crowned by a red turban, and a gaunt body draped in a dhoti scurried into the room and salaamed. Unfolding a yellow tissue, he lifted a black opal the size of a hen's egg and held it before the window. Catching the rays of the waning sun, the gem burst into fiery-red sparks. The man's lips curved in a serpentine smile. "Sahib, I deliver to you the Kalki-Avatar," he said, offering the gem.

  Damon Ravencroft, who until now sat reclined on a palangris like a great languid lion, back propped against pillows covered in fine white muslin, snapped his fingers, and the coolie who had been pulling on the long cord that operated the big punkah creaking overhead left the room. Damon took the opal from the man's tapered fingers and peered into the stone's fiery core, and when he saw the vague image of a horse, his heartbeat quickened, and blood pumped hard through his veins.

  Not the Kalki-Avatar, my friend. The Burning of Troy.

  For years it had been rumored that the opal once belonging to Napoleon's empress had found its way to India and fallen into the hands of gypsies. But it wasn't until recently, when Damon heard talk of a black opal the size of a hen's egg, with the likeness of a horse in its fiery core, that he knew the Burning of Troy still existed.

  He turned the opal and it came alive with flashes of fiery reds and glittering golds and iridescent blues. Only now could he comprehend the magnificence of the stone, a gem vibrant and luminous beyond his wildest expectations.

  A stone that burned with an imperial flame.

  There was no doubt. This was the Burning of Troy. No opal could match the brilliance of Empress Josephine's gemstone. None could claim the dazzling lights alleged to have emanated from its flaming heart. There was no estimating its worth. The Hindu would seek it for the image it held—the Kalki-Avatar, the tenth and final incarnation of Vishnu, who was to appear on his horse. The Muslim, who spurn the Hindus' craven images, would seek it... simply because it was something the Hindu would covet. But it was Queen Victoria who fancied the lost gemstone with a passion to whom it would go. She'd pay dearly. More important, it was a tool with which Damon could bid from her a pardon, enabling him to return to England and claim what was rightly his. Westwendham.

  The jewel broker peered down at him. "You see, sahib, is fine jewel."

  Damon returned the opal to the man. "It appears a stone of reasonable quality," he said, with an air of aloof detachment, though he had no intention of letting the gem fall into another's hands. But in order to buy the stone he'd have to forfeit the option he'd made to Lord Sheffield to purchase the jute fields along the river. But with the opal he'd no longer need the fields. He'd no longer need the plantation. Shanti Bhavan would go to the highest bidder. And once he secured his pardon, he'd be off to England. And Westwendham.

  The preliminaries over, he said to the man, "Sit. We'll talk."

  CHAPTER ONE

  Horse Fair: Calcutta, India – 1870

  Great black vultures circled on silent wings above the Hugli River, gliding on wind currents that carried with them the pungent odor of burning flesh from the funeral pyres on the ghat. But Damon was unaware of the sinister shadows sweeping across the land, or the acrid stench infusing his nostrils as he watched, with rapt interest, the dark-haired beauty leading a coal black horse past the horse buyers. Doubling back, the woman stopped and looked directly at him. Although he stood on a platform crowded with buyers, he knew the woman was displaying her horse—or more precisely herself—for him. He saw it in her provocative stance, and in the alluring way her eyes sought his.

  A smile of pure pleasure tugged his lips as he scanned her comely face, the gold chains draped over her décolleté blouse, her trim ankles and naked feet. Nudging Cedric Hadleigh, a fellow expatriate from England, he said, "There's a tart ripe for the taking." "Forget her," Cedric replied. "You're already in a sticky wicket with Mara as it is."

  Eyes following the woman's lithe movements, Damon replied, "Mara's my mistress not my wife, and I refuse to let a mistress issue mandates." Mara's outburst over the incident with the innkeeper's daughter was unwarranted. Such a scene was to be expected from an Englishwoman, they being more emotional than the natives, which was why he opted for an Indian mistress. That, and the fact that they didn't pressure a man into marriage like British women did. "I suppose you'd have me wear blinders like a horse."

  "If you expect to keep Mara warming your bed, you'd better stop ogling the gypsy chit and give Mara a bauble or two," Cedric said. "Maybe that opal you bought."

  Damon looked askance at Cedric. "How did you hear about it?"

  "The Club." One corner of Cedric's mouth lifted. "We maintain a staff of loyal gossip mongers inside the Club and on the streets."

  Damon's clenched his jaws. Of course. The ugly little jewel merchant who'd assured him he'd say nothing. "There sure as hell must be a lack of gossip in Calcutta if you gents have resorted to me as your topic again," he said.

  "You, my friend, will always be a topic," Cedric replied. "The chaps fear for their wives, think they're in danger with you hovering on the fringes of their insular world."

  Damon let out a short guffaw. "Good God, that bevy of biddies! You can assure your colleagues that their wives are in no danger of being seduced by me." He focused on the woman again, more precisely on her bosom as she bent to stroke the horse’s leg. She looked at him then, as if to make certain he was watching. Bloody hell! How could he not. He'd have to be comatose not to get her message. "What are they saying this time?” he asked, holding the woman's steady gaze. “Last I heard, I'm dealing in contraband gems?"

 
; "They claim there are no Ravencrofts in Burke's, that you're living under an assumed name," Cedric replied.

  Damon laughed heartily. If the poor fools only knew, how shocked they'd be to learn exactly who the Ravencrofts of London were. The Ravencrofts of St. Giles... of Shelton Street. Then there was the Ravencroft manor house—a flea and rat-infested palace of crumbling walls and broken windows surrounded by heaps of garbage. The sharp stench of it was permanently ensconced in his nostrils. "That's all they're saying?"

  "No. They've added another," Cedric said. "They say you fled England because you killed a man, which is why you're living under an assumed name."

  The image a black omnibus drawn by two horses emerged. Trussed in manacles and thrust into the prison van, the door banged shut and he'd been cast into a moving pest-house among felons, drunkards and murderers. "How did they arrive at that?" he asked.

  Cedric gave a cynical laugh. "Because you're a marksman of considerable skill, whom they believe quite mad. They say only a madman would live in that house of yours."

  Damon digested that comment. Perhaps he was mad, as mad as the house that harbored its own dark secret. Something sinister happened at Shanti Bhavan before he'd bought the place from Lord Sheffield. But the servants who'd stayed on refused to speak of it, choosing to be dismissed instead. "Let them talk," he said, "All I care is that they buy my gemstones, and so far my iniquitous reputation hasn't stopped them." He noted how sunlight twinkled off the baubles woven into the woman's dark hair and flashed off the chain encircling her ankle as she trotted the horse in a tight circle for his perusal.

  "Speaking of gemstones," Cedric said, "Have you purchased any of note recently, besides the opal?"

  Attention riveted on the woman, Damon replied, "I chanced upon a sapphire with a six-rayed star." He winked at the woman, who returned his gesture with a sultry smile.

  "Forget the woman," Cedric snapped. "It's Mara you should be wooing, not some frigging tart who'll pick your pockets while you're bedding her."

  Damon suppressed a smile. Cedric was jealous. Jealous as hell. He wanted the chit for himself. "About the sapphire. Come take a look."

  "I would but I'm down on my duff right now, having a bit of bad luck," Cedric said.

  "A bit of bad whist more likely," Damon replied. "Why not give it up for a while."

  "Give up whist?" Cedric said, incredulous. "What else is there to do in the dashed colonies here among the great unwashed? No thanks. But I am in rather desperate straits. I'd write Father but it would fall on deaf ears. He's decided I must make do with earnings from the plantation, which has created a bit of a snag, since most of the earnings go to running the bloody place. Father suggested I cut the staff, but it’ll be hell getting through the furnace-hot summer as it is without dismissing servants."

  Damon noted the woman's slender ankles as she raised her skirt, and with a pointed toe, began drawing patterns in the dirt. "I assumed you'd be heading for Puri and sea breezes," he said, catching the woman peering up at him while revealing a generous portion of a slender white leg as she continued drawing patterns with her toe.

  "I won't be going," Cedric said. "I had to shut down the house. I say, it makes me feel like the lowest wretch to ask, but could you extend a loan until the crop comes in?"

  The woman ran her finger slowly along the deep neckline of her blouse, while looking steadily at him. The woman was skilled in seducing a man. "How much do you need?" he asked absently, while imagining those slender fingers caressing the part of him that was growing hard while he watched her.

  "Two, maybe three thousand rupees," Cedric replied.

  The woman stopped in front of him, and as she patted the horse, she tucked her shoulder forward, sending the blouse gaping open and giving him a view of a full round breast and a rosy tip. No corset. No camisole. Damn. She was one enticing bit of baggage. And she was offering all that soft warm flesh to him. "Fine," he said, feeling restricted by his pants, which had become painfully tight. For the cost of a horse he'd have the woman as well. A small price to pay for a romp in the hay with that tantalizing bit of baggage. Ah, to feel her naked body beneath him, those slender legs wrapped around him as he rode her to fulfillment. It would be one hell of a ride! The chit was as hot for him as he was for her.

  "That's devilish good of you," Cedric said, enthusiastically. "I'm deuced lucky to have you for a friend. Deuced lucky indeed."

  "Umm," Damon hummed, a bit fuzzy why Cedric was thanking him so profusely. He stepped forward on the platform, his gaze following the woman's movements as she circled again, catching his eye as she came around. "I'll go collect the black," he said.

  Cedric's brows gathered. "Collect the black?"

  "For Mara. Like you said, I'm in a sticky wicket. She wants a black for her new phaeton. This one should bail me out." Stepping from the platform, he trailed after the woman, prepared to negotiate the sale himself. He'd pay a price that would buy her favors as well. Ah yes. He could almost feel all that delectable flesh gliding beneath his palms...

  ***

  Shanti Bhavan Plantation; Calcutta, India

  Mara Kanjari stormed into the dining room, face flushed with outrage, and glared at Damon, who was eating a meal of curry puffs, mutton chops, and kidneys on toast. "You, you, son of Kaikeyi!" she cried. "Because of you I laughing stock of Calcutta. And you make me that right after you found cavorting with strumpet with loose tail." She curled her fingers around the narrow throat of a Ming vase, prepared to hurl it at Damon.

  Although lethargic from the oppressive heat, Damon launched himself from his chair and seized Mara's wrist. "Let's get a few things straight," he said. "First, it's too damn hot to dodge missiles—" he unwrapped her fingers from around the vase and placed it out of reach "—and second, I won't have you running in and out of here at will. I set you up in the bungalow, and that's where we'll conduct our affair, unless I send for you."

  Mara propped her hands on her hips. "Fine. You set me up in bungalow, but you not in bungalow now, and I have bone to pick with you."

  "What the devil are you talking about?" It certainly wasn't the gypsy chit. He'd made absolutely no progress with her after purchasing the black.

  Mara's bottom lip trembled with outrage. "I talk about black horse you give me. I better off with palanquin and bearers than that... that... You come, see for self."

  Slapping his napkin on the table, Damon followed Mara out the house and across a courtyard glistening from rain to where his head syce stood holding the horse hitched to Mara's phaeton. But instead of the black he'd purchased from the gypsy wench, he saw a dingy piebald. "What happened to the black?" he asked, wondering why all the folderol.

  "That is black!"

  Damon stared at the horse, bewildered. "How can it be? It's not black."

  "You Angrez gooseberry!" Mara snapped. "See here. Belly of horse black. He dyed! And I—" she thumped her chest with a stiff finger "—big joke in Calcutta!"

  Ignoring Mara's theatrics, Damon repeated in a dismal voice, "Dyed?" Taking a closer look, he saw that although the back of the horse was murky, his belly was indeed black. He passed his hand over the animal and his blackened palm confirmed it. He set his jaw. His gut twisted with ire. He'd been duped by a crafty wench with the body of a goddess, the face of an angel, and eyes like a cat. Granted, it had been a half-baked idea to purchase the horse on a whim, and without inspecting him closely...

  "Have you nothing to say?" Mara snapped.

  Damon searched for an explanation. The fact was, his motive for purchasing the black had been singular: to bed the comely tart who'd offered the horse for sale. The ironic part was, after purchasing the horse for an outrageous sum, but a price well worth it if he'd been able to spend a few hours of lustful pleasure in the chit's eager embrace, she'd given him two minutes of her company before excusing herself. Then he'd stood waiting like a beef-witted dolt for well over an hour before realizing she had no intention of returning.

  Mara glared at him. "I
tell friends you buy me fine black horse, and you bring me this! What I tell them now?"

  Damon clenched his jaws. If Mara wasn't so good in bed he'd send her packing. But the fact was, she had superb skills along those lines. And he was badly in need of her services, thanks to the provocative gypsy wench he'd been unable to shake from his mind. "I'll get you another black and you can tell your friends the wrong horse was delivered."

  Mara's stormy gaze fixed on him. "When I get horse?"

  "Tomorrow." Damon contemplated an exquisite face, a mane of raven tresses tumbling in wild disarray, and a pair of exotic green eyes that held an air of romantic mystery about them. Actually, he didn't imagine he had a hope in hell of finding the woman. She wouldn't be so bold as to return to the horse fair, knowing he'd have learned of her chicanery. But if he did find her he intended to get his money back, one way of another. She'd made him out to be a first-rate buffoon, and that didn't sit well with him.

  ***

  Damon threaded his way among horses and turbaned horse coopers, heading toward what looked to be a fine black being presented for sale. Although he continued to search the faces in the crowd, he was certain he wouldn't find the gypsy woman's among them. He would, however, purchase the black for Mara. But this time he'd examine the horse closely, not be side-tracked by a green-eyed, raven-haired tart with curves to make a man gasp. No indeed. Mara would have her black and he'd purchase the finest at the fair...

  "Bloody Hell!"

  In his line of vision stood the gypsy woman. She looked directly at him, held his gaze for an instant, then ducked behind a wagon. He swatted the rump of a horse to move it out of his way, crossed in front of a bullock hitched to a cart, and rushed after the woman. But when he got to the wagon, she was gone. Searching the crowd, he caught sight of her running toward the fringes of the fairgrounds where several horses stood tethered.