After a few weeks the tides of boredom caused the three Englishmen to drift toward the elderly Indian gentleman. They were young and returning to England after serving, Sudhakar suspected, a less-than-stellar period in the East India army. Soon the four of them took to playing cards every night.

At least one of the men, Mr. Michael Edwardes, privately admitted to being quite impressed by the native—quite impressed. Sudhakar was neatly dressed, with respectable manners and an intelligent mien. Perhaps more than an intelligent mien. The man would get a discomforting gleam in his eye whenever Michael found himself in a bit of a fib. But really, one couldn’t tell the truth about the army. It wasn’t done. One had to make up some stories of daring attacks; otherwise military life would sound as disappointing and mundane as it had been in fact.

Once the boat docked, all three young men, including Michael, trotted eagerly into the twilight, completely forgetting their promises to guide Sudhakar through London’s twisty streets. Michael only remembered late that night, while he was telling his sister Ginny about the Battle of Tajpur (adding a slight gloss to what would otherwise have been a very tedious account). Something made him think of Sudhakar and he struck his knee and swore.

“What is it?” Ginny asked. She was a bright woman who was having trouble reconciling her memories of her timid little brother with his heroic exploits on the battlefield.

“I forgot all about an old Indian gaffer on the vessel,” Michael said. “I promised I’d get him safely to—where the devil was he going? St. James’s Square, I think.”

“Oh, that’s off the park,” Ginny said. “A really fine address, Michael.”

Her brother shrugged. “Perhaps he was an uncle to the butler or something. Now, let me tell you what happened the day after I took the Raja prisoner.”

SUDHAKAR HAD NOT REALLY EXPECTED aid from the Englishmen. They were young and foolish. Nor did he need such help. A constable directed him to the row of waiting hackneys.

London, Sudhakar quickly realized, was forty times worse than Calcutta. Carriages, horses, and passersby jostled for space. The noise was more piercing than that in Calcutta’s streets. Where were all these horses going so quickly and so dangerously? His vehicle was nearly struck by a speeding carriage, and as he looked back, he distinctly saw one of the footmen clinging to its back almost lose his balance. The man would certainly have fallen to his death. In retrospect, slow and smelly elephants seemed marvelously safe.

Thirty minutes later he was facing a very superior type of servant who looked as starched as Richard Jerningham himself. Sudhakar bowed politely and salaamed for good measure. “The viscountess is expecting my arrival.”