“Supposedly the heir is cracked, too. Jerningham believes that if we put a half-wit on the throne of Holkar it will give the East India Company an inside track to the Marathas. He wants an illegitimate son on the throne and the company out of the region.”

“And you believe that Miss Jerningham knows something of this situation?”

“Possibly,” Breksby said promptly. “Very strange household, Jerningham’s. You know he went over to India to be a missionary?”

“I heard that he originally traveled to India with that idea, but he discarded it,” Quill replied.

“That’s right. He set himself up as a huge nabob over there, deep in the Marathas country—because that’s where he fancied himself saving souls. Except that rather than save souls, he has made a fortune exporting goods to China. Some say he was part of the early opium trade to that country. I don’t credit it, myself.”

“Why is he now involved in Holkar politics?”

“Tukoji Rao’s heir is Jerningham’s nephew, on his first wife’s side. The boy was actually raised in Jerningham’s household, side by side with his daughter.”

“The relationship doesn’t explain why Jerningham would secrete the boy away when it looked as if he might become an heir to the throne.”

“Word has it that Jerningham is so bitter against the East India Company that he’d do anything to cast a spoke in their wheel.” Breksby took a quick look at the gold watch suspended from his waistcoat. “I shall look forward to discussing the situation at length with your father. And as I said, I do also wish to congratulate him on your brother’s upcoming nuptials.”

Quill stared at the closed door to the study for some time after Breksby’s departure. Suddenly he gave a short laugh. Quill may not have known Gabby very long, but he was quite sure that she would loyally support her father—and that she could fib her way out of a tight spot without turning a hair. Perhaps Breksby, that wily old fox, was about to meet his match.

Chapter 4

THE NEXT MORNING Gabby stirred and stretched luxuriously. For the first time in months she didn’t wake in a cramped bunk. There was no pitch and swell of waves under her. She had left the curtains open the previous night, and pale sunlight was spilling through the windows. Outside she could hear larks singing. At least, she assumed they were larks. Her father’s poetry books had talked of larks singing in English gardens.