Chapter 1: The Company Man Takes His Seat
The air in the durbar hall was thick, a soupy mix of incense, the sweet decay of overripe fruit, and the faint, metallic smell of fear. Captain Alistair Humphrey occupied the space as if he owned it. Which, in every way that mattered, he did.
He was slouched in the zamindar’s own throne, a grotesque piece of carved sandalwood and ivory. His boots, crusted with the red dust of the road, were propped irreverently on a low table inlaid with mother-of-pearl maps of the estate. The polished surface was now scuffed with his tread.
Across from him, Zamindar Bhupati Krishna Deb perched on the edge of a lesser divan, his bulk causing the delicate legs to groan. A sheen of sweat glossed his forehead, catching the light from the high, arched windows. He smiled, a nervous twitch of fleshy lips.
“More whiskey, Captain-sahib? It is from Scotland. The best.”
“It’s piss,” Alistair said, not looking at him. His voice was a low rasp, worn raw by command and climate. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light caught it. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the sun-leathered column of his throat and the stark white of his sweat-dampened shirt beneath. The fabric strained against the hard plane of his chest, the swell of his shoulders.
He could feel their eyes on him. The women. The zamindar’s collection.
They were arranged on cushions to the side like three exotic birds in silken cages. The eldest, Rohini, sat perfectly still. Her elegance was a quiet rebellion. She didn’t simper or look away when his gaze passed over her; she met it with a cool, appraising stillness that sent a jolt of interest straight to his gut. Interesting.
The middle one, Rupashree, was less subtle. Her gaze was a physical thing, a warm, bold stroke over his jaw, his hands, the tight line of his trousers where his thigh muscles bulged. She fanned herself, her curvy body leaning forward just enough to hint at the lavish cleavage barely constrained by her choli. She was practically shouting without saying a word.
The youngest, Rukmini, just looked terrified. She was all soft, pale curves and wide, kohl23inted eyes, huddled slightly behind Rohini as if for protection. A virgin, he’d bet his commission. He could smell the untouched sweetness on her from across the room. It clashed with the zamindar’s stale perfume of defeat.
“The revenue collection, Bhupati,” Alistair said, finally turning his head. His blue eyes were chips of ice. “It was forty percent short. The Company’s patience is not a limitless resource.”
The zamindar’s smile wilted. His hands, plump and bejeweled, fluttered. “The rains, Captain-sahib! The harvest was poor. The people are starving. To take more would be…”
“Your concern for your people is touching.” Alistair cut him off, his tone flat. He took a slow drink, his throat working. He saw Rupashree watch the movement, her own throat dipping as she swallowed. “It is also irrelevant. The assessment stands. You will find the silver. Or we will find it for you.”
The unspoken threat hung in the air, heavier than the incense. ‘Finding it’ would mean soldiers tearing the Rajbari apart, seizing land, maybe dragging the fat zamindar himself to the Calcutta cells. Bhupati knew it. His face went the color of cold ash.
“There… there may be a way. A family reserve. A few jewels of my wives…”
A sharp intake of breath. Rohini’s composed mask cracked for a second, revealing a flash of pure venom. It was gone in an instant, smoothed back into placid marble. Rupashree looked annoyed, as if he’d interrupted her personal viewing of a thrilling play. Rukmini just shrunk further.
Alistair laughed. It was a short, ugly sound. “Selling your women’s baubles to pay your debts. How very modern of you.” He swung his boots off the table and stood up in one fluid, powerful motion.
The zamindar scrambled to his feet, a clumsy echo. The women remained seated, their heads now tilted back to follow him. He was tall. He dominated the high-ceilinged room simply by existing in it. He walked slowly to where a large Persian rug depicted a hunting scene. He stopped, his back to the zamindar, and studied the woven tigers.
“I am bored of ledgers and rainfall reports, Bhupati.” He spoke to the tapestry. “I have been in this dust-choked district for three months. The entertainment is lacking.”
Silence. Then, the zamindar, desperate to please, to deflect, stammered out an idea.“Entertainment! Yes! We have dancers.Musicians. I can have them perform for you tonight! A private gathering.”
Alistair turned. He didn’t look at the sweating man. His gaze swept over the three wives again, a slow, deliberate inspection. It lingered on Rohini’s proud, unhappy face, dipped to Rupashree’s bold, inviting smile, and flicked over Rukmini’s terrified, rounded form.
“No,” he said, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur that nonetheless carried. “I find I am tired of professionals.”
He let the implication hang, a sourceless heat in the room. Bhupati blinked, confused, his mind too clouded by panic to follow the captain’s meaning.But the wives understood. Rohini’s slender fingers tightened on the silk of her sari. Rupashree’s fan stopped mid-air. Rukmini held her breath.
Alistair smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. He walked toward the door, his boots echoing on the marble. He paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder, not at the zamindar, but past him.
“I’ll take my dinner in my quarters. Send it up.” A beat. His eyes, cold and bright, locked with Rupashree’s for a moment that stretched too long. “And make it something… substantial. I’ve worked up an appetite.”
He left. The door closed with a soft, final click.
The durbar hall was silent, save for the ragged sound of Bhupati’s breathing. He mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief, his body sagging with temporary relief. The officer hadn’t arrested him. There was still time.
He turned to his wives, his anxiety curdling into peevishness. “Did you see? The arrogance! Boots on the table! But we must be careful. He is a dangerous man. A brute.”
Rohini stood, her movements smooth and silent. She did not look at her husband. “Yes,” she said, her voice like distant wind chimes. “A very dangerous man.” She glided from the room, her mind already racing behind her impassive eyes.
Rupashree let out a breathy, excited laugh. “Did you see his arms? When he put his glass down? The veins. Like ropes.” She fanned herself vigorously, her cheeks flushed.
“Quiet, foolish girl!” Bhupati snapped, his own fear making him cruel. “He is a wolf, and you are giggling at his teeth!Go to your rooms. All of you!”
Rupashree pouted but obeyed, casting one last, lingering look at the door through which the captain had departed. Rukmini scrambled up, nearly tripping over her own skirts in her haste to escape.
Alone, Bhupati sank back onto the divan, which emitted another woeful creak. He poured himself a large whiskey, his hands shaking. He had bought a day, perhaps two. The captain wanted entertainment.A private dinner. Bhupati’s sluggish mind turned over the problem. What did a man like that find entertaining?
Later, in the deepest part of the night, a single, hesitant knock sounded on the door of Captain Humphrey’s quarters. It was not a servant with a tray. The corridor outside was dark, silent, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and anticipation.