Danger at Dahlkari by Jennifer Wilde Page B

inquire about you this morning. You were asleep, of course, but I told him you were eager to thank him for all he had done.”
    â€œMichael? You mean Lieutenant Stephens?”
    â€œHe was disappointed at not being able to see you. He was getting ready to leave, you see, taking a group of men to try and track down those horrible Thugs who attacked your caravan. Reggie wanted to send another officer, but Michael made a special request to go himself.”
    â€œHe seems—very efficient.”
    â€œOh, he’s that , all right. A superb officer, one of the best. He’s quite the prize catch of the garrison, you know. Michael’s a bit formal, a bit too reserved, but don’t let that fool you. Some of the discontented wives have literally thrown themselves at him, shamelessly, and Michael—well, he’s a man, and when women.…” She hesitated.
    â€œI think I know what you’re trying to say,” I said dryly.
    â€œTake Valerie Simpson, for example—she and her husband came to Dahlkari three months ago, and she’s been making a spectacle of herself over Michael since they arrived. Strikingly attractive woman, exceedingly neurotic—her husband’s a sergeant-major, dull as ditch water. Valerie took an overdose of laudanum only two weeks ago. She claimed it was an ac cident, of course, but rumor has it Michael turned her out.”
    â€œI—I’m really not interested in Lieutenant Stephens, Dollie.”
    â€œNo?” She arched a brow in disbelief. “Well, dear, he’s certainly interested in you . I could tell by his manner when he came by this morning. Quite concerned, he was, and quite disappointed you weren’t up, even though he tried to hide it. Michael Stephens is the most handsome male I’ve ever seen, no doubt about it. And you’re not interested? Well, dear, we’ll just have to wait and see .…”

Five
    The dress was undeniably becoming, but I wondered if it might not be just a bit too sophisticated for the occasion. Pale, creamy white satin, it had off-the-shoulder sleeves, a rather low-cut neckline and formfitting bodice, the full skirt cascading in gleaming folds over bouffant petticoats. It was the kind of gown a rather worldly countess might wear, I thought, admiring myself in the mirror, but was it suitable for a dance in the mess hall of a military outpost in India? I really didn’t care, pleased that it made me look older. My hair was worn pulled severely back from my face with three long ringlets dangling in back, the cluster of tiny pink velvet roses fastened over my left temple my only ornament.
    Dollie had gone on ahead to supervise things at the mess hall. Reggie was waiting for us downstairs, no doubt already highly impatient. I took a final look at myself: a bare suggestion of rouge on my high cheekbones, a hint of coral on my lips, lids faintly brushed with blue-gray shadow. I needed no mascara to heighten my long lashes and dark brows. I knew that I had never looked better in my life, and I knew that it couldn’t have mattered less. The dance would be a tedious affair, overexuberant, everyone working doubly hard to convince themselves they could have a good time even if they were stuck out here in a remote outpost. The women would be overly vivacious, the men too hearty. The music would be too loud, and the liquor would flow much too freely.
    The garrison was a tight, confined little world, inbred, clannish, a hotbed of jealousy and intrigue. I had discovered that during these past two weeks. Far, far away from England and certainly not a part of the country they occupied, the English here had nothing to fall back upon but themselves. It was easier for the men, for they had military matters to keep them occupied, but it was extremely hard on the women. Those without inner resources of their own found it a hard go. They thrived on gossip, on petty intrigues and rivalries, and none of them were