Path of the Tiger, стр. 418

PART NINETEEN

65

WILLIAM

October 1856. Earl Cavanaugh’s estate, outside Calcutta, India

‘I’ll wager one hundred pounds on my man,’ Niall Kelly declared, his words dusted liberally with a Southern drawl.

Earl Cavanaugh, a squat fellow with a round head of white bottle-brush hair and sagging crimson jowls, raised a bushy eyebrow and glared at Kelly. The younger man, who looked to be in his mid-thirties, effortlessly deflected the stare of aggression with a cocky smile.

‘Well Cavanaugh, are we on?’ he asked.

Kelly, dressed in the extravagant finery of a dandy despite the sweltering heat of the Indian day, nudged a playfully antagonistic elbow into Cavanaugh’s rotund midsection.

‘Touch me again and I’ll have your nose hacked off, Kelly,’ Cavanaugh snarled, his accent that of a Midlands aristocrat.

He brushed off his dark smoking jacket, an expensive item from one of the finest and most exclusive tailors in London, as if it had been fouled by Kelly’s touch, and then straightened it with his arthritic fingers before replying.

‘Fine, one hundred pounds it is; you win and your debt to me is erased. But if you lose, it’s doubled, with the usual interest.’

Kelly laughed boisterously, slapping his thigh.

‘So that’s how you want to play, Cavanaugh? Well how about you add some interest to my winnings, should my boy emerge victorious?’

Cavanaugh swung around, his broad, coarse-featured visage crimson with sudden wrath, and he shoved a meaty, crooked finger in front of Kelly’s pale, pockmarked face.

‘Don’t push your luck, Yankee! I’ve been more than generous with you in the time I’ve allowed you to pay back what you owe! I could have – and perhaps should have – fed you to my tigers months ago! Now I’ve accepted your bloody wager, only because of how damned foolish it seems, but I won’t allow you to belittle me with your arrogant, self-important insolence for a single moment longer! Now go and tell your man the conditions of the contest, and I’ll have my servant do the same for mine, but damn you, don’t you bloody well look at me with that expression of smug pride on your face, don’t you bloody well dare!’

Defiance sparkled its bushfire heat in Niall Kelly’s olive-green eyes, but with a nonchalant flick of his hand he removed a stray strand of curly blonde hair from his face and turned away from Cavanaugh, so that the older man could not see his smirk of satisfaction. However, with his contentious nature and almost insatiable lust for conflict, he could not resist one final jab at his cantankerous associate.

‘I’m a Confederate sir, not a Yankee. Louisiana, I’ll have you know, is about as far from the Yankee states as Prussia is from your native land.’

Cavanaugh slammed his fist on the table, sending a tumbler full of brandy crashing to the floor, where it exploded in a shower of liquor and glass shards.

‘You are utterly insufferable, aren’t you!’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Damn you! This is my final blasted warning before I throw you under an elephant!’

Kelly held a fist to his lips and bit deeply into the knuckle of his forefinger, trying his utmost to restrain the bout of haughty laughter that so desperately wished to escape from his belly.

‘I must offer my most sincere and heartfelt apologies to you, sir,’ he said, fighting back giggles as the words crept through his lips. ‘I meant … no … offense,’ he continued, almost choking on the words, so intense was his desire to cackle.

‘Go!’ Cavanaugh roared, his eyes ablaze, and spittle flying from his lips. ‘Go and get your damned opium fiend on his horse, and let’s get this ridiculous farce over with!’

Cavanaugh folded his stumpy arms across his chest and huffed as an Indian servant cleaned up the broken glass and brandy with demure efficiency. Kelly picked up his tumbler of brandy and his silver-tipped cane, and then strolled languidly over to the white-painted railing of the veranda. As he finished off the last dregs of his liquor, he gazed out over the expansive grounds of the estate that stretched out before them, his eyes roving along the gentle slope that crept down towards the distant river, staring for a time at the serpentine lick of glistening brown with its foreboding barrier of jungle on the far bank.

On this side of the river, however, the wilderness had been hacked away; the old trees had long since been cut down and uprooted, and the python-like vines and steaming undergrowth had been slashed and burned. Here, in this place where rhinoceroses, tigers, leopards, monkeys and elephants had once roamed, there now stood this vast, sterile estate. Over the grounds an overbearing mansion presided in cold opulence, built in a style that emulated the most extravagant contemporary manors of Victorian England.

‘Have your boy fill up another glass for me for when I get back, Cavanaugh,’ Kelly remarked as he strutted off towards the stairs. ‘I do so like to wet my whistle while I watch a good horse race, as I’m sure you can appreciate!’

He smiled to himself as he saw Cavanaugh clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, and once again he had to fight back the urge to erupt into a fit of mocking giggles.

A few minutes later he reached the stables and peered inside, his bright-accustomed eyes taking a while to adjust to the gloom. Immediately, over the earthy scent of horses and manure, he caught whiff of another familiar scent –