The lift was at another floor. He pressed the call button. ‘Do you want me to move somewhere else?’
‘No...no, of course not.’ She could see that, from his point of view, it would be less convenient, not to mention more expensive. Presumably the Prince, not the sardonic-eyed man beside her, would be paying the bill for their stay here.
The lift opened. As she stepped inside, Nicole felt herself blushing. She wished she had held her tongue. All she had done, by raising the matter, was to embarrass herself.
The hotel’s garden was screened by tall trees that muted the noise of the city surrounding this exclusive oasis. Immediately outside the building there was a paved terrace where people were eating light refreshments. Beyond it was a sunlit lawn where tables were laid more formally.
A portly major-domo in leg-hugging white trousers, the knee-length tunic which she knew was called an Achkan and a spectacular crested green turban to match the broad sash round his middle came to meet them as they stepped onto the lawn.
‘Dr Strathallen...madame...where would you like to sit?’
‘In the shade, please. My guest arrived from Europe this morning. She might find the sun too hot.’
The major-domo conducted them to a table under a sunbrella. A waiter was summoned, gin and tonics brought.
‘Does the Prince spend a lot of time in Delhi?’ she asked.
‘He comes about once a month. His sister works here. She’s a gynaecologist and very involved in women’s pressure groups. The Prince also tries to influence the future of India. He also enjoys the more sophisticated social life here... something that I would pay to avoid,’ he added dryly.
‘But surely everyone needs some social life.’
‘I enjoy meeting my friends. I don’t care for large smart parties.’
He had been looking at her, but now he turned his cool grey gaze on two groups of people taking their places at nearby tables. One was a party of well-dressed businessmen. The other group consisted of three attractive young women, one wearing European clothes, the second a silk sari and the third dressed in loose trousers and a long tunic, both garments made of pale blue and white cotton voile.
‘What’s the name of the outfit the girl in blue is wearing?’ Nicole asked.
Strathallen had given them only cursory attention before turning back to Nicole. He must be exceptionally observant, she realised, when, without a second look at the three women’s table, he said, ‘That’s a salwar kameez, traditionally from the Punjab, but city girls aren’t sticklers for tradition. They wear what they like.’
At that moment Nicole caught sight of a small bushy-tailed striped creature darting across the grass towards the damask-clothed table on which, shaded by an awning, an array of puddings and gateaux awaited the lunchers after they had eaten their selections from the range of hot food in the huge silver-topped dishes on the main table.
‘What’s that little animal?’ she exclaimed.
‘A palm squirrel. They’re the reason the puddings are protected by plastic domes. If they weren’t, those little marauders would be tucking in with great gusto,’ he said, smiling.
Perhaps it was just as well that he didn’t smile often, she thought. Every time he did, it had a peculiar effect on the pit of her stomach.
He rose. ‘Let’s go and choose something to eat, shall we?’ he suggested.
When lunch was over, Nicole expected him to leave her to her own devices for the afternoon. But he said, ‘I have an hour to spare before my meeting. Do you feel like stretching your legs?’
The truthful answer would have been that she felt so full of delicious food that, on her own, she would have retired to her room for another nap. Instead she nodded and reached for her bag.
Leaving the grounds of the hotel was like entering another world, but only a short walk along the dusty, noisy main thoroughfare that Strathallen said was called Janpath was a relatively quiet sidestreet where women were selling textiles in all the roseate colours of dawn and sunset. Their wares were spread on a bank at one side of the lane like a huge magic carpet. On lines strung between the trees, hand-stitched quilts made from pieces of antique velvet and silk were displayed.
Although the vendors’ cotton saris probably cost nothing compared with the silk ones worn by guests at the Imperial, the colours were still wonderful, perhaps enhanced by long exposure to the sun and many washings.
‘How graceful they are,’ she remarked to Strathallen.
‘Grace seems to go with bare feet or flat sandals and to disappear with high heels.’ He glanced down at her low-heeled shoes. ‘I’m glad to see you don’t wear them.’
She found some of his views irritatingly arbitrary. ‘I do sometimes, when I’m not going to have to walk far.’
‘I’ll take you along to the government-sponsored emporium and leave you there,’ said Strathallen. ‘You’ll probably want to spend an hour looking round the various craft sections and it’s only a short walk back to the hotel. We’ll convene for dinner about seven.’
Nicole was ready and waiting in the suite’s sitting room when, a few minutes to the hour, Strathallen came out of his bedroom. His hair still damp from the shower, he was no longer wearing a lounge suit but had changed into chinos and a cotton shirt a little darker than his tan.
‘You got back all right then?’ he said.
‘No problem,’ she smiled. ‘After I’d left the emporium I had a browse in a bookshop where the proprietor told me I must read this.’ She held up the book she had bought.
Strathallen read out the title. ‘A Princess Remembers...The Memoirs of the Maharani of Jaipur. It’s very popular with women tourists. The Maharani and her mother were both famous beauties in their day. I haven’t read it myself but I’m told it’s an interesting insight into a vanished era.’
‘Why haven’t you read it? Because it’s written by a woman?’
His mouth curled with amusement. ‘You think I’m a woman-hater?’
‘Not a hater, that’s too extreme, but perhaps not very pro women.’
‘Not en masse,’ he agreed. ‘But there are some women whose company I enjoy. Don’t tell me that, given the option of being, let’s say, stranded somewhere with a group of men or women, you wouldn’t choose your own sex as more likely to be on your wavelength.’
‘That would depend on the situation. On a bus that had broken down in the middle of nowhere, I certainly wouldn’t be the one to get it going and nor would most women. In any random group of men, there’s almost certain to be one with mechanical know-how. I’m sure you would have a crack at fixing an engine. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘I’d start by looking for the manual. Let’s go down to the bar, shall we?’
As they left the suite, four women emerged from a door at the far end of the corridor. All were dressed in exquisite saris with borders of real gold thread. They glittered with costly jewels. But while three had their lustrous black hair uncovered, the fourth had her hair and face concealed by the shimmering folds of a diaphanous scarlet sari with gold embroidery all over it.
Like a cluster of iridescent dragonflies, they approached the lift.
‘We’ll go down by the stairs,’ said Strathallen. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘The one in red is the bride.’
As the three unveiled woman glanced at him, he placed his palms together and inclined his head in a gesture that made Nicole