She looked down at the Panchamaabhuta gleaming in the light of the flames. The refraction of the light created a star-shaped pattern in the ruby’s crimson depths. It was a man’s ring, and it looked enormous on Francis’ slender finger. Her husband’s good-luck charm had seen her home from Brussels. It was the only thing of value that Robert had left her, and now perhaps it would give her a new start. Francis took up her reticule and dug around inside it. Shivering, she extracted the announcement she had cut out of The Times. “Seeking the Pancha-Maabjoota. Will buy it at any price.” A description of the star ruby from Madagascar and its gold setting followed. Francis examined the gem on her finger. Robert had called his ring by that name, and a jeweller had assured her that it was a genuine star ruby. Even its golden setting matched the description in the paper. Francis frowned at the announcement. Who knew how many Indian rubies were to be found in England? But the gentleman in the advertisement, one Mr Davis, had said the ring had once belonged to his family and had been lost at Oxford. Francis thought Robert had said he had won it in college at a game of faro. Her intuition told her that her good-luck charm was the one. According to Hindu superstitions, the Panchamaabhuta could be counted on to protect its wearer from harm. Francis was determined to believe that her talisman had drawn Mr Davis to her when she had exhausted every other avenue of support.

When the fire had dimmed to a dull glow, Francis climbed, shivering, into bed. But she was too cold to sleep. She lay in the darkness, wondering what she would do if the announcement in The Times turned out to be a prank. One trouble after another had followed since Robert’s death. Without him, Francis felt as if the bottom had dropped out of the centre of her life, leaving it as dark and oppressive as her unlit room. In the adventurous years she had spent following the drum, accompanying a ragtag army of men through Spain and France, Francis hadn’t minded lodging in flea-infested quarters and living on scraps. But then she had had Robert at her side. Without him, the dark English winter pressed in on her until she longed for her own release.

“Please come for me,” she whispered into the darkness, running her fingers along the square-cut ruby.

Francis dreamed she was trying to cross a frozen lake. She strained to move her legs, but they had frozen into blocks of ice. Her body was getting colder and colder. Soon the falling blizzard would cover her entirely. “Help!” she shouted, but the words came out in a pathetic whisper.

There was a slight sound, and she felt warm breath on her face. Suddenly, she could move her limbs. She reached up and felt the silken texture of fine hair beneath her fingers. The teasing currents of his breath tickled her face. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

He didn’t move. She looked up, surprised, but the fire had almost died out, making it difficult for her to see Robert’s face. “I need you,” she said, her voice throaty with longing.

He bent towards her, and she could hear his breathing quicken. When their lips met, she let out a moan of surprise. His mouth was warm, his lips surprisingly soft. She opened her mouth to him. The kiss was tender. The velvet tip of his tongue brushed hers. He traced her lips, and then plunged his tongue into her mouth. The intensity of his heated kisses sent a jolt straight to her core. Francis gasped and reached for him, pulling him down on top of her. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, devouring her. She panted beneath him, lost in sensation. His heavy body pressed her down into the mattress, his weight solid and arousing. Francis massaged his firm buttocks, and he groaned. When he thrust against her, she felt a hard ridge press into her stomach. His mouth tasted deliciously of brandy. Arching up, Francis bit into his neck. He tasted of curry and sandalwood. Francis shivered, confused. His smell reminded her of something. She tried to speak, but his mouth closed over her nipple, sucking her through the thin muslin of her nightgown. Francis cried out in pleasure, sinking her nails into his back. “Oh, yes, please!” she cried, thrashing underneath this delicious assault.

A door slammed, somewhere down the hall, bringing Francis fully awake. She stiffened, realizing with the suddenness of a lightning bolt that the man in her bed was not her husband. “Who? What … what are you doing?” she cried.

The man jumped up from the bed and darted to the window. She heard a rasping sound, and realized that the intruder was escaping.

“Stop!” Francis jumped out of bed, her mind reeling. The window closed with a rattle, and then she heard a slamming sound farther off. She dived for the candle and ran to light it in the dying embers of the fire. The flickering taper revealed the bare fingers of her right hand. The Panchamaabhuta was gone.

Francis wailed, a low, keening note that seemed to rise up from the depths of her being. The deep, guttural lament went on and on. Iron bands squeezed her lungs. It wasn’t just her hope that had gone; the ring was all she had left of Robert. The finality of her loss struck Francis with full force. “No, no, no, no!” She pounded her fists against the mantelpiece. “Oh, God, Robert, Robert.” She crumpled over, racked with sobs. After some time, the blackness receded. Her stomach growled, forcing her back to the present. If she didn’t get the Panchamaabhuta back, she would starve.

She lifted her head, thinking. What did she know about the man who had stolen her jewel? He had the same smell of buckskin and spices as the stranger from the public room. Mr White had been eyeing her ring, hadn’t he? Francis remembered his teasing look when he had wished her pleasant dreams. Suddenly the words took on a sinister meaning.

Francis ground her teeth. Whoever he was, the thief had leaned over her bed because he was trying to steal her ruby. She was the one who had, inadvertently, offered him another prize. She remembered the intruder’s searing touch, and shivered. It had felt so right, being held in his arms, but he had only been taking advantage of her. She touched her swollen lips, remembering the hungry way Mr White had stared at her mouth when they stood together at the tap. He had pressed his thigh against her leg beneath the counter. It must have been him. The blackguard had misused her and robbed her into the bargain.

Francis’ gaze flew to the window. He had escaped that way, and then she had heard a muffled thud. Her chamber was located in the back corner of the inn, and there was nothing but wood beams to her right. The sound had seemed to come from the chamber to her other side. Perhaps the thief had deliberately taken a room next to hers. There was only one way to find out.

Stumbling in her haste, Francis pulled a thick woollen shawl over her nightgown and slipped on her kid half-boots. She strode to the window and pushed it upwards with a grating sound. Stealthily, she lowered herself on to the balcony on the other side. A board creaked beneath her feet. The wooden planks of the balcony seemed to connect all the rooms along the back of the inn. Moving on tiptoe, Francis crept slowly towards the next room. The window of the chamber was bare of curtains. She stood back, in the shadow of the wall, where she thought she could look through the pane of glass without being seen.

Standing up on tiptoe, Francis craned her neck. The room was glowing with candlelight and a crackling fire. A tall man with clipped blond hair stood barefoot on the rug. Francis drew her breath in on a hiss. There was no mistaking his powerful build — Mr White had dwarfed the other men in the public room. She flattened herself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. She was suddenly aware of how exposed she was, alone on the dark balcony with only a pane of glass separating her from a man who could very well be a dangerous criminal. He stood with his back turned. At first, she thought he was hugging himself. Then he lifted his arms, and pulled the white linen shirt over his head. The broad expanse of his bare back, rippling with muscles, was revealed. Francis bit her lip. Mr White was very well made. His golden-toned body tapered from powerful shoulders to a trim waist, and his tight buckskins were moulded to his firm buttocks. He bent forwards, tugging at his waistband, and Francis realized that he was unfastening his trousers. Embarrassed, she was about to retreat, when she saw a glint of red on his right hand. Was it the Panchamaabhuta?

Francis squinted, but his hands were on his trousers, making it difficult to see. Mr White was inching his buckskins down, revealing a tempting expanse of smooth golden skin. Francis held her breath when the round globes of his buttocks came into view. She felt a tingling sensation in her belly, and she pressed her cheek against the glass, trying to cool her heated face. Mr White had powerful thighs, furred over lightly with golden brown hair. His long, muscular legs revealed his prowess in sporting pursuits. When he turned towards her, she saw his pendulous sex swinging between his legs, cushioned in a nest of dark curls. Francis swallowed convulsively. Heavens, but he was a beautiful man. She felt little prickles along her skin as she looked at the broad expanse of his naked chest. He scratched his mat of golden-brown hair luxuriously, and Francis’ teeth clicked together. She had seen the glint of red on his right hand. She couldn’t mistake the golden setting of the ring. It was the Panchamaabhuta. Francis gave a fierce snort, and the sound seemed to catch his ears. Mr White looked up towards the window.

Francis ducked down, huddling in the shadows. She waited in fear for some time, scolding herself for her carelessness. A vault of darkness and silence enclosed her. When the tumult of her beating heart slowed, she straightened up and looked through the window again. Mr White had walked over to his bed. The light in the room dimmed, as if the candles had been blown out, one after the other.