"I don't know everything," Alan said, his expression the picture of weary resignation, "but I know enough. And the Nizam of Hyderabad is not some minor princeling. London's society treats him with full honours. If His Highness wishes to act, I've no grounds to oppose him."
Responsibility, neatly pushed elsewhere. If a man was already a registered figure in the Royal Court's ledger, let him carry the weight — and he had the means to bear it.
Britain might be a monarchy, but it was also the cradle of capitalism. A sovereign title plus immense wealth made the Nizam invaluable in London.
"You're young," Sir Barron observed with a wry smile, "but you're learning the art of deflection quickly." His tone sobered. "However… at this juncture, I can't ignore Nehru's protests. Stability is everything right now. And for God's sake, don't go running to Mountbatten. He's already wary of you."
Alan's lips twitched. Translation: go to Mountbatten immediately.
Within the hour, he was at the Supreme Allied Commander's residence, cutting straight through the pleasantries. If the man was in his office, so much the better.
"This time, if you fail me," Alan muttered under his breath, "India's post-independence death toll will double."
His "crime" was modest: strengthen the princely states, draw in the Portuguese, secure some personal leverage. On British soil, it would have been considered enterprising. But here, Nehru smelled an opportunity for a public rebuke.
The door opened — and Pamela Mountbatten's blue eyes blinked at him in surprise."Aren't you supposed to be in South India? What are you doing here? And what have you done this time?"
"I'd rather our next meeting didn't start with those three questions," Alan said dryly. He glanced past her toward the interior. "May I come in? I've brought you a gift."
From Hyderabad, he'd brought something worth the risk: a diamond, not far off ten carats. In an age before South Africa and Brazil dominated the market, India's stones were still a currency of power.
Pamela's gaze flicked to it — and lingered. "I can't accept it. Too valuable." Her tone said otherwise. "And there were already rumours after your last visit. What do you call this?"
"You think I want to be here?" Alan's temper threatened to flare, but he swallowed it. "I have… a difficulty. And I need to get past it."
He laid out the Hyderabad gathering, the Portuguese connection, and the Congress Party's reaction.
"Nehru's after you?" she said, startled. "I've heard he's rather arrogant… but I didn't think he'd notice what you were doing. Shouldn't you speak to Sir Barron? Or the Viceroy?"
"I could," Alan said, "but your father is far more effective."
Pamela hesitated. She didn't know many people in India well, and last time she had, inadvertently, caused him trouble. Perhaps this was… an opportunity to set the scales right. "I'll… ask him," she said at last.
At Government House, the air was taut with unspoken calculations. Wavell, the Viceroy, still cut the figure of a commander — no surprise, as the previous Supreme Allied Commander in Southeast Asia. He left civil matters largely to Sir Barron.
Mountbatten was there as well, in civilian attire, looking less at ease than usual. "Sir Barron," he said at length, "what's your view on the Congress Party's complaint?"
"In principle, we need their support for the war effort," Barron replied. "But we can't be seen to yield our authority. It's a trifling matter — I doubt Nehru will dwell on it."
Mountbatten nodded slowly. Outwardly neutral; inwardly unconvinced. His daughter's sudden advocacy for this young commissioner was an unexpected wrinkle.
"Very well," Mountbatten said. "I'll speak with him myself. Just a conversation. And I think we can agree… I'm not bad at those."
A faint smile touched Sir Barron's lips — there and gone again. "If the Supreme Commander believes it's suitable, I doubt the commissioner will refuse."
Alan, somewhere else in the building, would have recognised the move immediately: an invitation wrapped in velvet, with the steel just beneath.