Lord Sebastian's Secret (The Duke's Sons #3)(11)

Mitra put the tips of his fingers together and looked resigned, then contemplative. “Reincarnation—which my people call punarjanma—is the process of birth, death, and rebirth.”

Sebastian nodded as if this made sense to him, even though it didn’t. He’d found, over the years, that people appreciated signs he was paying attention. It encouraged them to go on. And he often came to understand them eventually, if they kept talking. Of course, some took every nod as agreement or permission. That could be sticky.

Mr. Mitra’s slight smile suggested that he understood Sebastian’s confusion. “We believe that a person’s…soul, the jiva or atman, goes through a cycle of births and deaths. The physical body dies, yes, in the common way, and then the jiva takes on another body, the form depending on the quality of its actions in life. There is no permanent heaven or hell for a Hindu. After services in the afterlife, the jiva returns as an animal, a human, or a divinity. This reincarnation, or re-bodying, you see, continues until moksha, the final release, is gained.”

“Fascinating, eh?” said the marquess.

Sebastian sorted through the spate of words as quickly as he could. It felt as if it took too long. His mind lit on one point. “An animal?” he said.

Mitra nodded. “Those who remain mired in ignorance or overly attached to material desires may experience lives as nonhuman creatures, even a lowly worm.” He smiled at Sebastian with what looked like gentle sympathy.

The thought of the dead returning as all sorts of different creatures expanded in Sebastian’s brain until it felt too large for his skull. Sheep? Mosquitoes? He discovered he could almost accept the idea in the case of Mama’s eccentric cat. There had been moments when Ruff looked uncannily calculating, like an irascible old man plotting revenge. But no. “This is in India,” he said.

“Well, we believe it is the way of the world,” replied Mitra. “But we do not insist that you agree.”

“The thing is, Mitra has developed a process for revisiting your former lives,” put in the marquess.

“A possible method,” murmured the Indian. “An idea, a theory.”

Georgina’s father ignored his caveats. “I have no doubt that I was King Offa of Mercia,” he continued. “Every inner impulse tells me so.” He gazed brightly at Sebastian, awaiting a reply.

“From history,” Sebastian said. He was pretty sure this was a safe bet. The marquess’s nod confirmed it.

“Eighth century,” the older man said. “Offa fought the Welsh all his life. He built Offa’s Dyke to keep them out of this area. Ancient Mercia, you know.”

The word sounded like mercy, but wasn’t. Unfortunately.

“And now I can establish the relationship for certain,” said Georgina’s father.

“I have told you again and again that I cannot guarantee any particular—” Mitra began.

“I can almost feel the building of it,” the other interrupted. He looked down at his large, square hands and flexed them. “As if it was in my bones.”

“Offa’s Dyke,” echoed Sebastian, catching up. Dykes had been mentioned earlier. Not Holland, then, but this Offa fellow.

“We’ll ride out tomorrow, and I’ll show it to you,” said the marquess. “Parts of it are still there after a thousand years. Can you imagine such an achievement?” Finally seeming to recognize confusion on Sebastian’s face, he added, “It’s a great earthen barrier that runs along the border between England and Wales. I’ve set Joanna Byngham delving through old records about it. Ha, delving, earthworks.” He gave a bark of laughter. “Good, eh? Accident, I assure you.”

Sebastian smiled and nodded.

“Too bad she’s not here to tell you all about it.”

Sebastian sent up a prayer of silent gratitude for her absence.

“The dyke’s mentioned by some old monk in his biography of Alfred the Great.” Georgina’s father gave Sebastian a piercing look. “Another past life of mine, I believe. Same name, you see.” He waited for Sebastian’s nod before going on. “The fellow wrote something along the lines of: ‘a great king called Offa had a dyke built between Wales and Mercia from sea to sea.’ Not all of it’s left, of course.” He shook his head. “But that any should be, after a thousand years…” He gave a great happy sigh and spread his arms as if to embrace something. “Mitra’s going to show me how to revisit Offa’s court.”

His Indian visitor’s expression was wry, but he didn’t speak.

Sebastian felt as if he’d wandered into some fantastic tale. He couldn’t be drunk; he hadn’t even finished his first glass of port, and he knew his capacity was well beyond that. Perhaps he’d wake up in a few minutes and find it had all been a dream.

“You’re welcome to join in,” said the marquess. “You should! Damned exciting, ain’t it? To think you might have lived anywhere along the way. Rome, Egypt. Maybe he was one of those pharaohs, eh, Mitra? Crocodiles and pyramids and palm fronds?”

“Everyone thinks to be a king,” the man murmured.

Sebastian heard it, though he didn’t think Georgina’s father did. It occurred to him that rulers were very few compared to the mass of common people. What if your past life turned out to be the endless toil of a downtrodden peasant? Or the presumably dead bore of existence as a sheep? A worm crawling through the dirt? And…what was he thinking? He didn’t actually believe in this idea of reincarnation. He shook his head.