India Black and the Gentleman Thief

EIGHT


This is the last time you’ll hear me say such as this, so pay close attention: India Black folded. Usually, I’m two-thirds grit and one-third pepper but I didn’t have the stamina to go even one round with the marchioness. I just sat back and let the wave that was the marchioness crash over me and plant me face-first in the sand. When Mrs. Drinkwater waltzed into the study in high dudgeon, complaining that Fergus had taken over her kitchen, I told the cook to feed the girls and then take off the rest of the night. At full pay, mind you. I was that upset. I sent Vincent up to Clara Swansdown’s room to tell her to run the house for me tonight and under no circumstances to interrupt the cozy gathering in my study. Then I pushed one of those Scottish curs out of my favourite chair and sank into it, exhausted.

The marchioness and Vincent talked a blue streak, reliving our adventures at Balmoral and our success at preventing Her Royal Porcinity (that’s Queen Vicky to you lot) from dying at the hands of fanatical Scottish nationalists. French chimed in from time to time, casting anxious glances at me all the while. I expect he thought I’d bite off his head if he enjoyed himself, but I was too shattered to make the effort.

Fergus returned and spent an hour in the kitchen, producing a tea the likes of which I’d never enjoyed before in Lotus House. He brought in a tray with a mountain of sandwiches, buttered toast and soft-boiled eggs. He apologized that he hadn’t had time to whip up a cake or a batch of biscuits, then soothed the marchioness’s complaints with a jug of fresh cream and a jar of Dundee marmalade. His tea was fragrant and hot. I had a taste, just to be polite, and then found myself wolfing down bread-and-butter sandwiches and toast with the rest of them.

“Glad to see ye eatin’, India,” said the marchioness. “Ye were lookin’ a bit peaked.”


“It’s been a long day,” I said. “And I’ve had a bit of a shock.”

The marchioness cackled. “I assume yer talkin’ about me.”

“And Fergus, and Maggie, and the rest of them.” The dogs were quiet now, having dined on the mince that Fergus had brought back with the other provisions. They were curled on the floor near the marchioness’s feet, except for Maggie, who’d been given dispensation to sleep on the sofa, being on the verge, as she was, of popping out a litter of mewling pups.

The marchioness sat back with a satisfied yawn. “That was a proper feed, Fergus.”

“Thank you, My Lady. I’ll clear up now. May I get you something before I go?”

“A glass of whisky wouldn’t go amiss. And my snuff box, Fergus.”

I stiffened. I’d spent a hellish few days in the draughty castle at Balmoral during a Scottish winter, pretending to be a lady’s maid to the marchioness, a situation arranged by French, which (now that I think of it) warranted some retaliation on my part. The worst of my tasks had involved dealing with the marchioness’s snuff habit. She was fond of the stuff, but after ingesting it was prone to sneezes loud enough to set off avalanches in the Cairngorms. She produced a fair amount of moisture with those sneezes, and I’d toweled off the old woman and everything in the near vicinity too many times to recall. Then there was her vision, which was dicey when it came to distinguishing snuff from powder or salt or any other granular material. In short, the news that the marchioness wished to partake of snuff sent me dashing to the kitchen for an armful of linen.

The marchioness had her fingernail in a porcelain snuff box when I returned. I bolted across the room, intent on swaddling the old gal’s face until the inevitable sneeze occurred, or I smothered her, whichever event might occur first. She inhaled heartily and her face screwed in preparation for soaking my study and I flung myself forward in desperation. As I passed Fergus he reached over and dexterously extracted a square of linen from my arms, which he deftly draped over the marchioness’s countenance. A muffled explosion echoed through Lotus House. The marchioness blinked and Fergus rubbed her down briskly with the towel. Well, he was a damned sight quicker and more adept at this sort of thing than I had been in Scotland. I relaxed a bit for the first time since the dowdy aristocrat had materialized on my doorstep. It occurred to me that I had been slipping unconsciously into the role of the marchioness’s lady’s maid, and that strategically that would place me at a significant disadvantage with the old trout. I needed to regain the initiative and letting Fergus tend to the marchioness’s needs was a start. Consequently I dumped the load of linens into his arms and settled myself in a chair with a glass of brandy at hand. I had a stiff jolt of the medicinal liquid and immediately felt better.

The feeling lasted less than five seconds.

The marchioness made herself comfortable. She had of course occupied my favourite chair, closest to the fire. “Weel, now. I reckon it’s time I told ye why I’ve left the comforts of hearth and home and come to London. ’Twas a dreadful journey for a woman of my age and infirmities and I hope ye appreciate the trouble I’ve gone to just so ye’ll stop sendin’ me those bloody letters.”

“There’s a modern invention you may not have heard of up there among the sheep. It’s called the Royal Mail. You could have answered my questions in writing and saved yourself the trip.”

The marchioness chuckled, which sounded like a maddened hen was trapped in the study, seeking escape.

“Aye, I could ha’ done. But I dinna think that matters of importance to the family should be handled from a distance.”

“Family matters,” I said faintly. “What family matters?”

“Dinna be dim, India. I am referrin’ to our family, o’ course.” She nodded at me, and then shot French a look that made him sit up and smooth his hair.

“You and French and the old lady are kin?” Vincent found this notion incredible.

So did I, although I’d already made the connection between the marchioness and myself. She was surely the great-aunt who’d taken in my mother when she’d been banished from her home. French had introduced me as his cousin and the marchioness had referred to him as her “Sassenach nephew,” which must mean that somewhere in my family tree, his branches intertwined with mine. The poncy bastard had actually spoken the truth.

It was a bit much to take in, frankly, like learning that fairies are real or that some politicians are indeed honest fellows. I couldn’t quite believe that I had a family, let alone that it included a demented, snuff-inhaling, collie-loving marchioness from Scotland and the poncy bastard who’d irritated and attracted me in equal measure since the day I’d met him.

“Blimey,” said Vincent, which reminded me that the odiferous lad was still present and there was no reason for him to be, unless the marchioness was about to disclose that Vincent and I were cousins or half brother and sister or something equally repugnant to contemplate. Even the Old Hirsute Character Upstairs wasn’t that cruel.

“I believe it’s time you left, Vincent,” I said.

“But, hit’s just gettin’ interestin’,” he protested.

The marchioness issued a maniacal laugh. The stumps of her ancient teeth winked in the firelight. “No need to shove the boy out the door, India. We dinna have a thing to be ashamed of, save the usual half-wits and nitwits. Just a reg’lar family.”

I had no idea what constituted a regular family, or indeed any type of family, and told the marchioness so in a curt voice. “And why the devil have you kept this knowledge from me for so long? You’ve known I was your great-niece for months now.” God help me, I sounded hurt. And desperate. India Black is never hurt or desperate. With some effort, I smoothed my face and regarded the marchioness with a stony expression.

“Have another drink, India, and settle yerself. I’ll tell ye the whole story.”

Sound advice. I downed my glass of brandy and poured another. Then I subsided into my chair and resigned myself to listening to the old girl meander through the ancestral grounds. I no longer cared that Vincent was still in the room, drinking my good brandy and petting that damned collie bitch that was due to give birth any minute. Apparently, the two of them had made friends after the leg-pulling incident.

The marchioness’s mouth flopped open and she stared at the ceiling, gathering her thoughts. I thought this might take some time, but to her credit the old girl waited scarcely a minute before launching into her tale.

“French tells me that ye’ve done some diggin’ and found out about yer mother and that groom feller.”

“Yes. The Earl of Clantham told me about that. We lived with him when I was small.” I had tracked the old reprobate to his home on Portman Square a few weeks ago and wangled from him a version of the truth. He’d been quite open about hiring my mother, who’d been beautiful and sophisticated, as his companion and allowing me to live with the servants, though he’d been less keen on that part of the arrangement. He’d also taken pains to absolve himself of any responsibility for throwing my mother and me into the street when she had become ill and ugly, and of no further use to the man. I still seethed at my interview with the fellow, and amused myself with the idea of dropping by unexpectedly and throttling the man one night while he snuffled uneasily in his sleep. But that was a matter for another day.


The marchioness sighed, and to my surprise, her expression was melancholy. “She was a good girl, yer mother. And lovely, oh, my. The boys come runnin’ from miles away, just for the chance of catchin’ a glimpse of her. She was spirited, too, was Isobel. And willful. Much too willful, that girl. When Thomas Black took the job o’ groom, she fancied herself in love with the feller. There was no talkin’ to her. She set her cap for him and had to have him, even if it went against her father’s wishes.”

“You’re speaking of my grandfather?”

“Aye. My brother Duncan. A good man, though stubborn. That’s where Isobel got her spirit. And ye too, I reckon. I couldn’t blame Duncan for wantin’ more for his daughter than a bloody groom. After all, she was the heiress.”

“’Eiress to wot?” asked Vincent, fondling Maggie’s ears. “Women don’t in’erent nuffink.”

The marchioness smiled indulgently. “Not usually. Not here in England. But the peerage o’ Scotland is different. Scottish titles pass to the heirs general, not just to male heirs, unless the charter from the monarch says that only menfolk are eligible. In my view, it’s a fine thing that women can inherit. They’re a lot less likely to throw away their estates on horses or dice, though it’s been known to happen, o’ course. Anyway, that’s the way things are in Scotland. We do things different up there, my boy. That’s why we’re a superior breed to you Sassenach.”

“And so my mother was the eldest daughter of your brother Duncan?”

“Your grandfather Duncan. Aye.”

I stole a glance at French. Here was an interesting development for the poncy bastard, I thought smugly. I was an heiress. Then it occurred to me that he might already know this. I would have to apply some persuasive methods to his nibs when I got him alone.

“Your grandfather was the seventh Earl of Strathkinness,” the marchioness said. “Until Duncan’s time there had always been a male heir to inherit the title. But Duncan and his wife didn’t have a son.”

“Only Isobel,” said French. “Your mother.”

“And that’s when the whole bloody thing went wrong,” muttered the marchioness, swilling whisky and waving the empty glass in the air. Fergus appeared silently at her side and freshened her drink.

“Isobel decided she was in love with that damned groom and Duncan sent her off to me so she’d get over the bloody feller. Only by that time, the damage had been done. She was with child. Poor Duncan. The news nearly killed him. He banished your mother and told her not to set foot on the estate again. Then he locked himself away in his study and drank himself to death.”

“What about my grandmother?”

The marchioness pursed her lips grimly. “She was a weak ’un, was yer granny. She should’ve kicked Duncan in the tallywags and told him to take the news like a man and see that the title went to Isobel, but she didn’t. She was half scared of Duncan’s temper, and a bit of a ninny. I’m pleased to see that ye ain’t a bit like her, India.”

“You can call India a lot of things, but ‘weak’ ain’t one of ’em,” said Vincent loyally. I felt the prick of a tear at the boy’s devotion, but I knuckled it away. It was just as likely that the little mercenary was already anticipating how he could get his hands on a portion of my inheritance. I’d have to keep an eye on him or he’d be haring off to Scotland to help himself to the family jewels. Assuming there was an inheritance, of course. After all, the marchioness had referred to me as an heiress. This being the most interesting feature of our conversation to date, I thought it time to press the matter.

“You’re telling me that I am the heiress to the estate and title of the Earl of Strathkinness?”

“Wot do you call a lady earl?” asked Vincent.

“Countess,” said French.

“India a countess?” Vincent found the notion so ridiculous that he burst into laughter, clutching his stomach and hooting loudly. Maggie raised her head and looked at him severely, as did the marchioness. Frankly, I found the whole scenario so surreal that I began to laugh. The marchioness directed her steely gaze at me, and while Fergus and the collies might have quailed before such a look, I’m afraid I found the old bag’s severity a new cause for mirth.

“You’re having me on,” I sputtered, though for the life of me I couldn’t quite figure out why the marchioness would do such a thing.

“Pull yerself together, lass. I know it’s a bit of a shock, but yer the rightful owner of a fair parcel of Scottish land and a big house and ye need to start behavin’ as such.”

I shot a glance at French to see how he was coping with this fantastical nonsense and caught him grinning broadly. I should think most women will understand what I felt when I saw that smile: an irrational anger. We’re complicated creatures, we females of the species, and while I suspected that French’s pleasure was genuine, I was furious that he’d known this information for some time and failed to acknowledge the fact. Not to mention that he’d involved me in a number of dicey situations in which the current Countess of Strathkinness might have become the deceased Countess of Strathkinness. A murmured warning just as we were going into battle against Russian agents or Scottish assassins wouldn’t have gone amiss. “Careful, India,” he said. “Remember that you’re a member of the ruling class now and shouldn’t take unnecessary risks if you want to live to enjoy that title of yours.”

Consequently I rounded on the chap.

“You poncy bastard.” That wiped the smile from his face. “Exactly how long have you known this?”

“Och, settle yerself, India.” The marchioness intervened. “I told the boy it wasn’t his place to tell ye the truth.”

“Then why didn’t you? You had plenty of opportunity, while I was reading you to sleep each night up in Scotland. And I’ve written you a half-dozen letters. You could have replied to at least one of them.”

The marchioness looked uneasy for a minute, sucking her few remaining teeth noisily. “Much as it pains me to admit it, I was wrong. I should ha’ told ye after we finished our work at Balmoral.”

“Our work? So you were working for the government.”

The marchioness looked at me slyly. “Oh, ’twas nothin’ formal, ye understand. I was just helpin’ out my nephew. And ye.”

God, a more vexatious woman had never lived. I was about to retort that her assistance had been unnecessary and that she’d created more problems than she’d solved, but then I remembered that there was more the crone could tell me.

“You’ve known of my existence for twenty-eight years. Why did you wait so long to start looking for me?”

The marchioness looked away from me, into a darkened corner of the room. Her chin trembled and there was a fine tremor in her hand as she raised the glass of whisky to her lips. She drank unsteadily, and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She looked every inch the broken old woman.

I wasn’t buying that pap. “Well?” My voice was cold.

“Yer mother told me that she and Black were goin’ up to London. She promised to write, and for a while she did. But after Black died of the typhus, the letters trailed off until they finally stopped entirely. I sent a man to London to find her, but he couldn’t. She’d gone to ground; there was no trace o’ her to be found. Knowin’ yer mother as I did, I dinna think she wanted me to know what had become of her. She was proud, ye see. I let it be. There’s things on this earth ye can’t change. Ye can only endure ’em.”


“You gave up on my mother, yet you tried to find me. Why?”

“Because yer the countess now. Yer granny died a year ago, and the title has been vacant too long. Ye need to claim it. If ye don’t, there’ll be fellers jumpin’ on it like a dog on a bone. There’s a few already sniffin’ around. ’Twouldn’t be right if some gormless young idiot got the title and the estate. We’re an ancient family, India, and I need ye back in Scotland. Then ye need to marry as soon as we can find ye a suitable mate and ye need to start whelpin’ bairns.”

Now put yourself in my shoes for a minute and ponder the situation. In the past twenty-four hours I’d put up with a lot: anarchists, Russian spies, a beating, the blood-spattered corpse of Colonel Mayhew, the arrival of the marchioness with a pregnant collie, and now the news that I was a countess who needed to marry and produce an heir and a few spares with all possible speed. What would you do under the circumstances?

Right. I can see you’re the sensible type and would do just as I did. I got drunk.

? ? ?

I woke with a splitting headache and the impression that a herd of camels had paraded through my mouth. My spirits were not improved when I noticed that I was not sleeping in my own bed but in a spare room down the hall, fitted out with the bare necessities of a whorehouse: a bed, a washstand, a plain wooden chair, and a thick rug so the chaps wouldn’t have to put their bare feet on the cold floor. My clothes lay neatly over the back of the chair and someone had managed to stuff me into one of my nightgowns. I do hope it wasn’t Vincent.

I staggered to the door and bellowed for Mrs. Drinkwater. That estimable lady appeared in a thrice, bearing a medicinal glass of brandy. It appeared she’d been in need of physic herself as she reeked of alcohol. For once, I didn’t mind that she was half pickled, so long as she was capable of fetching me a cup of coffee and a gallon of water.

“That bloody woman . . .” said Mrs. Drinkwater.

I collapsed onto the bed, having expended all my energy in summoning my cook. “Whatever you’re going to say about the marchioness, I agree with you. Now, please, I beg you. Bring me some coffee.”

Mrs. Drinkwater tottered off, muttering under her breath about “Scotch bitches” and “confounded dogs.”

The marchioness poked her head around the door. “So yer up, are ye? ’Bout time. I had a devil of a time dealin’ with your customers last night.”

“What?” I sprang off the bed in alarm, and immediately wished I hadn’t. I grasped the back of the chair but the room persisted in spinning. “Don’t tell me . . . You didn’t . . . Surely to God, you couldn’t have . . .”

The marchioness grinned dementedly. “I handled things for ye. Not to worry. We took in a barrel full of money last night.”

We?

“If I’d known the trade was this lucrative, I might have set meself up in it years ago. I’m in need of a new carriage and at this rate I could pay for it before Candlemas.”

I pinched my temples between my thumbs, and then massaged my face with my palms. “French?”

The marchioness waved a hand. “I sent him away, naturally. He looked shocking bad, with that eye of his. Didn’t want him scarin’ off the punters, did we?” She paused in this astonishing recitation to eye me critically. “Come to think of it, it’s probably a good thing that ye weren’t around either. Ye look like death served cold.”

“That’s considerably better than I feel.”

“That’s hardly a surprise, is it? Ye drank enough brandy to drown a draught horse.”

“In my defense, I had some startling news yesterday.”

“Aye,” the marchioness said complacently, as if she’d had nothing whatsoever to do with delivering the information that had set me off on my binge. “I could see ye were jolted.”

I looked at her sourly. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“To learn that I’m a member of one of the most ancient and noble families in all of Scotland, with a title and an estate? Och, I’d be devastated at that news,” she said, in a voice that dripped with sarcasm.

Mrs. Drinkwater hooked a foot around the door and popped it open with her hip while the china rattled ominously on the tray she carried. She sat it down on the bed, studiously ignoring the marchioness. I noticed the cook had brought only one cup. She’d have to do better than that; a shortage of china would not discourage the marchioness. Which reminded me that I’d better seize the single cup before the marchioness latched onto it. I did so with alacrity and poured myself some of the thick slurry that Mrs. Drinkwater optimistically refers to as coffee. This morning, the foul brew tasted like ambrosia. I downed a cup of the stuff as quickly as I could and poured myself another. The marchioness regarded me with a look of amusement.

“Do ye drink a lot, India? Yer grandfather loved the bottle, and it was the ruin of him.”

“I usually exercise some restraint. There are exceptions, however, such as when the bloody Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine appears on my doorstep. When are you leaving?”

The marchioness cracked a grin. “Don’t ye worry, India. I wouldna dream of runnin’ off and leavin’ ye to deal with the situation by yerself.”

Just what I had feared.

“As soon as ye’ve put things to rights here, we’ll pack ye up and move ye home.”

That was a bit of a facer. Lotus House is my home. I had no intention of moving to the land of heather and bagpipes. I am not fond of the Great Highland Warpipe and the prospect of listening to the sounds of cats fighting for the rest of my days did not appeal. I said as much to the marchioness.

She grinned. “Aye, ye’ve built a nice little nest for yerself here. But ye can’t have the title and the estate unless ye come to Scotland and claim it. Yer a bright lass. I’ll give ye time to think it over, and then we’ll head north.”

She patted my hand and wobbled out of the room. My head was gyrating, and I didn’t think it was due solely to last night’s drink. I swallowed the rest of my coffee and tried to remember what life had been like before French and Dizzy and the marchioness had entered it. I didn’t have much time to ruminate on those tranquil days for Mrs. Drinkwater returned, huffing from her climb up the stairs.

“There’s a gennelman to see you.”

I groaned. It was far too early in the day to transact business and while I hadn’t seen a mirror yet, I suspected my appearance was far from enticing. “Send him away, Mrs. Drinkwater. With my compliments, of course. Ask him to come back this evening around seven.”

“After all these years, I cannot wait even a few hours more to see you, my dear.” The voice was a deep baritone, husky and attractive, and belonged to Philip Barrett.





NINE


Now my first thought was that this was a deuce of a time to be caught at a disadvantage. My hair was tangled, my vision slightly blurry, my lip bruised and cut, and my nightgown was wrinkled and looked as if a drunk woman had thrashed around in it during a fitful night’s sleep, as indeed had happened. But if I’ve learned one lesson in life it’s how to put on a show. I jumped from my bed and threw myself into Philip’s arms, smothering his face with kisses which he returned with increasing enthusiasm. Mrs. Drinkwater gaped at us. As if noticing the cook’s presence for the first time, I stepped away from Philip and smoothed my hair. Then I gestured languidly at a chair and cocked my head discreetly in Mrs. Drinkwater’s direction. Philip caught my signal and smiled.


“Do have a seat,” I told him. “Mrs. Drinkwater, please bring more coffee for my guest and fetch my dressing gown and slippers for me. And, Mrs. Drinkwater? See that we’re not disturbed.” I gave her a meaningful look and she shot me one of dismay, and possibly terror, at the prospect of restraining the marchioness from barging into the room to meet my gentleman caller.

I gave Philip a radiant smile. “You’re looking well. The Continent must agree with you.” I’d caught just the merest glimpse of him at the tavern when he’d met Captain Tate. Today was my first chance to really observe my former lover. He did look a peach. His golden hair was bright from long months in the sun and his face was smooth and tan. The hazel eyes were still full of mirth, and his shoulders bulked large under the elegantly tailored jacket he wore. A thick gold chain dangled from his watch pocket and his boots were shined to a gloss. He looked very prosperous and I told him so.

“I’ve a few things going,” he said, with more than a hint of pride. Ah, pride. Every man’s downfall. I’d soften him up and then find out what sort of projects he had working. By the time I’d flattered and flirted, he’d be dying to tell me just what a success he’d become. But first things first; we had a bit of history between us and it’s best to either clear the air or obfuscate matters completely so as to move on to the present.

He was staring at me with some concern. “I say, India. What’s happened to your face? It almost looks as if someone has struck you.”

“It’s my own fault. I took a tumble on the stairs the day before yesterday.” I needed to distract him, so I allowed my gaze to wander admiringly over him. “It’s been a long time,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”

He smiled roguishly. “You must have. You’ve been looking for me. How did you know I was back in London?”

It wouldn’t do to confess the truth, so I lied without the slightest hesitation. “One of my customers must have mentioned that you were here. You know how it is; if you want to find out the latest gossip, visit the nearest brothel.”

“Ah, yes. Which customer was that?”

I wagged a finger at him playfully. “I never kiss and tell. But he did me a service. I was distraught when you had to leave England.”

“Not as distraught as I was.” He laughed, but gently, as though the memory of fleeing to the Continent after his failed attempt to steal the Rajah’s Ruby had been an adventure rather than a disaster.

“I had hoped you’d come back sooner,” I said, which was patently untrue but I said it with conviction and I do believe the chap bought it.

“I would have done so, but that damned Harold White proved to be a confounded nuisance. He bore an almighty grudge against me, even if I didn’t steal that gem of his. I tried to slip into England several times, but he had a man in every port. I made it to Portsmouth once and had to turn right around and catch the next ship back to France to avoid being arrested.”

“But White has given up the pursuit?”

“He has. I’ve heard from one of my contacts that he finally returned to America.”

“So you’re a free man?”

“For the moment.” He smiled at me and my stomach fluttered. Damn, but the fellow was attractive.

He gazed around the small room. “These are humble surroundings for the madam of the house.”

His eyes caught mine, and I could see a challenge there. I had known from the moment that I’d begun to search for Philip that he would learn that I was no longer a mere tart. Some helpful fellow would have told him that India Black was looking for him and Philip could find her any day of the week at Lotus House, for she was the madam of that august institution. Well, the helpful fellow probably wouldn’t have phrased it that way, but you get my drift. Philip would set to contemplating how a beautiful (albeit clever and ambitious) whore had found the dosh to open such a fine establishment. He’d remember that the last time he’d seen the Rajah’s Ruby it had resided in his case, which was separated from my room by an unlocked door. And he’d certainly recall that I’d been struck suddenly with a horrible illness and demanded that he go in search of a maid to assist me, thereby leaving me alone for several minutes with Harold White’s jewel just a few feet from my sickbed. In Philip’s place, I’d have been, shall we say, skeptical. Allaying Philip’s suspicions would take a bit of finesse, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.

“Indeed, they are. But this is not my room.” Mrs. Drinkwater returned with my robe and slippers and I donned them, not at all abashed that I’d been sitting around in my nightgown blathering with Philip. He’d seen the goods before, and on more than one occasion. “I’ve taken in an old abbess who is down on her luck. She’s staying in my room for a few days.” Mrs. Drinkwater snorted. I skewered her with a look that sent her scurrying out of the room.

“That ancient mother downstairs who’s ordering the girls around?”

His words struck a chill in my heart. I was going to have to do something about the marchioness and soon. At the moment, however, downstairs and out of my hair was the safest place for her.

I summoned a weak grin. “She’s a firecracker, isn’t she?”

“A bloody cannon, more like. If you’re not careful, she’ll be running the place soon and put you back to work.” He crossed one elegantly trousered leg over the other and looked at me appraisingly. “You’ve done well for yourself, India. I knew you were a goer, but I never thought you’d pull together the ready to buy a place like this.”

I prefer these direct attacks. No need to waste time on feinting and darting hither and yon; just open up with the artillery and charge. Easy to repel, though, if you know what you’re doing.

“I had a patron,” I said. “Harold White.”

Philip’s face lost some of its smooth composure. He blinked. “White?”

I thought that would throw him. I pressed the attack by shrugging apologetically. “He took a shine to me, after that visit to his house. He used to come up to see me in London. When he told me he was going back to St. Louis, he offered to set me up here.”

“White paid for this house?” Philip asked, incredulous.

“Yes,” I said. Well, it wasn’t quite a lie as the American millionaire had paid for my brothel, though he hadn’t known it. I’d used the proceeds from the sale of his precious ruby to fund the purchase of the building and the contents and to set up business.

I stood up and walked over to Philip, whose mouth still hung agape. I plopped down in his lap and ran a hand through his hair. He responded automatically by putting his arm around me but I could see his heart wasn’t in it. Yet.

“I am sorry, Philip. I knew White was hunting you, but I was sure he wouldn’t catch you. You’re far too intelligent to be caught by the likes of him. And I did my best to point him in the direction of that Ashton fellow.”

As expected, this news cheered Philip immensely, as he’d thought Rupert Ashton had snatched the gem from under his nose. Ashton was a jewel thief, you see, like Philip, and he’d wangled an invitation to White’s house in Devon, just as Philip had, for the sole purpose of relieving White of ownership of the Rajah’s Ruby. There was no love lost between the two men, and that’s to my advantage. I knew that the mention of Ashton’s name would anger Philip. It’s all complicated, I know, but the important bit is that I ended up with the ruby and Philip had to hightail it to the Continent wondering whether Ashton had stolen the gemstone from Philip’s case or I had been involved somehow. I’d given some thought as to the story I’d tell Philip if ever he reappeared in my life, and now I’d laid it out for him. When I’d concocted it, I had thought only to offer Philip an explanation and brush him off. But his involvement in this Mayhew matter had changed the situation and now I needed him to believe my tale and to trust me, at least to the point that I could penetrate his defenses and learn exactly what that involvement might be.


I leaned my cheek against his and sighed deeply, just to show the chap how pleased I was that he’d returned to the Big Smoke. He patted me absently, still mulling the information I had shared with him. It was time to bring him back to the present.

I fingered his gold chain admiringly. It was attached to a handsome timepiece, which I pulled from his pocket. I whistled softly. “Ooh, look at you. That’s a work of art you’ve got there. Cost a pretty penny, too. Are there any jewels left in France?”

He smiled. “A few.”

“And did you leave any virgins in L’hexagone?”

That made him laugh, and he gave me a squeeze. I relaxed a little at that, for it signified that we were moving back to our old ways together.

“I’ve been saving myself for you,” he said, burying his mouth in the hollow where my neck met my shoulder.

I know I’ve been wittering on about French and how anxious I was to get the poncy bastard in my bed, provided he could be persuaded to forget that precious fiancée of his, but I’ll be damned if Philip’s lips didn’t arouse a powerful feeling in me. I won’t apologize. It’s unnatural for a woman of my youth and vigor to behave like a nun and French had been no help at all in that department, given his propensity to act like a virgin on her wedding night. Philip’s touch aroused a lust I hadn’t felt for some time and I grasped his head between my palms and angled it so that I had a clear field of fire. Then I pressed my mouth to his. His lips were as soft and pliable as I remembered, and I spent a good deal of time reacquainting myself with every tasty morsel of that delectable mouth, nibbling on his lower lip and easing the sting of my teeth with soft caresses from my tongue. He cinched his arms around me and hugged me tighter. There was heat building between us, and suddenly Philip stood and carried me to the bed. He dropped me rather unceremoniously, which in the old days would have been merely the prelude to greater athletic endeavours from us both, but today the shock of hitting the bedcover served as a reminder that my dalliance with Philip was duty, not pleasure. I needed information, not to scratch an itch that had been building since I’d met French. The thought of French returned me to my original objective in locating Philip, namely winkling information from him about the stolen arms.

Philip launched himself at me but as he did I rolled sideways off the bed and sprang to my feet. He looked up at me in astonishment.

I gathered my dressing gown around me and stood panting, a pained smile on my face. “Dear boy, you’ve quite swept me off my feet.”

“Have I? Then what the devil are you doing out of bed?”

“As much as I’d love a frolic, I’ve got to attend to some business.”

“You own the place, India. Tell that old bird downstairs to handle things for you.”

He reached across the bed for me and I took a step back. I smiled hastily, for I didn’t want to discourage the chap.

“Now that you’re back in London, we’ve plenty of time to get reacquainted.”

Philip winked at me. “I should like to start now.”

I took his hand. “As would I. But I’ve got to leave here soon and I must bathe and dress.”

“You look inviting to me just as you are. Rather sleepy and rumpled.”

I smiled at him fondly. “What a smoothboots you are. Tell me where I can reach you and I’ll send word when I’ve finished my business and sorted out the girls and the customers. Then we’ll have a proper rendezvous.” This last I said in a husky voice that was full of promise. I’ve worked on that voice and it’s been very effective with men, if I do say so myself.

Unfortunately it did not elicit the desired response from Philip. I’d been fishing for an address. I’d planned to hire a few street urchins to stake it out and report to me on Philip’s movements. But Philip sidestepped my enquiry with ease.

“I’m afraid I’ve some affairs of my own to see to this week. It would be best if I contacted you.”

I pouted a bit, to show him how unsatisfactory this arrangement was, but the chap held firm. He wasn’t going to trust me yet. Wise man.

“What’s your business?” I asked him. “A house in Belgravia with an absent owner and a safe full of gemstones?”

Philip stood up and adjusted his clothing, tightening his cravat and arranging the creases in his trousers. “I’ve given up that work for the moment. I’m into something else. Much less dangerous than climbing around on rooftops. And I can stop praying that the old butler won’t come charging into the room with a service revolver while I’m cracking a safe.”

“Oh? What are you up to now?”

He put a finger to his lips. “Can’t say much, my dear. Even to you. But it’s as close as anything can come to being a sure thing. I’m piling up the dosh. In a few months, I plan to set up my own empire. I’ll hire the best cracksmen and fingersmiths and put them to work. I’ll plan the operations and fence the goods and if things get hot, I know where to send my boys and how to get them there without a hitch. Running from White was a useful exercise, actually. I know how to avoid the police in a half-dozen countries. I’ll make a fortune and live like a king.” He smiled dreamily, in contemplation of the criminal monarchy he proposed to establish.

“You’ll need a queen,” I observed.

“Have you someone in mind?” He shot me a teasing grin.

“You’ll want someone bright and ambitious and beautiful, of course.” I put a finger to my chin and pretended to think.

“Are you saying you might be interested in the position?” asked Philip. He swept a hand around the room. “You’d leave all this behind?”

“Who says I have to give it up? You want an empire, don’t you? There isn’t any reason we couldn’t expand operations and build a score of Lotus Houses around the country. And in Paris and Berlin and Brussels.” I knew the idea would tempt Philip and I was rather proud that I’d thought of it. In fact, I wish I had earlier. Things were now complex, given French’s newly declared interest in me, my role as a British agent and the fact that I was an heiress, though I had no idea what that meant. There are heiresses and then there are heiresses, and I’d want to see the size of the house and accounts of the estate before I gave up Lotus House, regardless of what the marchioness might think. Her idea of a proper house was probably a hovel with a kennel for a hundred hounds attached.

“I say, you might be onto something.” Philip looked thoughtful.

“We have a great deal to discuss when we meet next.”

Philip looked sly. “Perhaps we could talk another time. There are other things I’d prefer to do at our next meeting than converse.”

I smiled and hoped to hell that Philip couldn’t see that the prospect that seemed so pleasing to him left me feeling singularly nonplussed. My word, this was getting convoluted. Well, you can worry or you can work, so I hustled Philip out the door with a lingering kiss and the promise of another day and went off to have a bath and a think.

? ? ?

I was hoping to have a long soak in the tub, scrubbing away the effects of last night’s binge and pondering my next move with respect to Philip. I’d known I wouldn’t be able to pry his secrets from him at our initial meeting, but future assignations with the fellow would be fraught with danger. Oh, I don’t mean the throat-slitting kind of danger. No, I mean the peril posed by a handsome blond chap with hazel eyes, a lazy smile and absolutely no morals at all, one who would expect us to pick up right where we had left off. And I will admit that I’d led him to believe we would. I sighed. Perhaps that had been unwise. Perhaps I should have chosen a different tack with Philip, though for the life of me I couldn’t think of an approach more likely to loosen a fellow’s tongue than a tumble in the hay. You might even say it was my duty to bed Philip, though I suspect French would disagree.


Dear French is such a different creature from Philip. I suppose I’m rather drawn to French’s public-schoolboy persona, with his code of honour and principled behaviour, until the same ethical standards collide with my desire to sweep him off his feet. But I’ve always had a fondness for rascals and rakehells, and Philip qualified as both. What made the situation even more untenable for me was that Philip appeared to be involved in some nasty business this time. Philip’s kiss could not erase the vision in my mind of Colonel Mayhew’s blood-spattered room. There was also the matter of those three thugs charging into Lotus House and pummeling me. At this very moment, Philip might be sitting down to a glass of beer with those fellows. And then there was French, who was surely the better man, only I might never know that for certain if the poncy bastard insisted on being such a ruddy gentleman.

I was lying half asleep in my now-tepid water, thinking about the dilemma I faced, when Mrs. Drinkwater barged in.

“She’s a terror,” complained Mrs. Drinkwater as she poured a pail of scalding water into my bath.

“I don’t suppose you’re talking about one of the girls?” I asked gloomily.

“There’s not a whore alive who could cause as much trouble as that confounded woman.”

I suspected Mrs. Drinkwater’s assessment of the marchioness was an accurate one. “What’s she done now?”

The cook snorted. “What ain’t she done? Them dogs of hers has the run of the house. The girls traipse into your study anytime they want just to have a natter with the witch. And that chap she brung along? What’s his name? Angus? Douglas?”

“Fergus,” I answered.

“He thinks he runs the kitchen. He won’t even let me boil water. Says I couldn’t make a proper cup of tea if my life depended on it.”

This happened to be true, but I didn’t think that now was the time to break the news to Mrs. Drinkwater.

The litany of complaints continued. “And that march’s nest, or whatever she calls herself? This morning she ordered me to fix her hair for her. Ordered me, she did. I told her I don’t fix hair. I’m the cook and the housekeeper and I don’t lift a finger when it comes to hair. I guess she got that through her head. She had one of the girls do it for her, not that it looks like much, because there’s not a lot to work with, if you understand me.”

I did. While portraying the marchioness’s maid at Balmoral, I’d waged war against her frazzled locks more times than I cared to remember.

“I’ll have a word with her,” I said.

“It’ll have to be more than a word. It’ll have to be a whole damned sermon. How long is the old bag staying?”

I was curious about that myself.

Mrs. Drinkwater lingered for a few minutes more, grumbling incessantly until I asked her to rustle up some sandwiches for me.

“Alright, but don’t you be surprised if that awful man interferes again. If the sandwiches aren’t fit to eat, it won’t be my fault.”

I cheered up a bit at this news, remembering the tasty tea Fergus had provided. If I could only figure out a way to send Mrs. Drinkwater north with the marchioness and retain that inestimable man.

The cook disappeared, to be replaced by Clara Swansdown, formerly known as Bridget Brodie from Ballykelly. Clara’s my most reliable girl and if I have to be away from Lotus House for an evening, I trust her to run the show for me. She marched in and shut the door behind her, upended the pail on the floor and sat down on it.

“Sure, and by now you’ll have heard about last night,” she said, frowning at me.

My heart sank. For a moment I contemplated putting my head underwater and drowning myself.

“The marchioness?” My voice was faint.

Clara nodded vigorously.

“What happened?”

“She sent Sir Alfred packing.”

“Packing?”

“Threw him out the door,” Clara confirmed. “Landed on his bum in the middle of the street.”

“The marchioness tossed Sir Alfred down the steps?” This was difficult to believe, as Sir Alfred was a podgy bloke and the marchioness, soaking wet, weighed about as much as a six-year-old.

“It was that Fergus chap who done it. He may be old, but he’s strong.”

“Ye gods,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “What did Sir Alfred do to deserve such treatment?”

“Said the Scots were an ignorant bunch of savages who were so stupid they couldn’t even think up trousers.”

“I see.”

“Sir Alfred said he wouldn’t be back here, and he’d tell his chums not to visit here again either.”

I groaned. “Thank you for telling me, Clara. I’ll send a message to Sir Alfred right away and smooth things over. I suppose it’ll cost me a few free hours with his favourite girl. That’s Molly, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Ma’am? The marchioness is a grand gal and all the girls like her, but she’s got a tongue on her like a razor. Some of the customers aren’t used to that. Is she going to be here long? If she’s staying for a bit, you might want to have a word with her about being a little kinder to the gents. I mean, I know you’re related and all, but still, this is your house.” Clara blushed.

“How’d you know we’re related?”

“She told us you were. Said you were her favourite niece.”

“I’d hate to see how she treats her least favourite,” I grumbled as I reached for the towel.

? ? ?

The marchioness was sprawled on the sofa in my study, snoring softly, with Maggie the bitch curled around her feet. Fergus was asleep in one of the chairs, snuffling like a buffalo with his head tilted back and his mouth agape. The other three dogs had made themselves at home on the furniture. One lifted its head as I came into the room and curled a lip at me. I curled a lip right back, then slammed the door. If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t. The slamming door woke the rest of the dogs, who erupted into a snarling, barking frenzy, dashing about looking for something or someone to bite. Fergus sprang to his feet and fetched the poker from the stand by the fireplace, turning to brandish it at me and shouting some kind of Gaelic war cry. The marchioness mumbled something I could not hear over the cacophonous roar and turned over in her sleep.

“Aye, it’s you,” said Fergus, lowering the poker and glaring at me. “You shouldna wake us like that.” He made a feeble attempt to quiet the dogs.

I closed my eyes. “That noise is giving me a headache. How can the marchioness sleep through that?”

I knew the answer to that question from my days as lady’s maid to the marchioness up at Balmoral. She never slept when people usually did. She’d be up half the night, demanding to be read to from the Bible or drinking whisky into the wee hours. No wonder she needed a nap during the daytime.

“Did you toss one of my customers out into the street last night?” I asked Fergus.

“Aye, I did. A fat bastard who insulted the marchioness.”

“I’ll thank you never to do that again, Fergus.” My voice was like iron.

Fergus looked sullen. “I willna let anyone ridicule the mistress.”

“No doubt she deserved the abuse,” I snapped. “That fat bastard is one of my best customers.”

The marchioness opened one eye and stretched luxuriously. “He’s a rude bastard, as well as fat. Why d’ye tolerate the feller?”


“This is my house, and I’m the one who decides whether a customer is welcome. I’ll thank you both to keep your noses where they belong. If I’m not here to run things, then Clara Swansdown is in charge, and you’ll do as she says.” By this time I was nearly shouting. “And in heaven’s name, what the devil were you two doing hobnobbing with the clients anyway?”

The marchioness pursed her lips. “We were just lookin’ for some entertainment, y’see. What’s the harm in a glass or two with the chaps? Everything was goin’ splendid until that idiot mouthed off about the Scots.”

“And then you had to defend your honour?”

The marchioness nodded vigorously, completely missing, or perhaps ignoring, my sarcasm. “Precisely.”

“In the future, I’ll thank you to stay away from the clients. Go to the theatre, or the music hall. Read a book. Pet your damned collies. But whatever you do, do not step foot out of this study.”

“How am I goin’ to get to me bed?” asked the marchioness innocently.

I gave her the look I usually reserve for tarts.

She gave me her toothless smile. “Ain’t it time for tea yet? I’m famished. Fergus?”

But her loyal retainer had already slipped from the room. Mrs. Drinkwater would not be happy and I suppose I should have pattered off to the kitchen and sent Fergus packing, but I was hungry too, and reckoned my chances of an edible meal to be substantially greater with the dour Scot in the larder.

French arrived, which set the dogs to barking again, and then Vincent breezed in, his ugly mug breaking into smiles that stimulated the canines once more. By the time they’d quieted down and the marchioness and French and Vincent had exchanged pleasantries, Fergus had returned with the tea tray and we all fell on it like starving wolves. If I allowed this to continue, Mrs. Drinkwater was likely to storm out and I’d have to look for a new cook and housekeeper, a prospect I did not relish. Have you ever tried to hire household staff for a brothel? Good servants are hard to come by, and those who can do their work while ignoring naked women and priapic gentlemen are rare as hen’s teeth. I pondered just how rare they were as I savoured a flaky scone slathered in butter and dressed with a generous helping of plum jam.

“I got news,” Vincent announced. Through a mouthful of cake, per usual. “One of the boys says the Sea Lark is loadin’ for India, and some crates from the Bradley Tool Company went aboard this afternoon. She sails tomorrow mornin’, on the tide.”

“Well done, Vincent. Pity we weren’t there to see if Bradley accompanied the cargo.” French’s praise made the young scoundrel blush.

“’Tweren’t nuffink to do wif me. I just know who to ask.”

The marchioness had been listening with interest. “What are you lot up to? Is somebody else tryin’ to kill the Queen? I’ll bet you ten quid it’s the damned Irish.”

“Not this time, Aunt Margaret.” French explained the events of the preceding two days. I’d have let the old woman die of curiosity, but then French did not have to worry about the marchioness interfering with his business. Now there was a thought. I made a mental note to apply the screws to French and persuade him to invite the marchioness and Fergus chez French. After all, he was the marchioness’s nephew and thus by all rights he should have the pleasure of at least half of her company while she was here in London.

The marchioness sputtered with indignation at the report of the attack on French and me and the theft of the envelope. She clucked in sympathy over the description of Mayhew’s body, and, damn her wretched soul, she looked thoughtful at French’s bitterness at having lost the trail of the handsome blond Peter Bradley, due to India’s defective boot heel. The marchioness cut her eyes in my direction, her lips pursed. Damn and blast. Philip had seen her when he’d come to Lotus House this morning. Had the marchioness caught sight of him? She must have, or she wouldn’t be giving me the fisheye at the moment. I was beginning to doubt whether I’d be able to keep all the plates spinning in the air while this game played itself out.

“What’ll ye do next?” the marchioness asked French.

“Vincent and I will visit the Sea Lark tonight and attempt to get a look inside the crates.”

“And what do you suppose I’ll be doing tonight?” I asked. “Knitting a shawl for Her Ladyship? I’m coming with you, French.”

French looked pained. “I wish you’d reconsider, India. We’ll have to climb aboard the ship and search the hold. Vincent and I can move about more easily than you can in your skirts.”

“An excellent point, but one that can be easily addressed,” I said. “I must acquire some trousers.”