India Black and the Gentleman Thief

TWELVE


The day wore on, and a more unpleasant day I have never experienced. It was bitterly cold in that little craft, with the wind blowing briskly and our clothes sodden with seawater. Vincent passed in and out of consciousness. In the sunlight it was apparent just how much blood the tyke had lost. His trouser leg was soaked from ankle to waist and the scarf French had wrapped round the wound was steeped in gore. With great reluctance, I unwound the thing and washed it out in the water, wringing out the excess before reapplying it to the boy’s leg. Every now and then I’d catch French looking worriedly at Vincent and chewing his lip, but when he felt my eyes upon him he found something to stare at on the horizon. I occupied myself by cupping my hands and bailing out a cup of water at a time. We bobbed about like a drunkard’s head, and I was half sick to my stomach, although that might have been hunger as none of us had eaten since dinner last night. By noon I had decided that it was indeed hunger and not nausea afflicting me and that I would gladly exchange French for a loaf of stale bread and a swallow of inferior brandy.


Despite French’s assurances that we were adrift in the middle of a busy shipping lane and would soon attract attention, we were roundly ignored by the stream of vessels passing by. The steamships chugged past and the sailing ships looked glorious as they flew along, heeling over with the white spray flying as they carved through the waves. They were bound for the ports of the Empire, and not one of them was willing to douse the boiler or drop canvas to investigate our tiny craft. They must have taken us for a band of lunatics who’d chosen to fish in the worst possible location and they simply changed course and sailed past us without so much as a wave of the hand.

The sun was beginning to slip below the yardarm (whatever that may mean; I just know the golden orb was plummeting toward the western horizon at disheartening speed) when a fishing boat drew near and hailed us. French lifted a weary arm and I was dismayed to see the shredded flesh on his palm. It was lovely to watch the deft maneuvers of the fishermen as they lowered the sails and came alongside us. It was tricky work, standing up in that lifeboat as it rose and fell on the waves, but French and I lifted Vincent into the waiting hands of our rescuers. I reached up and felt my arms being pulled out of my sockets as three burly fellows hauled me aboard. They brought French aboard the same way, and he collapsed onto the deck. We must have looked a dreadful sight, for the sea dogs took one look at us and hurried us below deck into a dim and foul cabin, lit by a smoking oil lamp and reeking of fish. They swathed us in blankets (damp and also permeated with eau de piscine) and fired up a spirit stove and boiled water for our tea. In a few moments we were gulping greedily at the hot liquid and swallowing huge chunks of coarse bread. I have never had a finer meal. I’m afraid we were very impolite guests, for we all fell asleep as soon as we had eaten and spoke not a word until our odiferous angels deposited us ashore. Despite their protestations, French emptied his pockets of coins, and I kissed each one of those grizzled coves on the cheek. It was the least I could do, and if any of them thought it odd that a beautiful lass was gallivanting around in a pair of trousers, they had the grace not to mention it.

? ? ?

Frankly, I was surprised to find Lotus House still standing as it had been a full twenty-four hours since I had left it and God knows what the marchioness was capable of destroying in that length of time.

“Call the doctor and have him look at Vincent’s leg,” French said as the hansom pulled up to the pavement. It was the first time he’d said a word to me in hours, and it was just like the poncy bastard to issue an order. “I’m going to see the prime minister and apprise him of the situation. I’ll be back after I’ve spoken to him and had a rest.”

With that he snapped an order to the driver and the hansom lurched away.

“Wot’s ’e so buggered about?” asked Vincent. His eyes were drooping with fatigue and he could barely stand.

“Pay no mind to him,” I said. “Let’s get you inside.”

“It’s the gentleman thief, ain’t it? Wot’s ’is name?”

“Philip. But you’re not to worry about that right now.”

“Don’t you worry about it. I’ll straighten out the guv.”

I could have hugged the lad, but I’d never hear the end of that and the little sod would be expecting favors from me for the rest of his life, so instead I put an arm around his waist and dragged him up the steps and pounded on the front door.

Normally you’d expect that when you return home after disappearing for a day and a night, looking as if the dogs had dragged you in from the nearest rubbish heap and supporting a wounded comrade on your arm, your employees would jump to it, stumbling all over themselves to pour you a hot bath, fetch the doctor and administer some medicinal spirits. I only mention this as it did not occur. Indeed, no one answered the door.

“Wot the ’ell?” Vincent grumbled.

I hammered on the door with all the force I possessed and for good measure, shouted for Mrs. Drinkwater.

Clara Swansdown jerked open the door and put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

It had to be that bloody marchioness. It would be just like the old trout to shuffle off this mortal coil while residing at Lotus House. Inspector Allen would be delighted to put me in the frame for another death.

Clara deigned to open the door wide enough so that I could drag Vincent inside. “Ooh, poor fellow. What happened?”

Explanations could wait. “Summon the doctor,” I said. “Unless he’s already here.”

Clara looked confused. “Why would he be here?”

“I assume we’ve an invalid in the house. Otherwise I’ll speak as loudly as I wish in my own home.”

“Ah, you thought the marchioness was ill.” Clara patted my arm. “The old pet is fine. No, it’s Maggie.”

“I don’t have a bint named Maggie.”

Vincent’s pale face creased in a smile. “It’s the marchioness’s bitch. Is she whelpin’?”

Clara grinned. “She’s already popped out two and the marchioness says there’s more on the way.”

“Let me see,” Vincent demanded. He took one shuffling step forward and collapsed.

Clara, having noticed the smear of blood now covering the marble tiles, gave a little shriek.

“Forget those blasted puppies and fetch the doctor.” I left Vincent on the floor. Well, what else was I to do? I couldn’t carry him upstairs by myself and as not a single tart had materialized by now, I assumed they were all watching Maggie spew out miniature canines.

The marchioness’s head appeared from behind the study door. “I’ll thank ye to keep yer mouth shut. Maggie’s havin’ a dreadful time and . . .” She noticed Vincent’s body sprawled in the foyer. “What the devil are ye doin’ out here? Get that young feller to bed. And get a doctor to look at him. What’s wrong with the lad anyway?”

I was too weary to answer. “Clara will fetch the doctor. Could you please send out Fergus? I need help getting Vincent to bed.”

The marchioness withdrew, muttering. Fergus appeared, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. With his wall-eyed countenance, he was able to simultaneously glare at me (no doubt blaming me for Vincent’s state) and look tenderly upon the young rascal. Despite being an old fellow Fergus easily lifted Vincent in his arms and carried him up to the bedroom I had been using. I resigned myself to spending the next few nights on the sofa in my study, provided the marchioness hadn’t enthroned Maggie there.

The doctor arrived, a brisk, chinless young chap with a pince-nez. He handed me his bowler and proceeded to give Vincent a thorough examination. I winced as the doctor cut through Vincent’s trouser leg and exposed a livid slash in the flesh, which was turning blue and puckering at the edges. When the good doctor took out a metal probe, I remembered that hot water would be needed and took myself off to find Mrs. Drinkwater.

An hour later Vincent’s gash had been cleaned and bandaged, the doctor had given him a dose of morphine and the boy was sleeping soundly. Maggie had also produced seven mewling black-and-white bundles. The marchioness was crowing with delight, the tarts were arguing over the puppies’ names, Mrs. Drinkwater had felt inspired to bake a cake no one would eat and I was dead on my feet. I helped myself to a few drops of the morphine the doctor had left for Vincent, stretched out on the rug by his bed and dropped into welcome oblivion.


? ? ?

It was dark when I awoke, stiff and crabbed. My clothes were sticky with salt and my skin felt drawn. I struggled upright. Vincent was sleeping peacefully, a small bubble expanding and contracting at the corner of his mouth. I stumbled to the top of the stairs and shouted for Mrs. Drinkwater.

Fergus stuck his head out of the study door. “Her Ladyship asked me to inform you that the puppies are nursing and sudden noises may frighten them.”

“Is that verbatim, Fergus?” I glared at him and heard the old witch cackling in my study. Mrs. Drinkwater came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Apparently Fergus was busy with his nursing duties and Mrs. Drinkwater had been restored to her position as cook. I requested a plate of sandwiches and a hot bath and after I had indulged in both, I felt considerably better. Apparently, the key to enjoying Mrs. Drinkwater’s food is to refrain from eating for an extended period of time before indulging.

Afterwards I wandered back into Vincent’s room and found him awake, still weak but ravenous. I procured more sandwiches and sat with him as he devoured the pile. Then he had two pieces of cake, followed by a half-dozen ginger biscuits. He swallowed the last few crumbs and threw back the covers.

“Get back in bed this instant,” I said. “The doctor said you must rest.”

“Where’re me britches?”

“I discarded them. They were soaked with blood and the doctor had to cut them off you.”

As expected, this information pleased Vincent enormously. He inspected his leg. “Crikey, that’s a whale of a cut. ’Ow many stitches did I get?”

“The doctor says you’ll have a scar.”

Vincent flashed a gap-toothed grin. I had known he’d find that news exciting as well.

“Where’s French?”

“He went to tell Dizzy about the rifles.” In truth, I was beginning to wonder where French was. He’d had ample time to inform the prime minister of the scheme we’d uncovered, and he’d had more than enough time to rest. I supposed he was staying away from Lotus House to signify his displeasure with me. Very childish, that, and not at all what I expected from such an honourable fellow as French.

“’Ere, wot am I goin’ to do wifout any trousers?” Vincent’s forehead was puckered with worry.

“I’m having one of the girls run up a pair for you. They’ll be ready soon. But you’re not going anywhere until the doctor says you can.”

“Not even to see them pups?”

I sighed. “I’ll see if Fergus has a dressing gown he’ll loan you.”

Fergus proved to be accommodating, just as soon as I gave him the money for a new dressing gown. By the time I managed to turf out the marchioness, her faithful retainer, Maggie and her puppies, the other three dogs, and Vincent, I’d be destitute. I brooded over that prospect for a moment and then remembered the astonishing fact that I was an heiress and had no need to worry about how much whisky the marchioness could drink or how many sandwiches Vincent could eat at one go. I hadn’t had any time to think about the bombshell the marchioness had dropped on me, and it was time I had a chat with my aged houseguest.

I clattered downstairs and into the study, where the marchioness was coaxing Maggie to nurse one of her offspring.

“I believe I’ll bring all my bitches here to whelp,” the marchioness said with satisfaction. “Just look at this litter! Finest litter Maggie’s ever birthed.” She thrust one of the tiny creatures at me. I was forced to take the thing, or it would have fallen to the floor. It immediately began to whimper.

“Puir wee thing. Put yer finger in its mouth.”

“I don’t even do that for customers.” Nevertheless, I pried open the pup’s mouth and inserted the tip of my pinkie.

“Sit yerself down and tell me what ye’ve been up to. Where’s that rascal nephew of mine? And what happened to Vincent?”

I’m not proud of myself. I should have handed her back that damned dog and thanked her sarcastically for inviting me to take my ease in my own home. Instead, I sat promptly, cradling the wee beast, and gave the marchioness an annotated version of what had transpired since I’d left Lotus House on the night before last. She listened keenly, now and then stroking Maggie’s head or nudging one of the pups in the direction of the feed trough. I confess I omitted a good portion of our adventures. I skimmed over the part where Philip had released us and eliminated entirely the angry words French and I had exchanged in the lifeboat.

When I’d finished she looked thoughtful. “Ye say one of those villains took pity on ye and let ye go? Now why would he do that, I wonder?”

I shrugged.

“And where is French?”

“He’s gone round to see the prime minister.”

“I’d like to meet that man. Do ye think French would introduce me?”

“I’m sure he’d be delighted.” Just thinking of French’s face when the marchioness made her request was going to afford me hours of amusement.

“My Lady—”

“Och, ye can call me ‘Auntie.’ Ye might as well, seein’ as how we’ll be livin’ next door to one another.”

I nearly dropped the pup. “Well, um, thank you. I suppose. I mean, it may take a bit of getting used to, you know.”

Thank God this domestic scene was interrupted by Clara Swansdown, accompanied by the rest of the whores. They’d come to see the puppies. I gave up mine without regret and watched as a houseful of sluts kissed puppy heads and whispered nonsense into puppy ears. If I could get the girls to pet and cuddle the customers like that, I’d have to keep the doors open twenty-four hours a day to keep the clients happy. I snapped out of my reverie at the thought of my customers. I’d been absent for two nights and I hadn’t even thought to enquire about my enterprise.

I herded Clara to one side. “I’m sorry I’ve left you alone so much recently, Clara. How has trade been?”

“Oh, it’s been grand. Never busier.”

“How much did we take in while I was gone?”

Clara nodded at the marchioness. “You’ll have to ask her. She’s been collecting the money and keeping the accounts.”

“Collecting the money?” I gaped. “You mean, she’s been talking to the customers? Do we still have any?”

Clara giggled. “Well, we’ve lost one or two. Them that aren’t sound on Scotland.” She looked meaningfully at the marchioness and lowered her voice. “You know how she is. Takes offense real easy about bagpipes and kilts and all that. We just steer the conversation away from any such things. Now she’s solid on dogs and stag hunting and the fellows love that sort of talk.”

“The marchioness discusses stag hunting with my customers?” My tone may have been a trifle steely.

Clara looked uneasy. “Well, we found it best to let her go on about the rut, instead of Culloden, whatever that is. Sure, and she nearly has a heart attack if you mention that word.”

My own heart felt weak at the moment.

“Did I do anything wrong?” Clara asked.

“No, no. You’ve done just fine.” Well, I could hardly blame Clara for not corralling the old girl. I’d had no luck at that myself.

That did not stop me from attempting to do so now. I sauntered over and sat down beside her on the sofa. “I hear you’re running the till these days.”


She beamed at me, her pink gums shining. “Aye, we’ve done well.”

We?

“I’ve a knack for this, ye see? I’m a dab hand at chattin’ up the customers, and what fine fellers most of ’em are.” She leaned over to share a confidence. “Mind ye, some of ’em need a stern lecture about their manners. The English are terrible snobs, ain’t they? Ye’d think Adam Smith and David Hume were local boys from Sussex. But not to worry. I disabuse ’em of that notion right away.”

“How many clients have we lost?”

The marchioness waved a hand blithely. “Weel, now, that I couldn’t say. But I do know that if a feller takes offense at being told he’s wrong about the Act of union  , then he’s not worth havin’ as a customer.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Your Lady—”

“Auntie.”

“Auntie,” I said through gritted teeth, “we . . .” Dear God, what was I saying? “I cannot afford to lose customers over their political views. In fact, I make it a point to discourage talk of politics at Lotus House. It only leads to bad feelings and loss of income.”

“Pish,” said the marchioness.

I’m ashamed to say that I gave it up. I’m a self-sufficient woman. I’ve handled Cossack guards and Scottish assassins and foreign anarchists, but I’ll be damned if I had the gumption to tackle one decrepit crone with a brace of puppies on her lap. What I needed was a quiet place to think over things, like how to break the ice with French, and how to eject Vincent and the marchioness at the first opportunity, and how to restore a bit of sanity to my life.

“Ye know, I’ve been thinkin’.”

I steadied myself. “Yes?”

“I had no idea that this profession of yers was so damned lucrative.”

The alarm bells began to ring. With justification, as it turns out.

“The two of us would make a formidable team. Yer spendin’ way too much money on liquor. And why the devil don’t ye make those girls pay for their own rouge? Do ye have any idea what that’s costin’ you every month? Ye turn me loose and I can have this place shipshape in thirty days.”

“What about Scotland?” I bleated.

“What of it? I wouldn’t say this to just anyone, but seein’ as yer family, I’ll tell ye. It’s bitter in the winter.”

“It can be very cold in London in January.”

“Compared to Tullibardine, London will feel like Italy. Not that I’ve ever been to Italy, mind. I don’t hold with foreigners.”

“But what about claiming my title? I’ll need your help to do that.” I was so bloody desperate I was willing to consider pootling off to Scotland to rid myself of my . . . well, “guest” is hardly the word for someone who had invaded my house and taken over my business.

“Aye, there is that. We’ll have to go home soon, but then there’s no reason we can’t come back here. To tell the truth, ye’ll need some money. The house at Strathkinness needs a few repairs.”

“Repairs?”

“Aye. A new roof, and the drains will have to be seen to, and then there’ll be a few windows to replace.”

“But what about the income from the estate?”

The marchioness’s eyes skittered to the window and a vague expression crossed her face. “There’s that, of course, but a few extra bob would come in handy.”

“What is the income from the estate?”

The marchioness gently poked one of the puppies in her lap. “Look at that little feller. He’s prime. I’m thinkin’ of givin’ him to ye.”

Now I knew very well the marchioness was trying to distract me, and I was not going to be played quite so easily. I was just about to tell her so when French walked in and provided a real distraction. He looked a bit haggard from his hours at the oars, and his hands were wrapped in cotton bandages.

He bowed his head to the marchioness. “Good afternoon, Aunt Margaret.” He did not look at me.

“Where’ve ye been, ye Sassenach rascal? Have ye seen the pups yet?”

“I’ll look at them later. I’ve just stopped by to tell India that the prime minister has requested our presence at a meeting.”

“What? Now?”

“You’ve time to change. I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Langham in an hour’s time.” And with his message delivered, he strode off.

The marchioness watched his retreating back with pursed lips. “Weel, he’s got a burr under his saddle, don’t he? What do ye suppose has vexed him so?”

I knew perfectly well, but felt disinclined to share the information with her. But from the shrewd glance she shot in my direction, I had a feeling she might have guessed.