India Black and the Gentleman Thief

TWO



There was no shortage of bints eager to tend to French’s wounds, but I had to resort to threats to get a cold compress for my temple and another wet cloth to dab the blood from my face. That damned blackguard had left me with a throbbing head and a split lip. French was rather worse off. A goose egg was growing under his left eye and the right had swelled shut. He tweaked his nose gingerly and tentatively touched his ribs.

“Anything broken?” I enquired from the sofa, where I reclined with a pillow under my head.

“I don’t believe so,” said French, “although my nose hurts like the devil and I can’t see out of my right eye.” The girls were still fluttering about, offering to disrobe French so that they could examine his wounds, and demanding that I send for a raw beefsteak to put on his eye.

“There’s no need to go to that expense,” I snapped. “Mrs. Drinkwater, prepare some tea. No, on second thought, bring us each a glass of whisky and then clear the room.”

It took quite an effort for Mrs. Drinkwater to pour out the spirits without diving in herself, but she exerted iron control and managed to deliver a glass to French and one to me. Then she scuttled out, no doubt to retrieve a bottle from her not-so-secret stash, and driving the whores before her. They were loath to leave, having not seen such excitement around Lotus House since Sir Theodore Fotheringill had challenged the Canon of Seagate to a duel over a greyhound bitch. The door closed behind the rabble and I drew a relieved breath.

“What the devil just happened to us?” I asked.

French winced as his fingertip probed a tender spot on his torso. “Obviously, those chaps wanted that bill of lading. I’d wager they followed the messenger here.”

“I had reached the same conclusion,” I said acidly.

“Perhaps your question should not have indicated that you hadn’t.” French could be quite cranky after taking a walloping.

“I’m not going to take this lying down, you know. No one trespasses in my home and beats me like a cart horse.”

“They were jolly good at their trade.” French had his own compress and now pressed it to his eyes. “They thrashed me dreadfully.”

“It was three against one. I thought you stood up manfully to the brutes.”

He gave me a wry smile. “Thank you for that, India. And may I add that I was most pleased to see you stumble into view with that bottle in your hand. Otherwise, you’d be summoning a doctor right now.”

“Should I?”

He pinched his nose lightly and shuddered. “My nose may be crooked after this, but I don’t think it’s broken.” He swallowed his whisky in one gulp.

I staggered upright and refilled both our glasses. “Forget about your nose. No one cares if a chap has a nose like a turnip. What about my lip? I’ve got money riding on this lip.”

French scowled, as he usually does when I allude to my profession. He drained the second serving of whisky and rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Do you think you should be moving about just yet?”

French smoothed his weskit and examined his face in the mirror over the mantel. “Like you, I take exception to being beaten for no apparent reason. We’re going to find out what’s behind this attack. Tidy yourself. I intend to have a chat with Colonel Mayhew.”

? ? ?

Now you may wonder why French and I did not leave well enough alone and simply be glad that we’d seen the backs of those three thugs. But as I’ve explained, neither of us is the type to slink away after being thoroughly skunked. We had a reputation to uphold. And while French might pretend to be above such things, I possess enough curiosity to scribble a thousand cats. I wasn’t about to let the unexplained mystery of Colonel Mayhew’s envelope go unsolved. I reckoned French felt the same, for all his lofty airs. What was so important about a bill of lading for tools that a gang of miscreants would lay into us without so much as a by-your-leave?

And if Colonel Mayhew had deliberately endangered me by sending the envelope to Lotus House, well, then, it’s safe to assume the chap would never make general after I was through with him.

We freshened ourselves as best we could. I offered French a bit of powder for the scrapes and bruises on his face, but he declined. Unfortunately powder did nothing to cover the bump on my forehead or my swollen lips. I’d be avoiding mirrors for a bit. Another reason, in my mind, to seek vengeance. I’m rather proud of my looks, if I do say so myself. I’ve sable hair that sets off my brilliant blue eyes and a creamy complexion that I’ve worked hard to maintain. I consoled myself with the thought that my luscious figure usually proves the main attraction anyway, and as our attackers had done nothing to damage those goods I still had more than enough firepower at my disposal.

And lest you think that French and I are rank amateurs and would likely stumble into a situation that proved too much for us, let me remind you that he and I are old hands at this sort of thing, being agents of Her Majesty’s government and having had, I modestly admit, a modicum of success at the game of espionage. Why, we had even saved Her Royal Rotundity from an assassin up at that draughty heap called Balmoral. A few run-of-the-mill villains and an army colonel would hardly present a challenge.


We availed ourselves of a café on the corner of Haymarket and Charles Streets, for after the events of the previous night and this morning we required sustenance. Mrs. Drinkwater could no doubt have rustled up some comestibles, but as they would have been inedible we declined to punish ourselves further. I retain Mrs. Drinkwater as my cook not because she can cook but because she is totally oblivious to half-naked tarts and drunken clients, being, as she usually is, three sheets to the wind most of the time. I expect the nudity doesn’t even register.

After a hearty repast and several cups of coffee, French hailed a cab.

“To the War Office,” he instructed the driver. We lurched away from the curb and headed down Haymarket, turning right onto Pall Mall.

“We’ll obtain Mayhew’s address from the records office and then pay the man a visit,” French explained as we rode along.

Our journey would take a few minutes and being the sort that doesn’t waste an opportunity, I thought I’d gently broach the subject of the marchioness’s letter.

“What the deuce do you know about my family, you treacherous bugger?”

French looked pained. “Must we speak of that now?”

“We must,” I said, mimicking his poncy pronunciation. “Spill it, or there’ll be the devil to pay.”

He sighed and touched a welt that had risen on his cheek, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. I had thought French was past expecting sympathy from me. He must be desperate to avoid this conversation.

I poked him in the ribs, which made him jump. He swore loudly.

“Oh, very well. Two years ago the marchioness retained my services. She asked me to find you.”

“I believe I know why,” I said. “She’s my great-aunt, isn’t she? My grandfather’s sister.” I am good at mathematics and accounts, you see, and had added up a couple of sums to reach this conclusion. I’d spent a bit of time tracking my mother’s last movements around London and found she’d spent a few years as the mistress of that dreadful scoundrel, Charles Goodwood, the Earl of Clantham. He hadn’t been able to tell me much, but he did remember that my mother had told him she’d taken refuge with her aunt when her father had discovered her affair with the family’s groom and banished my mother from the family home.

“Yes.”

“But why did she choose you?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She is acquainted with my family. She knew I’d served as an intelligence officer in the army and I suppose she thought I possessed the necessary skills to locate you.” He leaned out the window. “Would you believe it? Here’s the War Office already.”

We had indeed arrived at that unprepossessing building. The government had certainly saved a bit of money by eschewing architectural style in favor of three utilitarian stories of red brick and Portland stone. A paved courtyard ringed by a waist-high iron fence separated the building from the street. Guards occupied two small stone buildings on either side of a gated entrance to the courtyard.

The cab was still moving when French wrenched open the door and jumped out. I shifted in my seat, preparatory to following him, but he stuck his head inside and gave me his most charming smile.

“I’ll only be a moment.”

“I’m coming with you,” I said.

“I’d rather you waited here. You’ll prove too much of a distraction to those poor clerks in there.”

“You flatter me.” I shoved him to one side, exited the hansom and trotted off to the guardhouse. I heard a stifled oath behind me and then French caught me by the elbow.

“I’ll do the talking, India. This is my bailiwick.”

I shook off his hand. “French, I could swear that you’re ashamed of me.”

“I am not.” He sounded indignant. “But you have an annoying habit of putting yourself forward even when someone else is better suited to the task. No,” he said, reconsidering. “That’s not precisely what I mean to say. What I meant is that you have an annoying habit of considering yourself better than anyone else at just about everything.”

As I am rather more capable than most, I found this comment perplexing and said so.

“Never mind.” French had to concede as by now we’d reached the guardhouse. He pushed past me and addressed a uniformed figure.

“Good morning, Sergeant.”

The sergeant, a big fellow, gazed placidly at us. “Morning, sir. May I be of assistance, sir?”

Soldiers are like whores; they recognize each other instantly whenever they meet. Despite French’s civilian clothes, the sergeant had responded to his military bearing. His battered face did not elicit a reaction from the guard, who probably reckoned French had gotten his black eyes and bruises leading a charge against some inferior native force in some hot and dusty land far from England’s verdant fields.

“We’d like to consult the rolls, Sergeant. I’m searching for an old friend.”

“Of course, sir. Go right in. Up the stairs to the second floor. The second door on the right is the records office.” The sergeant’s eyes shifted to me for a second, lingering on my thick lip and the knot on my forehead, but his expression never changed. They train them well in the army.

French thanked the fellow and we crossed the courtyard to the entrance. Inside, the building was buzzing with activity on this day of rest. A hard life, the army. Even whores usually get a rest on Sunday. Clerks ran up and down stairs, dashing officers strode purposefully from room to room and bright young fellows who’d just received their commissions swanned around giddily. I have a fondness for uniforms and the men in them and found myself rather distracted by all the glittering medals and the broad chests upon which they were displayed. I’d been rather pleased to learn that French was a soldier himself, a major in the Forty-second Regiment of Foot. I had not been pleased to learn that information from a Russian spy and not from French himself. Another issue to take up with his nibs. I sent him a look as sharp as a dagger just to keep the fellow on his toes, and he loftily ignored it.

The records office was a drab room, with a row of dingy windows facing out onto the Mall and a ceiling stained the colour of mud from years of pipe and cigar smoke. There were six desks in the room, and each sported an earnest young fellow with ink-stained fingers and a myopic expression. French chose the one nearest the door and we walked briskly to his desk. The clerk had a wispy brown mustache and thick spectacles, and looked amiable, if a little vague.

French dropped his hat on the desk. “I’m Major French of the Forty-second. This is Miss Black.”

The youngster wasn’t nearly as well trained as the guard. He gaped at us. I’d like to think it was my beauty that struck him dumb, but perhaps it was our various bumps and abrasions. He was not alone, however, for all activity in the room had ceased while the occupants gazed at us.

After a moment the clerk recovered himself. “May I help you?” he stammered.

“Yes. I’m looking for a chap named Mayhew. We’ve lost touch and I’d like to have a chat with the old fellow.”

“First name?”

“Francis. Colonel Francis Mayhew.”

“Regiment?”

“I’m not certain. He started in the Buffs,” said French smoothly, “but I believe he may have transferred since.”

“Ah, the Third Regiment of Foot. Date of enlistment?”


“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

The clerk sighed at the idiocy of those who hadn’t the wit to keep track of friends and all relevant information pertaining thereto and went off to rummage through several filing cabinets. He opened one, then another, and then a third, muttering to himself all the while. He had no luck in the cabinets, for he closed the drawer of the last with a bang and went to the other side of the room where row upon row of clothbound journals were stored. He ran a finger over a shelf of dusty volumes, selected one, and paged through it slowly. He uttered a soft cry of discovery, and carried the heavy book over to us.

“Here he is,” he announced. “Francis John Albert Mayhew. Not with the Buffs, sir. He’s with the Twenty-third, sir. Royal Welch Fusiliers. Currently serving in the quartermaster general’s office. That’s on the next floor up. They’ll know where to find him.”

I thanked him prettily and got an enormous grin for my reward. I was pleased to note that the dull scratching of pens on paper had not resumed by the time we left the room. No doubt it had something to do with the view of me exiting the chamber. I often have that effect upon chaps.

We climbed another flight of stairs and repeated our enquiries to another clerk. Due to the fact that he had only to search through a few hundred names rather than tens of thousands, he found Mayhew’s address after a brief search.

“Colonel Mayhew resides at 18 Milner Street, sir.”

“He lives in London? Then he’s stationed here, at the War Office?” asked French.

“Yes, sir.”

Damn and blast. It would be just our luck for the colonel to amble through the door and find his disheveled madam and a disfigured stranger enquiring after his whereabouts.

“But he’s not in today, sir.”

I felt French relax at my side. I breathed a bit easier as well. I’d rather have my scene with Mayhew in the privacy of his abode.

“I trust he’s well,” said French.

“I wouldn’t know, sir. I just know who the colonel is and that his desk is down the hall and he hasn’t been there at all today.”

“Surely he doesn’t work on Sundays?”

“Yes, sir, he does.” The clerk smiled thinly. “You know the army, sir. Someone’s got to be on duty.”

“I do hope he isn’t ill,” said French, turning to me. “Perhaps we’d better pay him a call and see if the fellow is alright.”

I murmured my agreement with this plan.

In the corridor, French said, “Thank you, India.”

“For what?”

“For letting me handle this.”

“You are competent at some things, French.”

He spared a brief smile for me.

We had descended to the ground floor and were almost to the door when I heard a shout.

“French, old boy! Is that you? Where the devil have you been hiding?”

I heard French’s sharp intake of breath. He did not look at me, but pasted a frozen smile on his face and turned round. “Bunny Alcock,” he said, with forced enthusiasm.

I took a look at the tanned and muscular fellow striding toward us. Bunny? I’ve no idea what’s wrong with the British upper class. Despite their wealth and breeding, they persist in tagging each other with the most infantile nicknames: Boy, Tubby, Stinky, Bunny. It does make you wonder how we’ve managed to hang on to the Empire with these puerile types running the show. I was anxious to meet Bunny, however, for it was clear that French would have preferred I did not.

Bunny sported a wicked gleam in his eyes and a sabre slash across one cheekbone. Whip-thin and brown as a nut, he looked as if he’d just returned from one of the colonies.

“Good God,” he said as he drew close, inspecting our faces. “What the deuce happened to you, French?”

“Carriage accident.”

“You don’t say. Must have been a real smash-up. You look shattered.” Bunny turned his attention to me, doffing his hat. “It appears, ma’am, that you too were a victim of the accident.” He said it innocently enough, but the gleam in his eye was positively wicked.

“Bunny, allow me to introduce Miss Black,” said French. “My cousin.”

I’d been wondering how French would handle this situation. Now I knew. He’d chosen cowardice. I gave Bunny a charming smile, the effect of which was no doubt dimmed somewhat by the ugly gash in my lip.

“The pleasure is mine, ma’am.” Bunny winked roguishly at French. “I’d no idea you had such delectable creatures in the family. I would have cultivated your friendship assiduously, in hope of an introduction.”

“French is rather good at keeping secrets,” I said. I do not believe that I succeeded in removing the acerbity from my tone.

“He’s quite accomplished in that field,” Bunny agreed. “I didn’t even know he was engaged until a few weeks ago. I heard it in the mess, at dinner. My congratulations, French. When are the nuptials?”

I was rather interested in that information myself. I’d known French for several months now, but he’d omitted advising me of several interesting details about his life, such as his Christian name, his military background, and the fact that he was betrothed to Lady Daphne Kenilworth, daughter of the Duke of Allingham. To add insult to injury, a bloody Russian spy had been the one to share these details with me, and he’d done so just last night. For some reason, French seemed worried about the fiancée, as though she presented some obstacle to the relationship between him and me. French can be so drearily ethical. I had no doubt that much of his reticence on the subject of his beloved was due to his reluctance to dash my hopes of a cozy hearth scene with children about my feet and French gazing devotedly into my eyes. Dear, sweet fellow. I could have told him (and would have done so if only there’d been a minute to spare in the last twenty-four hours) that his marital arrangements were irrelevant to me. I had no wish to shackle myself to any man. I am an independent woman. I own property and I make a damned good living. I must remember to inform French of this.

French pressed my arm, shifting me toward the door. “Wonderful to see you, old boy. Sorry to dash, but we’re late for an appointment.”

“Tea with a maiden aunt?” Bunny asked and brayed like a donkey at his own wit. “I’ll be at the club most evenings, French. Drop in some night and I’ll stand you a drink.” He tipped his hat to me, grinning devilishly.

Outside I shook French’s hand from my arm and stalked toward the hansom. “Your assistance is unnecessary. I can manage on my own. ‘Cousin,’” I added.

“It would have taken all day to explain who you were and why we look as if we’d lost a prizefight. Besides, Bunny is an incorrigible gossip and I’d rather he knew as little as possible about me or you or us. God knows, he’ll fabricate something anyway, but why give him even the slightest morsel?”

French handed me into the cab and gave Colonel Mayhew’s address to the driver. We snapped back into our seats as the cab jolted forward. French stared out the window and I could almost feel the poncy bastard willing me to silence. Well, it would never do to let him think that was an effective strategy with me.

“By the way, French, when is the marriage to be held?”

He cursed loudly and swung to face me. “Confound it! Why must you prick me like this? Do you not understand how I feel about you? And yet I’ve made a vow to another. What am I to do about that, eh?” His expression was agonized.


I opened my mouth to speak, but for once in my life thought better of it. I’m quite comfortable flirting with a chap, or tearing a strip off him, but I’d rather have a Saturday night without customers than blather on with a fellow about romance—not, mind you, that I’ve done much of that. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do that with French, if you must know the truth. When he looked at me and those steely grey eyes softened, my heart fluttered and my stomach quaked. I was fond of him, you see. Well, perhaps more than just fond. That’s why I hated to see the poor chap in such a bind. Having very little concern for society and its conventions, it’s dashed difficult for me to understand how these moral dilemmas can turn a perfectly reasonable chap into a dithering wreck, but I knew that French was in no state to discuss the matter at the moment. Nor did further probing into his knowledge of my past seem wise at this time.

I pondered for a moment, considering what a sympathetic and caring woman would do in this situation. It was a bit of a stretch for me, but in the end I think I did the right thing. I reached across the divide that separated us and rested my hand lightly on French’s thigh. After a long moment, so long that I considered withdrawing my peace offering, I saw the corner of his mouth turn up ever so slightly, and his hand came down to rest on mine. Well, you have to throw the fellows a bone now and then, or they’ll grow discouraged and wander off. We rode the rest of the way to Mayhew’s address in silence.