India Black and the Widow of Windsor (6 page)

Now, I know what you’re thinking. They were flattering me shamelessly, courting me like lovers. Don’t fall for it, you’re thinking. A lesser woman might, of course, but then India Black is no lesser woman. Their compliments might sound like so much flaming balderdash, but the truth is they were right: it would take guile, confidence and a set of bollocks the size of cannonballs (alright, I didn’t have
those
, but I was only speaking in the figurative sense) to infiltrate the closed circle of the Queen’s servants, and luckily, I possessed all those attributes in spades.

French and Dizzy were gazing at me expectantly.

“I shall consider your proposition carefully,” I said. Well, you just can’t do what men want without making them wait a bit; tends to make them more appreciative when you finally say yes, don’t you know?

French rose briskly. “It’s settled, then.”

Damn that man. “It is not settled, French. I shall have to think it over.”

French put on his hat. “While you’re cogitating, I’ll visit Superintendent Robshaw tomorrow, discuss the details of security around the castle perimeter and inform him of our plans.”

“Excellent.” Dizzy beamed at me.

“I shall be at Lotus House tomorrow at one o’clock, India. Why don’t you provide luncheon for us, and we’ll formulate a plan of action.”

“But, French, I haven’t said that I’m going.”

He hefted his malacca walking stick. “Oh, but we both know that you will, India.”

Damn
and blast
that man.

W
hen I had told French that I had to give some thought to disguising myself as a dowdy lady’s maid (or God forbid, as the peon who had to empty the chamber pots), I’d meant it. You may think me unpatriotic for not throwing myself in front of the horses to save Victoria Regina, but I had mixed emotions about the whole thing. I mean, Vicky was not what you’d call the cream of the crop when it came to monarchs. There was that unhealthy obsession with her dead husband, for one thing. Long after anyone else would have pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and soldiered on, the Queen was still mooching about Windsor Palace and bemoaning the loss of Albert. In fact, she hadn’t shown her face in public for years,
years
, after the old boy kicked the bucket and departed for That Better Place. She carried with her a miniature of the late prince, and when she came upon an especially scenic view, she whipped it out for Albert to share. Not for her the state of digamy.

She was also a bit of crank. There was her list of prohibited activities: speaking in loud voices in her presence, saying hello to her on one of her afternoon walks, building a coal fire in her rooms or bringing a bishop to luncheon. She adored planning funerals and memorials. Her servants were not allowed to leave her residence before she did, no matter the time of day. Then there was her propensity for exotic servants: those Indian fellows, decked out in flamboyant costumes like circus entertainers, who occupied their time cooking curries in the courtyard, trying to teach the old bat to speak Hindi or standing stiffly behind her while she ate her meals. She was so attached to the kilt-wearing farmer’s son John Brown from Balmoral that she’d brought him to London with her and given him a room down the hall at Windsor. The two were so inseparable that the newspapers had spread rumours of a secret marriage and called the Queen “Mrs. Brown.” Garden-variety stuff, really, you say. Just like my potty old aunt Dorothy. Completely harmless. Just humour the old gel when she goes off on one of her tirades about the bloody bishops.

But your aunt Dorothy isn’t the Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India. In any other family, Her Majesty’s eccentricities would have meant a locked room in the attic and a lifetime of meals on trays. In short, our present monarch is hardly the epitome of regal rule, and there’s no denying that the Empire could do better. That brings us to the other side of the coin. If the Sons of Arbroath (and I must remember to ask French about that; I’ve a fair bit of history, but arcane Scottish lore isn’t one of my interests) succeeded in slaughtering the Queen like a pheasant during the hunting season, the heir to the throne was Albert Edward, the present Prince of Wales, universally known as Bertie. Now if Bertie had shown up at Lotus House, I’d have been glad to see him, for he was a wastrel of the first order, with a propensity for drink, cards, racehorses and fast women. Just the type of customer you can count on to spend his sovereigns not wisely but well at your establishment. I suppose it must be hard on the chap, being portly and middle-aged now, and who likely had expected to be occupying the throne already but for the longevity of his stout little mother, who, despite possessing a hypochondriac’s assurance that every time she sneezed she was about to join dear departed Albert in the netherworld, was as healthy as a plow horse. Bertie hadn’t done much to assure Mama that he was fit for the throne, however, running as he did with a fast set, impregnating women right and left (he even kept a doctor on call for those willing to have abortions), leaving a trail of bastard children throughout England and losing a packet at the gaming tables. In short, while Bertie would always be welcome at Lotus House, it was quite another thing to consider him opening Parliament and making state visits to Paris (all those whores and all that champagne!).

Given the choice between a dissolute rake on the throne or a neurotic, overweight widow, I’d plump for Vicky, which is why I was seriously debating a jaunt to Balmoral with Dizzy and French. Do not think, however, that I would do anything foolish such as jumping into the path of a speeding bullet to save the woman’s life. If I could deflect an assault with minimal damage to myself, I would probably expend the effort, but the jury was still out on what I was willing to do to save Britain from Bertie.

There were other, indeed more important, factors contributing to my decision. The first was that the holiday season was notoriously slow around the brothels of London. All the customers were tucked up with their families, pretending a degree of amity that didn’t really exist, watching their children open presents and listening to their wife prattle on about the neighbors. Things would pick up after Epiphany, when hordes of relieved customers would appear at the door of Lotus House, clamoring for their favorite bints and a bit of sex that didn’t involve their partners closing their eyes in dismay. My friend Rowena Adderly, proprietress of the Silver Thistle and an experienced abbess, could easily look after things while I was gone, provided the price was right and I didn’t mind returning to find my best-looking whore trailing back to the Silver Thistle for a few nights of bliss with Rowena.

And as I have already indicated, I was fed up with the tedious task of running Lotus House, especially when the girls had all the time in the world to sit around and bicker while the revenue dried up. My prior escapade with French had sparked a current of excitement that needed a bigger outlet than umpiring spats over hair combs. I was, in short, as bored as a priest on Monday. I needed a change of scene. All things considered, I would have preferred the Greek Islands at this time of year, but if that wasn’t in the offing, then the Scottish Highlands would have to do.

But I must confess to another reason for considering Dizzy’s request. It amused me to cavort among the most powerful men in the land, men who wouldn’t dare acknowledge me if they met me on the street but who weren’t too proud to rely on a whore to help them out of a jam now and then. I enjoyed grabbing a pew near the seat of power, patting a government minister on the shoulder and handing him a drink, offering my services (so to speak) and getting the poor devil off the hook. You may say it smacks of arrogance and that it’s unseemly for a lady to gloat, but as I’m not a lady, I don’t care ha’pence for your opinion.

“India!” Rowena squealed. “Come here, you delightful slut. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

I endured a crushing embrace and a less than surreptitious squeeze of my womanly assets. Rowena, as even the dullest of readers will have gathered by now, is a tom, albeit the prettiest one in London. She’s an island girl: dark, voluptuous and seething with eroticism. She’s developed a nice business at the Silver Thistle, specializing in providing dusky maidens like herself to soldiers, sailors and civil administrators just home from the colonies and longing for the pleasures they enjoyed under the Southern Cross.

I extricated myself from her grasp (which was a bit like trying to peel off an enormous leech) and regarded her warmly. Despite her carnal interest in me, I consider her a friend and someone I can rely on when the chips are down. She’d played a peripheral role in the War Office memo affair, accompanying me to the Russian embassy and sharing a brief period of captivity there, so she was not surprised to hear that I was about to become embroiled in another mission with French.

Indeed, when I mentioned his name, she pursed her lips and gave me a shrewd look. “The dashing Mr. French, eh? Not my type, of course, but he is attractive. If you like men, which damn it all, you apparently do, India.”

“Some men,” I corrected her. “Well, a few men. And despite what you think, I don’t find French attractive at all. If you’d spent several days in his company, you wouldn’t find him alluring either.”

She harrumphed and looked at me knowingly, but she didn’t say anything else, probably because she didn’t want to lose her chance at some additional profits over the holidays. Friends we may be, but business is business.

So we shared a cup of tea and some lovely scones (no use providing the recipe to Mrs. Drinkwater; the effort would be wasted) and haggled in a good-natured way over how to split the proceeds from Lotus House while I was away in Scotland. There were a number of details to work out, like who gets which dress on which night, and what to do if a girl faints or expires when she’s with a customer (I usually apologize, tell the customer I mistakenly thought he had expressed an interest in necrophilia, and offer him a 10-percent discount on his next visit).

We settled on a list of rules, with Rowena making a little moue of disappointment when I told her the girls were off-limits.

“You’ll ruin them for the customers,” I said. I knew it was a waste of time, as Rowena would be bedded down with the prettiest strumpet in the house before I had reached King’s Cross, but one does have to make the effort to stamp one’s moral authority on a situation.

 

 

 

I was lounging in my study late that morning, with my feet up and a preprandial whisky in my hand, enjoying the fire and waiting for French to grace Lotus House with his presence, when Mrs. Drinkwater staggered into the room, narrowly missing the pretty little French table I’d taken in payment from the impoverished third son of a peer. She was gasping like an out-of-condition prizefighter in the tenth round. Tendrils of hair had escaped the bun at the nape of her neck, and her face was pink with the effort of producing a suitable repast for me and my guest. Lord knows what we’d be eating today, but I felt sure we wouldn’t enjoy it. I should have made French spring for luncheon at a nice restaurant. Why he wanted to dine here was a mystery beyond the comprehension of mortal man.

“What is it, Mrs. Drinkwater?”

The cook placed her hand on her bosom and inhaled noisily. “I tried, miss; I really did.”

Burned the joint, I thought with satisfaction. Now French will have to take me out for a decent meal.

“It’s that blasted boy.” Mrs. Drinkwater rung her hands and burped loudly. Obviously, she’d been in the cooking sherry. Again.

“Boy? You mean . . .”

“’Allo, India.”

I should have guessed. A stench had quietly pervaded the room, heralding the arrival of Vincent, last name unknown, a street arab who occasionally (and for an exorbitant price) assisted me in dealing with some of the problems encountered in running a first class brothel: vetting the girls who came round looking for work, performing the odd bit of blackmail for me when necessary and, in one instance, helping me dispose of Sir Archibald Latham’s body. Vincent had subsequently proved himself to be a loyal foot soldier in that business, extricating French and me from a rather sticky situation. Frog-faced, crack-voiced and wily as a hen-killing weasel, he was a good lad to have on your side, the only disadvantage being that he smelled like a troop of infantrymen who’d made a forced march from Karachi to Calcutta without soap and water while subsisting on rancid monkey.

“Hello, Vincent,” I said, gliding casually across the room to crack the window and then steering him away from the upholstered furniture to a suitable hard-backed chair. If the boy ever sat on one of my cushions, I’d have to burn it.

I settled into my own chair, glanced at the clock and smothered my dismay. French would be here any moment, and if Vincent learned that his hero’s arrival was imminent, there’d be no dislodging him with dynamite. French and Vincent had struck up an unlikely friendship (well, I suppose it wasn’t any more unlikely than my relationship with French, though I had the advantage over Vincent in looks, hygiene and literacy), with French admiring the boy’s pluck and Vincent respectful of French’s manly virtues. French had even gone so far as to upgrade the boy’s wardrobe, replacing his habitual rags with a set of fine . . .