“Now if ye had a proper kennel . . .” mused the marchioness.
“Why would I have a confounded kennel?” I snarled.
“Don’t snap at me. ’Tis your own fault ye dinna have the facilities to care for my pups.” The old trout patted me on the arm. “Dinna fret yerself, my girl. They’ll do alright on the bed with me. Now then, where’s that pea-brained cook of yers? I want my tea and I want it now.”
“I’ll thank you to show a bit of respect for my servant,” I said. The fact that I never accorded Mrs. Drinkwater the slightest courtesy was beside the point. She may be a pea-brained cook, but damn it all, she was my pea-brained cook and if she was going to be abused, I’d be the one doing it.
The marchioness headed for the kitchen and I foresaw bad things, very bad things, happening there if I did not head off the assault on Mrs. Drinkwater’s domain. I scurried after the marchioness and that bloody Fergus took advantage of my absence as gatekeeper to shoo the dogs inside and drag them into the study. I checked my advance to deal with this development, but I heard raised voices from the kitchen and decided that the dogs must wait. Mind you, all the while this domestic drama was being played out, a curious group of dollies, eyes like saucers and tittering like a group of schoolgirls, was ranged up the stairs. The fleeting thought that things were spiraling out of control crossed my mind. I sent the bints upstairs with some roaring curses and dashed off to the kitchen.
Sure enough the marchioness was inspecting the place, lifting pot lids, muttering under her breath and cursing a blue streak. Mrs. Drinkwater had elected to retreat to a corner (very sensible of her, I thought) and had adopted an air of dignified restraint, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. Or perhaps she’d merely propped herself up after an afternoon down at the local. In any event, she did not look happy.
The marchioness slammed down a lid. “Christ on his cross. You dinna expect me to eat that swill, do ye? Fergus!” The marchioness would have done well in the Royal Navy. You could have heard that voice in the crow’s nest on a foul night in the roaring forties.
It was time I assumed command, but damned if I could figure out how to do it.
Fergus arrived, sans dogs. Now what could he have done with those four canines?
“Fetch us some tea, Fergus. I’m parched from my travels and there ain’t a crumb worth eatin’ in this godforsaken hole.”
Mrs. Drinkwater came out of her corner like a prizefighter who’d taken a few punches but wasn’t to be counted out yet. “Listen here, you wicked biddy. This is my kitchen and I’m the cook here and if you want something to eat, you’ll ask for it polite-like and be grateful for what you get.”
I’ve never had occasion to be grateful for anything from Mrs. Drinkwater’s kitchen, but I had to admire the old lush’s spirit at defending her territory.
“Pipe down,” muttered the marchioness, combing through some pantry shelves. “There’s no jam here, Fergus. Not a drop. And not a biscuit to be seen.”
“What do you call these, if not biscuits?” Mrs. Drinkwater produced a plate of blackened wafers and waved it under the marchioness’s nose.
“Lord save us, I thought it was the coal for the stove. Here’s some money, Fergus. Fetch us some provisions. And get a haunch for dinner tonight. I’m in the mood for a hearty meal after that dreadful journey.”
“Are you going to allow this addled crone to come in here and take over my kitchen?” Mrs. Drinkwater demanded.
“Are you going to let this drunken sow fix my tea?” the marchioness demanded to know.
I’ve faced down Cossack guards and Russian spies and Scottish assassins, but confronted by these two withered beasts with fire in their breasts, I had to admit defeat. I turned on my heel and fled, back to the relative sanity of the study, where I found French trying to coax one of the collies off the delicate silk upholstery of a Queen Anne chair and Vincent attempting to pull one of the beasts out from under the sofa. The other two animals had made themselves at home on the sofa and were now having a nap. I sank into a chair and put my face in my hands.
“Where’d that bloody Fergus fellow get to?” Vincent asked. “These damned curs ought to be whipped.”
“Fergus has gone to buy something for the marchioness to eat. Mrs. Drinkwater and the marchioness have squared off in the kitchen. I predict bloodshed. I just haven’t decided who to murder yet.”
French laughed. “You wanted answers, India. You’ll get some now.”
“I wanted a letter,” I corrected him. “I did not expect that creaking, haggard, liver-spotted woman to appear on my doorstep. What am I to do with her? I can’t put her up here.”
“Why not?” asked the marchioness, who had tottered unnoticed into the study. “This is a whorehouse, ain’t it? If there’s one thing a whorehouse has plenty of, it’s beds. I’ve already found a room to my likin’ and had Fergus take up a few things.”
I raised my face from my hands and stared at her in horror. “Not the room at the top of the stairs.”
“You can’t expect me to hike up and down these halls every day? Yes, the one at the top of the stairs will do nicely. It’s charmin’, what with all that blue damask and the silk drapes. Even got some pretty drawin’s on the wall. In truth, I hadn’t expected a brothel to be so attractive, but then I confess, I ain’t ever set foot in one. Just goes to show ye, the world is full of surprises.”
I agreed with her assessment, for I had not expected to return home today to find that the marchioness had arrived from Scotland with the intention of exercising the right of eminent domain over my bedroom, nor that my mahogany four-poster would soon be hosting a pack of flea-bitten hounds. Yes, the world is a surprising place.
“Ow,” Vincent howled, sucking his thumb. “That bloody dog bit me.”
“Serves ye right, ye stupid boy, for pullin’ on her leg like that.” The marchioness squinted at him. “Do I know ye, young feller?”
“I was up at that castle last winter, ’elpin’ save the Queen from them hassassins.”
The marchioness displayed her few teeth and a great deal of mottled pink gum. “So ye were. Ye got your skull split open, if I remember rightly.”
“That I did,” said Vincent proudly. “’Urt like the devil, too.”
“Weel, weel. Glad to see ye again, ye young cub. Ye acquitted yerself weel in that affair. But don’t be pullin’ on my Maggie’s leg, do ye hear?”
Vincent nodded. “Sorry ’bout that, M’ Lady. ’Twon’t ’appen again.”
“I’m sure it won’t, my boy. Yer a smart lad and don’t need tellin’ twice.”
The street Arab and the Scottish aristocrat (and I use that term loosely) beamed at each other. I could swear they’d formed an alliance of sorts. Dear God, could it get any worse?
“Ye’ve got to be very careful with my Maggie. She’s about to whelp.”
Yes. Yes it could.
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 ch
imed 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 seet
hed 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.
India Black and the Gentleman Thief Page 10
