“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.”
Th
e 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 se
veral 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.
India Black and the Gentleman Thief Page 11
