India Black and the Widow of Windsor (13 page)

I turned my back on another recruiting opportunity lost and worked my way through the maze of hallways, chatting up a forbidding Scottish footman (hard going, that—no one does forbidding like a Scot), who had better things to do with his time than chat with the likes of me, and chasing down the girl emptying the chamber pots (on the whole, not the best move on my part), who professed to thoroughly enjoy her job at the castle. There’s just no accounting for what some people are willing to do for money. I should know.

By midmorning I had given up my quest (temporarily) to find a talkative Balmoral servant, having decided that my best opportunity to chat up my fellow employees would be between the time I packed the marchioness off to dinner and when she retired. Truth to tell, I was feeling a bit fagged, having had so little sleep last night. I thought I might just have time to snatch a catnap before tarting up the old girl for luncheon and was making my way back to Flora’s room when the door I was passing opened and a hand shot out, snatching my wrist.

Unlike most other members of the fair sex, I was not disconcerted. I’ve spent a goodly portion of my youth being grabbed unexpectedly by loathsome gents, and I’ve learned the simplest of maneuvers to escape. Instead of trying to pull away, one merely pushes forward, throwing the assailant off balance with this unexpected movement and, with luck, causing him to fall backward onto his arse. I would note that this tactic almost always works if one charges into the fellow with the intensity of a rugby forward with a wicked hangover, which I invariably do, planting my head in the fellow’s stomach for good measure. Life is nasty and brutish, as Tommy Hobbes likes to say, but if India Black has anything to say about it, her life won’t be short. Hence, I sometimes overreact.

As I did in this instance. I barreled into the bedroom at full speed, head lowered like a charging Hereford bull, only to find myself standing over French, who was sprawled on the floor and glaring up at me with those cold grey eyes.

“Oops,” I said. I extended a hand, which he brushed away impatiently.

“Dash it all, India. Why can’t you look before you leap?” He rose gingerly and brushed his coat.

“If you insist on getting my attention by accosting me, then you’ll have to take the consequences. Next time, I suggest a simple ‘Psst, India, in here.’”

“Next time, I’ll send an engraved invitation.” He hurried to the door, glanced up and down the hallway, and shut the door softly.

“Sit down, India. I don’t expect us to be interrupted, but people have a way of wandering about here, blundering into rooms just when you think you’ve found some privacy.”

“Are you referring to the servants or the guests?”

“Both. And the Queen. If she wants to sit in a room, she’ll turf you out without a second thought.”

“It is her house,” I pointed out.

“Quite. Now, what have you learned?”

“Most of the servants have been at Balmoral since Methuselah was a boy. They seem content, for the most part, but I haven’t really had a chance to dig below the surface. There are two things you may want to check, however. All of the arrangements for the Queen’s visit are handled by the master of the household, who accompanies her from Windsor. But the master couldn’t come this time; he’s supposedly ill, and he’s been replaced by James Vicker, his deputy. Vicker looks like a man who just had a game pie for luncheon that’s been in the larder too long: white as sheet and sweating buckets. That could indicate a guilty conscience.”

“Yes,” French mused. “Or merely food poisoning.”

I punched him in the bicep. “It might be worth verifying that the master really is down with something. And perhaps a review of Vicker’s background would be useful: his length of service at Windsor, political views, that sort of thing.”

“I agree. It’s worth checking. Anything else?”

I told him about Robbie Munro and his recent hiring. “According to Flora, he’s only been here a few days and came on his uncle’s recommendation. That should be easy enough to confirm.”

“I’ll let Robshaw know immediately, and he can get a man on it right away.”

“Your turn, French. The staff is agog at your behavior; apparently, you’re giving the Prince of Wales a run for his money in the scoundrel stakes.” Bit of an exaggeration, but how was French to know?

He grinned. “Good. Exactly the impression I hoped to make.”

“You want to be seen as a dissolute Don Juan?”

“I do. People are much more inclined to let down their guard if they think they’re talking to a dim-witted fool whose only interests are ponies, maids and cognac. No one would think that a brainless peer of the realm addicted to the racing sheets would have a political thought in his head.”

“And you hope to lure someone into an indiscretion with that act?”

“I already have,” he announced smugly.

“Not the bloke on the platform at King’s Cross?”

“Oh, good Lord, no. That chap is as straight as they come. No, I’ve made a new friend here: Hector MacCodrum, seventh Baronet of Dochfour.”

“Never heard of him.”

“No reason you should have, until now. He’s the favorite nephew of the Earl of Nairn, one the Queen’s favorites among the Scottish peers. The earl is sober, circumspect and completely loyal to the Crown. His nephew is not.”

“What’s he doing here? The baronet, I mean.”

“Call him ‘Red Hector.’ Everyone else does. He’s got ginger hair and a fiery temper.”

“He doesn’t sound like a pleasant fellow.”

“He’s not. Whinnies like a horse when he laughs, shouts abuse at the servants and is pickled most of the time. He’s only here because the earl has made a bit of a project of him, trying to damp down Red Hector’s impetuosity and teach him the art of diplomacy. The earl is trying to impress upon the young man the importance of the Queen’s patronage, so he wangled an invitation to Balmoral to introduce Red Hector to the prime minister and Her Majesty’s other advisors.”

“Sounds as though the earl is taking a risk he may regret.”

“Oh, I think he already does. Red Hector doesn’t care a fig for the Crown or the Queen or anything to do with England, for that matter. And he made that quite clear at dinner last night and afterward over the port.” French looked modest. “Encouraged by me, of course, who spent a fair amount of time egging him on.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that England should shed its slavish allegiance to the royal family and send them packing. And the Scots could do very well without being tied to England’s apron strings.”

“Did the Queen hear those comments?”

“Thankfully, no. It’s a very large table at dinner. But everyone within ten feet of Red Hector did. There was a scandalized silence, as you can imagine, while the diners tried to conjure up some response to this heretical point of view, and then the whole party broke into conversation at once, pointedly ignoring the baronet.”

“Which he no doubt found satisfying.”

“Indeed. Even drunk as an Irishman on Saturday night, he still had the indecency to look proud of his statement. Apparently, he’s known for dropping conversational bombs such as that.”

“He might be saying such things for effect. He sounds a bit of rascal.”

“He is that. But I have to determine if he’s just stirring up controversy for its own sake or if he means what he says.”

“If he intends to assassinate the Queen, statements like that will guarantee he doesn’t get anywhere near her. He should be fawning over Her Majesty, instead of slinging verbal arrows for everyone to hear and drawing attention to himself.”

“I had thought of that myself, India. But it’s possible he’s merely running a bluff, counting on being so conspicuously antimonarchical that if something happens to the Queen, he’ll be dismissed out of hand as being too obvious a candidate. You know, the idea that only an idiot would so openly disparage Her Highness and then attempt to murder her. He could in fact be a red herring, sent by the Sons of Arbroath to draw attention away from the real assassin.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“Red Hector and I are going to become fast friends. It means I’ll have to drink like a fish and feign an interest in studs and bloodlines, but so be it.”

“And here I thought I had the worst of it, wiping down the marchioness every time she takes a bit of snuff and staying awake all night reading the Holy Scriptures to the old trout. Lord, it must be hard work for you, French, quaffing champagne and discussing brood mares.”

“Every man must do his duty.” He smirked. “How are you getting on with the marchioness?”

“She’s a pleasure to work for, if you don’t mind sitting up most of the night and dodging a wall of spray every time she takes snuff, which is frequently. I was expecting someone a bit more elegant. The marchioness would be right at home with the fellows in the merchant marine.”

French nodded. “I knew you two would have something in common.”

I chose to ignore this ill-mannered comment. “I see you buckled under pressure from Vincent and brought the little blighter along with you. Has he had a bath, or have they had to remove the horses from the stables because they couldn’t stand the odor?”

“He had a bath, of course. I made that a condition of his being allowed to come. He’s actually going to be quite useful. Neither you nor I can penetrate the world of the outside servants—the grooms, the gardeners and so on. He can. He’ll be snooping around the stables and the grounds to ferret out any disloyalties in the staff.”

I had to agree that made a certain amount of sense, but I wasn’t about to admit that to French. Besides, there was another matter I needed to take up with the man and our time was limited.

“How’s the sire these days?”

“Sire?” French looked puzzled. Probably still had his mind on the nags.

“Your father.”

“Ah.” French had located a particular thistle on the wallpaper and was staring at it with single-minded concentration. “He’s, ah, fine, of course. In blooming health.”

“And the rest of the family?”

The thistle lost its attraction; French’s eyes ricocheted around the room while he rummaged distractedly in his pockets. Luckily for him, salvation appeared.

The door to the room swung open, and before I knew what was happening, French had seized me roughly in his arms and planted his lips on mine. Normally, that can be a pleasant experience with a man, but in bundling me tightly into his arms, French had squeezed all the breath from my body and then, having attached himself to my mouth like a giant squid, had cut off my only means of replacing the air in my lungs. I struggled valiantly to breathe, but French had a vise-like grip on my body and my lips.

I heard a throaty chuckle, and the Prince of Wales said, “Well, well. Sorry to interrupt, old boy. I didn’t think anyone was in here, and I was hoping to have a little snooze before luncheon.”

By this time the lack of oxygen to my brain was beginning to tell. I felt a warm drowsiness stealing over me. My knees were beginning to sag, and I found myself leaning into French for support. He wrapped his arms tighter around me. His lips seared mine. I felt myself begin to swoon, a not uncomfortable feeling, if I’m to be honest. Oxygen deprivation will have that effect, I’m told.

Just as I was about to collapse, French released me with a gentle shove. I stood gasping, wondering what to say, but French saved me from having to respond by taking my shoulders, turning me toward the door and saying: “Go on, my lovely. Go pet the old lady. We’ll finish this some other time.” And then the bastard slapped my ass and pushed me out the door.

I stood in the hallway, leaning against a sixteenth-century bureau, my chest heaving and my knees wobbling like a day-old blancmange. I was quivering with rage. How dare the bastard treat me like . . . like . . . like a bloody housemaid over whom he was exercising the ancient right of
droit du seigneur.

It didn’t help that I could hear French and the Prince of Wales neighing and snorting like two randy stallions.

“Fast work, brother,” said Bertie. I’d have liked to have given him a good one right in his toolbox for that. “I spotted her in the hall yesterday. She’s a handsome wench. I’d have had a go at her myself if I hadn’t walked in on the two of you wrapped up together. But since you’ve got first dibs, I’ll step aside. Can’t promise I won’t look that little wagtail up later, though. What a fine filly.”

That’s the aristocracy for you. Or, come to that, men in general. They just assume that every maid they meet would be thrilled to drop her knickers for them, regardless of how bald, fat or stupid they are. It’s a hard truth, ladies, but the sooner you learn it, the quicker you can get on with learning how to buffalo the old farts and turn their arrogant confidence to your advantage.

“There ye are, Iris.”

I winced at the raucous voice. The marchioness. Bloody hell. That was all I needed at the moment.

The old dame was tottering down the hall, peering nearsightedly into each room, like a laying hen just released from the coop and trying to work out where to find the corn.

“I need yer assistance, Iris. Now.”

“Yes, my lady.” My knees were still weak and my breathing ragged, but I followed her back to her room.

There, the marchioness collapsed into a chair and scowled up at me. “I heard male voices from that room. Were ye in there alone with two gentlemen?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. French and the Prince of Wales.”

“Give me my snuffbox, Iris.”

I handed her the box, along with a snowy square of linen. She waved the latter away. I shrugged. One can only try. So I beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the room until the ritual of dipping, sneezing and dripping was complete, then mopped up the aftermath.

The marchioness dabbed away a trickle of snuff. “Ye’re new to my service, Iris, and also new to the Queen’s residence. I feel I must warn ye. Ye should not, under any circumstances, permit yerself to be alone with any gentlemen here at the castle. They’re likely to be friends with that bounder Bertie, and ye’ve surely heard what a scoundrel he is.”