India Black and the Widow of Windsor (29 page)

“Blimey, where you been, India? We thought you was lost.”

“We?”

“French and me.”

“So he made it back safely?”

“Aye, ’e made it to ’is room a couple of hours ago. ’E said if you didn’t come back by daylight, we’d ’ave to go lookin’ for you.”

I found their masculine concern irritating. If they hadn’t left me alone out there in the woods in the first place, I’d have been in bed hours ago. And I’ll thank you not to point out the logical inconsistency of thanking French for drawing off my pursuers and then blaming him for deserting me. In my defense, I need only point out that I am a woman and thus entitled to entertain as many logical inconsistencies as I please.

“Well, I have returned safely, so you two can rest easy now. Did you follow the Marischal? Did you see who it was?”

Vincent shook his head mournfully. “I tried, but them nationalist buggers was all over the place, ’untin’ me down like a bloody jackal. I ’ad a ’ard time shakin’ ’em. They was on my ’eels all night, and I didn’t take an easy breath till I made the stables and shut the door and crawled under me cot.”

“Could you tell how many people returned to the castle?”

“A ’alf dozen, at least. Maybe more. ’Twas ’ard to count ’eads whilst them fiends was bayin’ for me blood. Not to menshun hit was dark as the inside of a helephant out there. You better get on into the ’ouse. French said we’d meet again soon.” Vincent slid down the sash and disappeared from view.

I hobbled across the courtyard and into the castle. Dawn had yet to break, but already there were a few servants about, lighting fires and lamps, and getting ready for another day of activity. I climbed the stairs wearily and cracked the door to Flora’s room as quietly as I could. There was a hump in her bed, and I heard her breathing gently. I pushed the door to, wincing as it closed with a sharp click, then sat on my bed to take off my boots. My head was swimming with fatigue, and my fingers fumbled the laces.

“And how was your night of sin, my girl?” Flora asked, with a laugh in her voice.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Rather difficult to sleep through old Grant knocking on the door in the wee hours and you dressing up for a ramble with Mr. French.”

I yawned widely, my jaw creaking. “My night was exhausting,” I said honestly.

“Weel, now.” Flora giggled. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. I’m a simple country lass, I am, and there are lots of things I’d like to know.”

I threw a pillow at her and collapsed on the bed.

A
s the sun kissed the castle grounds, William Ross, piper to the Queen, destroyed the morning with an enthusiastic rendition of the “Bonnie Lass o’ Fyvie” (or so I was informed by Flora—all compositions tend to sound alike to me when played on the Great Highland War Pipe). I groaned and rolled over, shading my eyes from the light streaming through the tiny window. One of these days I was going to lie in wait for Ross, rip his
sgian dubh
from his stocking and plant the blade in that cursed instrument of his. I bathed and dressed and contemplated the irony of having drugged the marchioness in expectation of a solid eight hours of sleep, only to spend the night playing Duck, Duck, Goose with a group of Scots dressed for a masquerade party.

Robbie Munro found me after breakfast, having a second cup of coffee and feeling like a pony that had been stabled without a rubdown. I inspected the footman closely for any signs that he had spent the evening hunting Englishmen through the rocks and snow, but he seemed chipper enough, clear-eyed and smiling pleasantly.

“The marchioness has asked for you,” he said.

“What? At this hour? She’s never awake by now.”

He shrugged and returned to his duties, and I went to do mine with a foul temper.

The marchioness was sitting up in bed, bright as a new button. She gave me a gap-toothed smile. “Splendid mornin’, ain’t it, Imogen?”

I nodded dully.

“I’m thinkin’ of dressin’ and breakfastin’ downstairs this mornin’. I never feel like gettin’ out of bed this early, but today I feel grand.”

Oh, dear. I had expected the marchioness to enjoy a peaceful evening’s repose, but I hadn’t considered the idea that the old dear would wake up so full of pep.

“Breakfast won’t be ready for an hour, ma’am. Should I bring you a cup of tea?”

“An hour,” said the marchioness in disbelief. “I’m famished.”

“I’ve got just the thing to take the edge off your appetite,” I said, collecting her snuffbox from the dressing table and pouring her a stiffish peg of whisky.

The old lady cackled. “Capital idea, Imogen.”

I held the snuffbox while the marchioness ladled a large portion into her nose, snorting like a spent artillery mule at the water trough, and I wiped her dry after an attack of sneezing that would have killed a countess.

“Take a pew,” said the marchioness when her sinuses had cleared. “I’ve a hankerin’ to hear about harlots.”

I gulped (I hoped not visibly). If the old gal had rumbled me, why not come out with it and stop these not particularly subtle messages?

“Second book of Joshua, if ye please.” The marchioness settled herself comfortably among the pillows.

There was a fine tremor to my hands as I turned the pages of the Bible and commenced the story of Rahab the harlot. You may already be acquainted with it, but as I find that the vast majority of readers tend to doze through the lessons at Sunday services and are loathe to crack open the Good Book themselves unless absolutely forced to do so, I’ll fill you in on the story and save you the trouble of looking it up. As I’ve said, Rahab was a member of the world’s oldest profession (and you’d think that would earn it a bit of respect, wouldn’t you, as it indicates the native intelligence and cunning of women who learned how to turn a profit before the male sex had climbed down from the trees). That wily Israelite Joshua was planning to attack the city of Jericho (where Rahab had her place of business), and he sent a couple of coves in to suss out the lay of the land. These two blokes, like most soldiers who finagle their way out from under their commander’s thumb, went looking for a good time and wound up spending the night at Rahab’s establishment. Now, Joshua says that when the soldiers of Jericho came in search of his two spies, Rahab hid them under a bundle of flax, and being deuced grateful for the help, the men agreed to spare Rahab and her family when Joshua’s troops attacked the city. I reckon they had such a good time (and being conscious of the waste of a talented whore, of course), they didn’t want Rahab to end up skewered on the tip of an Israeli spear. I leave it to you to find your own moral of the story.

Anyway, the sign the spies agreed to with Rahab was the hanging of a red cord outside her house, which some scholars seem to think was the origin of red lights outside brothels. It’s no matter to me where the idea came from, for I run a discreet establishment and would no more think of painting my lantern red than I would of having a sign printed up and hung on the door. There’s never the slightest need to advertise your location, in my experience, as word of mouth is the best recommendation, and what respectable gentleman wants to be seen slipping into a bawdy house by his fellow MPs through a crimson fog?

Apart from my concern that the marchioness was toying with me by dropping hints that she knew my background (and I still couldn’t see how she’d managed to learn the truth, without some assistance from French or Dizzy, and why would either of them have disclosed my identity to the old cat?), I rather enjoyed the story of Rahab. For once, the bint in the story didn’t end up as a pillar of salt or consumed by fire, but instead bet on the winning horse and reaped the reward. I like an uplifting tale like that. But I digress.

The marchioness’s breakfast arrived, and I helped her sit upright long enough to fork in a wagonload of deviled kidneys and toast, and by the time she’d finished and I’d given her a sponge bath (resolving to mention to French in the future that while I might be willing to shoot a Cossack guard or two, I was disinclined to bathe flabby members of the aristocracy), it was time to drape my charge in a clean costume for luncheon.

“I’m dinin’ with Lady Dalfad and the Queen,” the marchioness announced glumly, doubtless remembering her shaming and banishment from the dining table two days prior.

“Not to worry, my lady. I shall be in attendance and ensure that nothing untoward happens.”

The marchioness sniffed, but I thought I detected the merest trace of gratitude on her face.

The ladies’ luncheon, being a small social function on the Balmoral calendar, was served in the library, where the Queen and dear departed Albert had preferred to dine. I’d been in the room before, on my ill-fated excursion to locate Mrs. Greenhow’s book, but it took the daylight to reveal how utterly gloomy the room was: dark as pitch with rows of bookcases around each wall, surmounted by yet more hideous thistle-patterned wallpaper, and the ubiquitous Royal Stewart tartan carpet. There was a handsome sofa of button-tufted Moroccan leather and a set of matching chairs, and in the center was a table for six. The marchioness joined the Queen, Lady Dalfad, and three other sterling examples of inbred, blue-blooded nitwits.

It was a jolly affair, with all those fine Christian ladies freezing out the marchioness for offending the Queen, but the marchioness affected not to give a damn (and probably didn’t, as the comestibles on hand were sensational), while Her Majesty sat stiffly at the head of the table with one of her Hindoo servants standing at attention behind her. He was a comely fellow, the colour of a shelled walnut, with a set of sweeping, dignified mustaches and a powder blue silk kurta and matching turban that many ladies would have killed for. The marchioness sniffed when she saw him, but she didn’t let the presence of an infidel interfere with her appetite. The only one who matched her in putting away the provisions was the Queen. She didn’t waste breath on polite conversation; she let her ladies-in-waiting do all the chatting while she devoted her fullest attention to each course. She worked her way steadily through soup, salmon, veal cutlets, York ham and a roast or two. There were three kinds of puddings, and she sampled each, and when she’d decided which one she liked best, she had a second helping just to make sure her decision had been wise. I’ll tell you, it was like seeing the crew of a man-o’-war going through the grub that day, and I felt faintly sick watching those pudgy jaws grinding away relentlessly. Hard to credit that this plump matron greedily licking the icing from a cream cake was the monarch of our sceptred isle and the Great White Queen to her heathen subjects.

I kept a keen eye on the marchioness, and she did me proud, not once snuffling about among the pickle dishes and sugar bowls for something to inhale. Finally, after the Queen had emptied the custard bowl, she pushed back her chair and signaled to the waiting footmen to clear the table. The pagan in the turban brought her a finger bowl, and she delicately washed her hands, and the group relaxed, now that Her Highness had eaten her fill.

One of the ladies at the table (a baroness or a duchess, I can’t recall exactly, but as she plays no further part in this story, there’s no use getting exercised about the details) beamed at the Queen.

“I am so looking forward to the ghillies’ ball tonight, Your Highness. It will be such a treat.”

I had been so busy sleuthing and tossing rooms and evading masked Scots in the woods that I had forgotten that tonight was the big night. Everyone chimed in at the woman’s comment, to make sure the Queen knew how much each one was looking forward to the dance and, that’s right, more food.

“Wouldn’t Prince Albert have loved to have been here for the ball,” one of the old cats said wistfully.

The Queen’s face contorted, and she dabbed at the corner of her eye with her serviette. “Poor, dear Albert. How he loved these dances for the servants. He adored watching the ghillies dance with the domestics. And dear Albert looked so handsome in his kilt the last time we led the grand march into the ballroom.”

Lady Dalfad sipped her coffee. “Indeed. The dances are most enjoyable. Your Highness should be commended for carrying on the tradition after the prince’s passing. It must be difficult for you, ma’am, but I know the servants are most grateful. My Effie looks forward to it every year.”

Effie squirmed but nodded.

“And what a rare delight,” Lady Dalfad carried on. “We’ll have
two
dances this year. The customary occasion last September and now a ball in December.”

“It is how Albert would have wished it,” said the Queen lugubriously. “We always have a dance when we are at Balmoral, and as he expressly wished me to spend the Christmas holiday here, I see no reason why we should depart from tradition.”

“Very wise,” said Lady Dalfad. “Especially under the present circumstances.”

The Queen cast a sharp eye down the table. “What do you mean by that statement?”

There was an infinitesimal movement of the countess’s shoulders. “I was referring to the incidents that have occurred. Continuing to observe the customary habits will reassure the servants and guests that nothing is amiss.”

“Nothing
is
amiss.” The Queen’s tone was freezing.

A lesser woman than the countess might have quailed, but Lady Dalfad smiled sweetly. “But Your Highness, you must know of the talk that surrounds your illness and the occurrence in the stable.”

“Bah!” spat the Queen. “Those were accidents, nothing more. I don’t understand why everyone is so excitable. Mr. Disraeli has even suggested that I return to Windsor.”

“Everyone is concerned with your safety, ma’am,” Lady Dalfad said gently. “We are all aware that the Sons of Arbroath have vowed to kill you. Why, even the servants have heard of the threat to your life. Isn’t that right, Effie?”

The Queen turned a basilisk glare upon Effie, who flinched but nodded affirmatively.