India Black and the Gentleman Thief

by Carol K. Carr

  “I have not warned Philip. I had merely renewed our acquaintance and had been waiting for an opportune time to find out his connection to this whole affair.” I did not think it wise to mention that I had been wearing my dressing gown at this meeting, nor that it had taken place in a bedroom.

  “Oi,” Vincent said weakly. “Are you talkin’ about the gentleman thief? The same chap you used to spark wif?”

  “So the whole of London knows about your relationship with this man?” asked French.

  “I hardly think Vincent constitutes the entire city.”

  “You surprise me, India. The man is connected to a horrible crime.”

  “If you knew Philip—”

  “I do not desire to know Philip, now or ever.”

  “Then you shall just have to take my word for it that he did not murder Mayhew.”

  “But his compatriots did, and he is guilty by association.”

  “But not by law,” I retorted.

  “We shall never know that, now that he’s escaped justice by fleeing the country.” French rowed ferociously. “Just how well did you know this fellow? Was he your lover?”

  I considered shoving him overboard. “You presume too much with those questions, French. Shall I enquire into the intimacy of your relationship with your fiancée?”

  “I’ll thank you not to besmirch the name of Lady Daphne. She is a pure, sweet young woman.”

  “In contrast to me, do you mean? If that’s how you feel, then I wonder why you’ve been hanging around me like a doting hound. Ah, could it be that underneath that supercilious manner of yours, you’re nothing but a man like all the rest? You’ll marry your docile lass with a title and spend your free time whoring.”

  He recoiled as if I’d struck him, a look of pained astonishment on his face. Then his eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened.

  “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I have never treated you like a, like a—”

  “Like a whore? You can’t even bring yourself to say the word. You’d be surprised how many men can’t. It permits them the illusion that they are gentlemen. And I seem to recall that you had no qualms at sending me off to the Russian embassy to ply my trade, so long as I brought back that bloody memo you wanted.”

  Well, that caused him to clamp shut his jaws, as I expected it would. I would note, however, that anger is a fine inducement to strenuous physical effort as French rowed like a galley slave for the next several, silent hours. I did offer, three times in fact, to take a turn on the oars, but French refused by doggedly shaking his head and paddling on. Very well, if he wanted to sulk, let him. I suppose I should have been flattered that his nibs was jealous of Philip. If I were typical of my species, I’d probably drop a few comments about Philip’s manly figure or beautiful eyes, just to goad French to fresh demonstrations of envy. But I’ve never gone in for such games. You never know when a chap’s leash may break under the strain and he’ll go for your throat. Besides, I had a nagging suspicion that French’s taciturnity might not result from jealousy at all, but from mere anger at me for interfering with Philip’s capture back at the Jolly Tar.

  TWELVE

  The day wore on, and a more unpleasant day I have never experienced. It was bitterly cold in that little craft, with the wind blowing briskly and our clothes sodden with seawater. Vincent passed in and out of consciousness. In the sunlight it was apparent just how much blood the tyke had lost. His trouser leg was soaked from ankle to waist and the scarf French had wrapped round the wound was steeped in gore. With great reluctance, I unwound the thing and washed it out in the water, wringing out the excess before reapplying it to the boy’s leg. Every now and then I’d catch French looking worriedly at Vincent and chewing his lip, but when he felt my eyes upon him he found something to stare at on the horizon. I occupied myself by cupping my hands and bailing out a cup of water at a time. We bobbed about like a drunkard’s head, and I was half sick to my stomach, although that might have been hunger as none of us had eaten since dinner last night. By noon I had decided that it was indeed hunger and not nausea afflicting me and that I would gladly exchange French for a loaf of stale bread and a swallow of inferior brandy.

  Despite French’s assurances that we were adrift in the middle of a busy shipping lane and would soon attract attention, we were roundly ignored by the stream of vessels passing by. The steamships chugged past and the sailing ships looked glorious as they flew along, heeling over with the white spray flying as they carved through the waves. They were bound for the ports of the Empire, and not one of them was willing to douse the boiler or drop canvas to investigate our tiny craft. They must have taken us for a band of lunatics who’d chosen to fish in the worst possible location and they simply changed course and sailed past us without so much as a wave of the hand.

  The sun was beginning to slip below the yardarm (whatever that may mean; I just know the golden orb was plummeting toward the western horizon at disheartening speed) when a fishing boat drew near and hailed us. French lifted a weary arm and I was dismayed to see the shredded flesh on his palm. It was lovely to watch the deft maneuvers of the fishermen as they lowered the sails and came alongside us. It was tricky work, standing up in that lifeboat as it rose and fell on the waves, but French and I lifted Vincent into the waiting hands of our rescuers. I reached up and felt my arms being pulled out of my sockets as three burly fellows hauled me aboard. They brought French aboard the same way, and he collapsed onto the deck. We must have looked a dreadful sight, for the sea dogs took one look at us and hurried us below deck into a dim and foul cabin, lit by a smoking oil lamp and reeking of fish. They swathed us in blankets (damp and also permeated with eau de piscine) and fired up a spirit stove and boiled water for our tea. In a few moments we were gulping greedily at the hot liquid and swallowing huge chunks of coarse bread. I have never had a finer meal. I’m afraid we were very impolite guests, for we all fell asleep as soon as we had eaten and spoke not a word until our odiferous angels deposited us ashore. Despite their protestations, French emptied his pockets of coins, and I kissed each one of those grizzled coves on the cheek. It was the least I could do, and if any of them thought it odd that a beautiful lass was gallivanting around in a pair of trousers, they had the grace not to mention it.

  • • •

  Frankly, I was surprised to find Lotus House still standing as it had been a full twenty-four hours since I had left it and God knows what the marchioness was capable of destroying in that length of time.

  “Call the doctor and have him look at Vincent’s leg,” French said as the hansom pulled up to the pavement. It was the first time he’d said a word to me in hours, and it was just like the poncy bastard to issue an order. “I’m going to see the prime minister and apprise him of the situation. I’ll be back after I’ve spoken to him and had a rest.”

  With that he snapped an order to the driver and the hansom lurched away.

  “Wot’s ’e so buggered about?” asked Vincent. His eyes were drooping with fatigue and he could barely stand.

  “Pay no mind to him,” I said. “Let’s get you inside.”

  “It’s the gentleman thief, ain’t it? Wot’s ’is name?”

  “Philip. But you’re not to worry about that right now.”

  “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll straighten out the guv.”

  I could have hugged the lad, but I’d never hear the end of that and the little sod would be expecting favors from me for the rest of his life, so instead I put an arm around his waist and dragged him up the steps and pounded on the front door.

  Normally you’d expect that when you return home after disappearing for a day and a night, looking as if the dogs had dragged you in from the nearest rubbish heap and supporting a wounded comrade on your arm, your employees would jump to it, stumbling all over themselves to pour you a hot bath, fetch the doctor and administer some medicinal spirits. I only mention this a
s it did not occur. Indeed, no one answered the door.

  “Wot the ’ell?” Vincent grumbled.

  I hammered on the door with all the force I possessed and for good measure, shouted for Mrs. Drinkwater.

  Clara Swansdown jerked open the door and put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  It had to be that bloody marchioness. It would be just like the old trout to shuffle off this mortal coil while residing at Lotus House. Inspector Allen would be delighted to put me in the frame for another death.

  Clara deigned to open the door wide enough so that I could drag Vincent inside. “Ooh, poor fellow. What happened?”

  Explanations could wait. “Summon the doctor,” I said. “Unless he’s already here.”

  Clara looked confused. “Why would he be here?”

  “I assume we’ve an invalid in the house. Otherwise I’ll speak as loudly as I wish in my own home.”

  “Ah, you thought the marchioness was ill.” Clara patted my arm. “The old pet is fine. No, it’s Maggie.”

  “I don’t have a bint named Maggie.”

  Vincent’s pale face creased in a smile. “It’s the marchioness’s bitch. Is she whelpin’?”

  Clara grinned. “She’s already popped out two and the marchioness says there’s more on the way.”

  “Let me see,” Vincent demanded. He took one shuffling step forward and collapsed.

  Clara, having noticed the smear of blood now covering the marble tiles, gave a little shriek.

  “Forget those blasted puppies and fetch the doctor.” I left Vincent on the floor. Well, what else was I to do? I couldn’t carry him upstairs by myself and as not a single tart had materialized by now, I assumed they were all watching Maggie spew out miniature canines.

  The marchioness’s head appeared from behind the study door. “I’ll thank ye to keep yer mouth shut. Maggie’s havin’ a dreadful time and . . .” She noticed Vincent’s body sprawled in the foyer. “What the devil are ye doin’ out here? Get that young feller to bed. And get a doctor to look at him. What’s wrong with the lad anyway?”

  I was too weary to answer. “Clara will fetch the doctor. Could you please send out Fergus? I need help getting Vincent to bed.”

  The marchioness withdrew, muttering. Fergus appeared, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. With his wall-eyed countenance, he was able to simultaneously glare at me (no doubt blaming me for Vincent’s state) and look tenderly upon the young rascal. Despite being an old fellow Fergus easily lifted Vincent in his arms and carried him up to the bedroom I had been using. I resigned myself to spending the next few nights on the sofa in my study, provided the marchioness hadn’t enthroned Maggie there.

  The doctor arrived, a brisk, chinless young chap with a pince-nez. He handed me his bowler and proceeded to give Vincent a thorough examination. I winced as the doctor cut through Vincent’s trouser leg and exposed a livid slash in the flesh, which was turning blue and puckering at the edges. When the good doctor took out a metal probe, I remembered that hot water would be needed and took myself off to find Mrs. Drinkwater.

  An hour later Vincent’s gash had been cleaned and bandaged, the doctor had given him a dose of morphine and the boy was sleeping soundly. Maggie had also produced seven mewling black-and-white bundles. The marchioness was crowing with delight, the tarts were arguing over the puppies’ names, Mrs. Drinkwater had felt inspired to bake a cake no one would eat and I was dead on my feet. I helped myself to a few drops of the morphine the doctor had left for Vincent, stretched out on the rug by his bed and dropped into welcome oblivion.

  • • •

  It was dark when I awoke, stiff and crabbed. My clothes were sticky with salt and my skin felt drawn. I struggled upright. Vincent was sleeping peacefully, a small bubble expanding and contracting at the corner of his mouth. I stumbled to the top of the stairs and shouted for Mrs. Drinkwater.

  Fergus stuck his head out of the study door. “Her Ladyship asked me to inform you that the puppies are nursing and sudden noises may frighten them.”

  “Is that verbatim, Fergus?” I glared at him and heard the old witch cackling in my study. Mrs. Drinkwater came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Apparently Fergus was busy with his nursing duties and Mrs. Drinkwater had been restored to her position as cook. I requested a plate of sandwiches and a hot bath and after I had indulged in both, I felt considerably better. Apparently, the key to enjoying Mrs. Drinkwater’s food is to refrain from eating for an extended period of time before indulging.

  Afterwards I wandered back into Vincent’s room and found him awake, still weak but ravenous. I procured more sandwiches and sat with him as he devoured the pile. Then he had two pieces of cake, followed by a half-dozen ginger biscuits. He swallowed the last few crumbs and threw back the covers.

  “Get back in bed this instant,” I said. “The doctor said you must rest.”

  “Where’re me britches?”

  “I discarded them. They were soaked with blood and the doctor had to cut them off you.”

  As expected, this information pleased Vincent enormously. He inspected his leg. “Crikey, that’s a whale of a cut. ’Ow many stitches did I get?”

  “The doctor says you’ll have a scar.”

  Vincent flashed a gap-toothed grin. I had known he’d find that news exciting as well.

  “Where’s French?”

  “He went to tell Dizzy about the rifles.” In truth, I was beginning to wonder where French was. He’d had ample time to inform the prime minister of the scheme we’d uncovered, and he’d had more than enough time to rest. I supposed he was staying away from Lotus House to signify his displeasure with me. Very childish, that, and not at all what I expected from such an honourable fellow as French.

  “’Ere, wot am I goin’ to do wifout any trousers?” Vincent’s forehead was puckered with worry.

  “I’m having one of the girls run up a pair for you. They’ll be ready soon. But you’re not going anywhere until the doctor says you can.”

  “Not even to see them pups?”

  I sighed. “I’ll see if Fergus has a dressing gown he’ll loan you.”

  Fergus proved to be accommodating, just as soon as I gave him the money for a new dressing gown. By the time I managed to turf out the marchioness, her faithful retainer, Maggie and her puppies, the other three dogs, and Vincent, I’d be destitute. I brooded over that prospect for a moment and then remembered the astonishing fact that I was an heiress and had no need to worry about how much whisky the marchioness could drink or how many sandwiches Vincent could eat at one go. I hadn’t had any time to think about the bombshell the marchioness had dropped on me, and it was time I had a chat with my aged houseguest.

  I clattered downstairs and into the study, where the marchioness was coaxing Maggie to nurse one of her offspring.

  “I believe I’ll bring all my bitches here to whelp,” the marchioness said with satisfaction. “Just look at this litter! Finest litter Maggie’s ever birthed.” She thrust one of the tiny creatures at me. I was forced to take the thing, or it would have fallen to the floor. It immediately began to whimper.

  “Puir wee thing. Put yer finger in its mouth.”

  “I don’t even do that for customers.” Nevertheless, I pried open the pup’s mouth and inserted the tip of my pinkie.

  “Sit yerself down and tell me what ye’ve been up to. Where’s that rascal nephew of mine? And what happened to Vincent?”

  I’m not proud of myself. I should have handed her back that damned dog and thanked her sarcastically for inviting me to take my ease in my own home. Instead, I sat promptly, cradling the wee beast, and gave the marchioness an annotated version of what had transpired since I’d left Lotus House on the night before last. She listened keenly, now and then stroking Maggie’s head or nudging one of the pups in the direction of the feed trough. I confess I omitted a good portion of ou
r adventures. I skimmed over the part where Philip had released us and eliminated entirely the angry words French and I had exchanged in the lifeboat.

  When I’d finished she looked thoughtful. “Ye say one of those villains took pity on ye and let ye go? Now why would he do that, I wonder?”

  I shrugged.

  “And where is French?”

  “He’s gone round to see the prime minister.”

  “I’d like to meet that man. Do ye think French would introduce me?”

  “I’m sure he’d be delighted.” Just thinking of French’s face when the marchioness made her request was going to afford me hours of amusement.

  “My Lady—”

  “Och, ye can call me ‘Auntie.’ Ye might as well, seein’ as how we’ll be livin’ next door to one another.”

  I nearly dropped the pup. “Well, um, thank you. I suppose. I mean, it may take a bit of getting used to, you know.”

  Thank God this domestic scene was interrupted by Clara Swansdown, accompanied by the rest of the whores. They’d come to see the puppies. I gave up mine without regret and watched as a houseful of sluts kissed puppy heads and whispered nonsense into puppy ears. If I could get the girls to pet and cuddle the customers like that, I’d have to keep the doors open twenty-four hours a day to keep the clients happy. I snapped out of my reverie at the thought of my customers. I’d been absent for two nights and I hadn’t even thought to enquire about my enterprise.

  I herded Clara to one side. “I’m sorry I’ve left you alone so much recently, Clara. How has trade been?”

  “Oh, it’s been grand. Never busier.”

  “How much did we take in while I was gone?”

  Clara nodded at the marchioness. “You’ll have to ask her. She’s been collecting the money and keeping the accounts.”

  “Collecting the money?” I gaped. “You mean, she’s been talking to the customers? Do we still have any?”