India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery)

P
RAISE FOR

INDIA BLACK AND THE WIDOW OF WINDSOR

“Following a strong debut . . . Carr’s Victorian series just gets better. Featuring historical authenticity, sharp vocabulary and plenty of parenthetical asides, this romantic suspense romp delivers both action and guffaws.”

—
Library Journal
(starred review)

“Fans of historical murder mysteries should rejoice at the appearance of a second India Black adventure and the prospect of more—the madam comes highly recommended.”

—Open Letters Monthly

“Carr’s second India Black novel is fast, entertaining and funny as well as an engaging mystery.”

—RT Book Reviews

INDIA BLACK

“A breathless ride through Victorian England . . . You’ll be hooked on this unique mystery from the very first line.”

—Victoria Thompson, author of
Murder on Fifth Avenue

“I loved this cheeky romp—a kind of Fanny Hill meets Nancy Drew—through a world Dickens would have known. India Black, the witty and resourceful young madam of a London brothel, is a delightful protagonist. I shall follow her future career with particular interest.”

—Vicki Lane, author of
Under the Skin

“[A] breezy, fast-paced debut.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This saucy debut is a satisfying amusement, with the happy promise of more to come.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Readers will enjoy this impressive debut novel, which provides a colorful portrait of Victorian society as seen through the eyes of a strong, intelligent woman.”

—Booklist

“[A] breakneck romp through Victorian England . . . Provides plenty of laughter and thrills to keep readers turning pages.”

—Gumshoe Review

“Bone up on your English and Russian history with this witty account of India Black’s escapades. She’s quite a character!”

—Fresh Fiction

“India is a charismatic character with depth, coyness and an unexpected ability to get exactly what she wants, no matter what.
India Black
is also full of romance for those who enjoy history, romance and mysteries rolled into one. This is one book that will satisfy all of your needs.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“Expect to stay up late reading this fascinating and at times hilarious novel of espionage and intrigue; you won’t want to put it down.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Terrific . . . Entertaining . . . A fast-paced Victorian mystery . . . There are escapes, cross-country chases by coach and by sled, sharpshooting and danger on the high seas.”

—My Reader’s Block

“It’s the perfect mix of a great main character, interesting supporting characters, adventure, intrigue and historical setting—combined with a wonderfully descriptive writing style and fast pace.”

—Fluidity of Time

Carol K. Carr

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2013 by Carol K. Carr.

Cover illustration by Alan Ayers.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

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PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / February 2013

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Carr, Carol K.

India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy / Carol K. Carr.—Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-425-25595-7

1. Brothels—England—London—Fiction. 2. International relations—Fiction. 3. London (England)—History—1800-1950—Fiction. 4. Spy stories. 5. Historical fiction. I. Title.

PS3603.A7726I54 2013 2012040634

813'.6—dc23

PROLOGUE

“I
t’s a damned shame,” proclaimed Lord Wickard, Earl of Ebbechester, and a power in the land, “when a feller can’t feel safe in his own country.” He glared at his companions, who, having just finished an eight-course dinner by Francois, the Frog chef at the Albion Club, were now meditating upon the mellowness of the port and the age of the Stilton provided by the same establishment. The earl drew vigorously on a Romeo y Julieta and breathed smoke on his fellows.

“A damned shame,” he reiterated, more forcefully this time for the sake of old General Woodcliff, who was deaf as a post. “What the devil is the government doing letting in all these bloody foreigners? They’re a menace.”

The men round the fire stirred themselves to mutter pensively.

General Woodcliff stroked his magnificent moustache and said, “Venice? Venice? Lovely town and all that, what with those deuced odd boats and those grenadiers with the funny hats, poling them along.”

“You mean gondoliers,” corrected one of the diners.

“Impractical design, of course,” added the general. “Hate to attempt a landing under fire in those tubs.”

“Anarchists!” boomed the earl. “Every one of them anarchists. Tell me why Scotland Yard hasn’t packed up the lot of them and marched them down to the cliffs of Dover and kicked them over the edge?”

A diffident voice was heard to murmur that this activity would surely constitute murder, and not even a Tory government could countenance such behavior on the part of the police.

The earl plunged on, bitterly. “I wouldn’t scruple at murder. After all, that’s what these fellers are doing. They cut down poor Carrington the other day when he was out for a ride. Killed the horse, too. Damned shame, that. Had all the makings of a good stud.”

This aroused much indignation among the group. One fellow had to summon the waiter for more port.

“They’ve made threats, you know, to wipe out the entire aristocratic class of England,” the earl continued.

The general had by now deciphered the conversation. “Balls!” he said. “Thing to do is send in the Scarlet Lancers. Mow ’em down, like we did the Sikhs at Goojerat in ’49.”

“Not quite as simple as it sounds,” contributed one of the diners, a minor government official and cool fellow known as Carsty. “Apparently these chaps—”

“And women,” interjected the earl. “Some of these chaps are women.”

“And women,” added Carsty. “The point is that the government has allowed in so many Macaronis and Frogs and Russkis that you can’t tell friend from foe.”

“Send ’em all back,” said the earl. “Why should we allow a pack of Russians to settle down in the East End?”

Carsty cracked a walnut. “There is some concern that if they were returned to Russia, they’d be murdered. You know, because they’re Jews, or revolutionaries who want to assassinate the tsar. Sometimes”—Carsty pried the sweetmeat from the shell—“they’re both.”

“Proves my point,” said the earl. “If the Russians don’t want these troublemakers, I don’t see why we should be forced to put up with ’em.”

“Hear, hear,” said the general, waving his glass. “Ought to put ’em down like we did the blasted Indians who mutinied in ’57. Catch a few of the crafty bastards and tie ’em to the barrel of an artillery piece. Makes a hell of an example for the others, when the bugger’s fired.”

There was universal approbation among the group. The general might be edging toward senility, but he still had his wits about him when it came to crushing rebellions.

“I suppose,” said Carsty, “that we’ll all have to keep a sharp eye out for threats. These anarchists do seem fixed on the idea of destroying our finest families.”

“What have we ever done to them?” asked young Arbuthnot.

The others looked at him pityingly. A good chap, but not a first-class intellect. A deuced fine shot, though, and always useful at making up the numbers for a game of polo.

The earl deigned to enlighten him. “They’re lunatics, Arbuthnot. They seem to think that every man is fit to rule himself, and governments aren’t needed. They want to kill off the old guard and the monarchs and let the common man and the workers have a go at running things.” He paused. “Or not running things. For the life of me, I don’t know how they expect things to happen unless someone’s around to make sure they do. Do they really think a coal miner could manage British foreign policy? Confusing business.” He shook his head briskly. “Anyway, what they believe is of no importance because it’s all balderdash.”

“Balderdash for which they’re willing to commit murder,” said Carsty.

“Put ’em on the firing line,” the general urged. “We’ll see if they’re willing to die for that balderdash. Most of these rebel types are cowards at heart. Most of ’em not fit to polish your boots.”

The group concurred with this assessment, and then conversation turned to more important matters, such as whether Romeo y Julietas or Partagás gave the finer smoke, and would the impending war between the Russians and the Turks mean a disruption in the supply of caviar from the Caspian Sea?

Shortly after midnight, the earl rose and took his leave.

“Wash out for anarchists,” Arbuthnot called gaily after him. Arbuthnot was very, very drunk.

The earl looked fierce. “Just let them try me. They’ll soon find they’ve meddled with the wrong man.”

“That’s the spirit,” said the general.

A yawning cloakroom attendant bundled the earl into his coat and muffler and handed him his hat. The earl dropped a coin into the man’s hand. Word had already been delivered to the mews that the Earl of Ebbechester desired his carriage to be sent round.

The driver touched his whip to his brim as the earl came down the steps. A footman opened the door, and the earl stepped up into his carriage, subsiding gratefully into the rich leather seats. The footman draped a woolen blanket over the earl’s knees, shut the door and rapped on the carriage. The horses stepped out and the earl sighed contentedly. A fine dinner, amiable conversation, excellent port. The simple pleasures of life. And now home to bed, to crawl between freshly ironed sheets while his valet placed two hot water bottles at his feet.

The door of the carriage was jerked open and a rough voice said, “Here, guv.” Something round and heavy and metallic rolled across the carriage floor, crashing into the earl’s feet. The earl smelled a familiar smell, which took him back to delightful days on the moor, with the pheasants whirring into the air as the beaters drove them along. Gunpowder. The carriage rolled a few feet forward, and exploded.