India Black and the Widow of Windsor (33 page)

Bugger.

She waved her cane at me. “Here, girl! Where have ye been?”

“No time to talk, my lady,” I panted, and attempted to squeeze past.

The marchioness deftly inserted her cane between my legs, and I crashed to the floor, my face skidding across the Turkey carpet. I rolled against the wall and glared up at her, rubbing my bruised shin.

The marchioness looked at me accusingly. “Ye disappoint me, Idina.”

It was hardly the time to listen to complaints about immoral behavior or indolence. “I took ye for a clever lass, but I see ye’ve missed the point.”

“The point?”

“Ye want to know who the Marischal is, don’t ye? Ain’t that why ye’re here?”

“What do you know about the Marischal?” I jumped to my feet, rejuvenated by this unexpected news.

“More than ye, my girl. F’r instance, I’ll bet ye’re runnin’ in circles right now, lookin’ for the man who tried to shoot the Queen.”

“I am. And I’ve no time to waste talking to you about it.”

The marchioness cackled. “Suit yerself. But ye’d do well to remember the stories we’ve been readin’ this past few days.”

I am not a patient person, and the marchioness was trying what little quantity of that characteristic I possessed.

“Whatever you’re trying to say, just say it. I can’t wait around all night while you flap your gums.”

The marchioness turned regally and put her hand on the under butler’s arm. “Ye give it a think, while ye’re harin’ about the castle, lookin’ for the man ye’re after.”

She lurched off down the hall. I shook my head and trotted off toward the tunnel, fuming and sputtering like a Catherine wheel. I had a wily Scottish nationalist to find, and the dotty old bird wanted me to cogitate about the Scriptures. And Rose O’Neal Greenhow. And how, by all that was holy, had the marchioness known about the Marischal? Despite my inclination to hurry, I found my pace slowing as my mind raced. What had she been trying to tell me? I’d been certain she had learned my true identity and wanted me to know she knew, hence those stories about whores and deceitful women. As far as I knew (though there were no doubt some amateurs in the building), I was the sole professional at Balmoral. I certainly didn’t consider myself the only liar in the pack; I was a dilettante in deceit, compared to all the bloody politicians on hand.

By now, of course, alert readers will have deduced the theme that the marchioness had been harping on since she’d instructed me to read to her for the first time. I can only plead a lack of mental clarity, brought about by an almost complete absence of sleep since arriving at the Queen’s Highland home. But it came to me now, and I stopped dead in my tracks and slapped my forehead with my palm. Treachery and treason. All the ladies I’d been droning on about to the marchioness had betrayed someone or something: a lover, a city, a country. What the marchioness had been trying to tell me was that the Marischal was a woman. I thought I had detected some sarcasm when the marchioness had referred to the “man ye’re after.”

I actually smiled when I realized I was hunting one of my own sex. There isn’t a woman alive who frightens India Black. I’ve held my own on the streets of London, when another bint and I have gone toe-to-toe over a customer, clawing at each other like two cats. I’ve vanquished a half-dozen other madams intent on stealing my customers or my sluts. And I’ve sparred for my life with that damned Russian agent, Oksana. When it comes to fighting another damsel, I’m hot pickles and ginger. I didn’t care what kind of political fanatic the Marischal might be; she couldn’t hold a candle to a whore when the chips were down. I bustled off cheerily, already anticipating the surprise on French’s face when I delivered one Scottish nationalist and failed assassin to his feet, trussed like a Christmas goose.

Two of Robshaw’s men were in the hall, opening bedroom doors and darting in and out, searching for the Marischal. It would take hours to search every room in the castle, and by the time the job was done, our assassin could have doubled back and found a refuge in some part of the building already searched by Robshaw’s men. This, however, was not my concern. I waited until the boys from the Yard had disappeared into one of the guest rooms and then flashed past the open door and around the corner. I might be on a wild-goose chase myself, but I was determined to search the secret passage. Call it woman’s intuition (or, in retrospect, sheer bad luck).

The bare-legged Scots on the tapestry were swaying gently when I arrived. I slipped my hand behind the wall hanging and felt a gentle breeze, as cold as the Thames in January. I groped for the stone that triggered the locking mechanism. The door swung inward, and I craned my neck around the opening. A soft yellow glow filled the tunnel. I tamped down the excitement rising in my breast; the bearer of the light could easily be one of Robshaw’s men, for surely the superintendent knew of the tunnel. Still, with luck, I might lay hands on the Marischal.

I was halfway through the door before it occurred to me that I needed my own light, so as not to be left stranded in the dark again. More important, I needed a weapon. I snatched a candle from one of the half-dozen candelabras scattered on chests up and down the hall, and rummaged through a half dozen of those before I found a box of matches. The weapon proved easier to find. I had only to take a few steps to find myself in front of one of the numerous martial displays that dotted the castle walls. I scanned the board swiftly. The great two-handed claymore caught my eye, if for no other reason than it looked intimidating as hell. Unfortunately, wielding it effectively would require the strength of Hercules, which I did not possess. I took down a
sgian dubh
, weighing it in my hand. I could certainly handle this, but I’d have to move in close to the Marischal to use it, and I didn’t fancy that notion. I tossed the little weapon to the floor, wishing fervently as I did so that I had been allowed to bring my Webley Bulldog along. It looked as though the assassin had discarded her revolver in the hall, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have another. If the Marischal had a revolver, I would be wandering the Elysian fields before dawn, and it would be just my luck to bump into dear departed Albert there and have to natter with the poor soul about Vicky and Bertie and all the rest. Well, there was no use standing here all night, dithering about which edged weapon would best protect me from a bullet. I snatched a Scottish broadsword from the wall, waggled it experimentally and took some solace from the comforting sound of the double-edged blade swishing through the air. Then I plunged into the tunnel.

The glimmer of light could still be seen, though it had receded some distance into the passage. I didn’t bother to light my own candle, not wanting to give myself away to my prey, so I edged forward cautiously, scarcely breathing. It was tedious work, following that murky gleam down the stone-walled corridor, and it seemed to take forever. I occupied my mind by imagining the various scenarios that might occur and calculating how best to ambush the woman in the limited confines of the tunnel. It was deuced cold in the passage at this time of night, and my teeth began to chatter like castanets. I clamped my jaws together and hurried stealthily onward. The sooner I ran the Marischal to ground, the sooner I could have a stiff drink and crawl into a warm bed. Perhaps if I captured the Marischal, I’d receive an appropriate reward: six pieces of coal instead of three.

The conclusion of the chase came sooner than I had expected. The pale golden gleam of the light ceased moving, flickering over the walls of the small room I’d found in my earlier exploration of the tunnel. I sucked in a breath and glided forward. I moved as silently as a Red Indian, albeit one wearing a silk ball gown, the rustling of which sounded like a typhoon approaching. Too late, I remembered my earlier vow (made while hunting those damned Russian agents) to acquire a pair of trousers for use in chasing spies, hand-to-hand combat and similar pursuits. But luckily for me, the figure I now saw was too preoccupied to hear the whispery fluttering of my skirts.

A slender form stood before me, dressed in tartan trews and a short, dark jacket, a Balmoral cap perched on its head. A black woolen cloak lay discarded on the floor. The figure bent over, rapidly untying the laces of a pair of stout boots. I was tempted to retreat, find the marchioness and bash her over the head with the butt of my broadsword. I’d been expecting to find a woman; now I’d have to take my chances with a member of the male sex, who looked lithe and fit as a champion hurdler. The sensible thing would be to silently retrace my steps and summon help, but I find it infernally difficult to do the sensible thing when my blood is up, as it was now. I could hear French’s posh voice in my ear, telling me not to be rash, but I shut it out. I had two things going for me: the element of surprise and an aversion to fighting fair.

“The Marischal, I presume?” To my relief, my voice was steady.

The figure spun to face me, mouth agape. A mouth shaped like a rosebud.

Good Lord, that couldn’t be . . .

A hand reached up and swept off the cap, releasing a mass of strawberry blond curls that tumbled to the shoulders of the figure I confronted.

“Flora!” The sword in my hand wavered.

Flora saw my indecision and sprang for the cloak, the folds of which had concealed a small sword. It was a vicious thing, almost three feet in length, with a razor-sharp point that Flora now brandished under my nose.

I raised the broadsword in defense. From a purely objective view, this should be an interesting match: I carried a weapon with a cutting edge on each side of the blade, giving me the ability to do damage with any contact to the body, while Flora’s small sword was to be used not to hack or slash, but to bury its point into the opponent. We seemed equally matched, as far as height and weight, and we were both young and in our prime. From the subjective point of view, however, I was damned concerned.

“You seem surprised to see me here, India.” Flora had dropped the amiable housemaid act and now looked as cordial as a trapped wolverine from the wilds of Michigan. “But I am not surprised to see you. It was clear you were up to something from the moment you arrived, pestering the servants with your questions, watching Robbie Munro and Vicker like a hawk.”

That made my dander rise, but I fought it down with some effort. French would have been proud.

“And thank God you and your accomplices are a pack of dunderheads,” I said. “Your attempts on the Queen were amateurish.”

She bridled at that, which is just what I had planned. I wanted her raving mad when she came after me with that brochette in her hand.

“Your ignorance was breathtaking. You knew nothing about Scotland and its noble families. You had no idea that Lady Dalfad held the title in her own right, as Scottish peerages are allowed to pass through the female line.”

I mentally applauded the liberality of the Scots in permitting aristocratic ladies to enjoy the same privileges as their menfolk, but the subject did not warrant much consideration at the moment, especially with the point of Flora’s sword inches from my face.

“Indeed, I knew you weren’t a lady’s maid the moment I set eyes on you.”

“Having never been a servant,” I said, “I did find it hard to behave like one, unlike you, who seemed damned good at tugging your forelock.”

Her eyes flamed, and a bitter smile formed on her lips. “Och, we’ve tugged them for too long, to a pack of rascals who care not a whit for our proud nation. But that will change soon enough.”

“The Queen is still alive, Flora.”

“She won’t survive long. I’m not the only one prepared to sacrifice my life to rid the land of the Sassenach plague.” She took a step toward me.

“Do your best, Flora.”

Her face twisted with rage. “I am not Flora,” she spat. “I am Fionnghuala MacGhillechoinnich”—I admit, I learned this later, as when she flung the words at me, they might have been Lithuanian for all I knew—“of the Clan MacGhillechoinnich, hounded by the British, our lands and kine confiscated in the Clearances, our sons reduced to dying for a monarch we loathe, our daughters forced into servitude, our name erased from history and anglicized to Mackenzie for the convenience of the bloody English.”

Nothing I might have said could have provoked her more than her own fiery speech. She lunged at me, howling like a Fuzzy-Wuzzy intent on breaking the British square, the cruel point of her small sword aimed at my breast. I pivoted to avoid the rush and got my blade up to counter her thrust. I felt the shock along my arm and into my shoulder as the blades met, and I stumbled backward. Flora (and I’ll continue to call her that, as the name she prefers takes such a deuced long time to write out on the page) pursued the advantage, advancing on me while I tried to regain my balance, the tip of her sword weaving like a black mamba about to strike. Then she flexed her wrist and the point of the blade flicked across my cheek. Shocked, I clapped my hand to my face and felt the warm gush of blood between my fingers.

But this was no time to worry about finding a mirror. Flora’s successful strike had infused her with energy. She charged toward me, and I thrust my blade between us, shoving hers upward as she bore in on me. Once more, I staggered backward at the ferocity of her attack. Previous thoughts of delivering the Marischal to French were chucked out the window. The way things were going, I’d be lucky to survive this bout.

Flora swept forward and came in under my arm, dropping her shoulder and stabbing upward. I leapt away, hammering my blade down on hers and parrying what might have been a fatal thrust. I would have congratulated myself for escaping almost certain death, but I now had a real problem: my back was against the wall. Literally. Flora had pushed me backward until I had run out of room. I felt the damp, cold stone through my dress. Flora tilted her head, a mocking smile playing around her lips. Then her eyes hardened and every sinew of her body tensed. I knew she would be coming in for the kill.