India Black (11 page)

“Not to worry, India,” French said blithely (he wasn’t going to be in the embassy, performing for Count Perverterov, was he?). “The guards will be exhausted after pulling duty at the ball. They’ll be snoring in their beds by the time you have the case in hand.”

The barouche dropped us at my front door, with instructions for me to be ready at nine o’clock the following evening and for Vincent not to be anywhere near the Russian embassy then. Vincent nodded obligingly, but I knew I’d likely see his face peeking out from behind the aspidistra.

 

 

 

As I’ve said, I didn’t find it the least bit odd that the PM would enlist a whore to engage in some skullduggery on behalf of the government, and I made my plans accordingly.

If Yusopov wanted to enjoy the Sapphic arts, I had just the person in mind, and the following morning, I walked briskly around the corner to the Silver Thistle and inquired for the Jamaican Queen. Moments later, I was engulfed in a haze of perfume, my face buried in the ample bosom of Rowena Adderly.

“India,” she squealed. “How delightful to see you.” She held me at arm’s length and assessed me with an expert eye. “You’re looking particularly luscious, my dear.”

I extracted myself from her grasp, no small feat as Rowena had the grip of an octopus in heat. “Hello, Rowena. You’re looking well yourself.” And she was a damnably fine-looking woman: statuesque and coffee-coloured, with a billowing cloud of dark curls, a lilting Caribbean accent, and plump lips that made men salivate. She plied her trade out of the Silver Thistle and did a rushing business in men newly returned from the colonies, where they’d acquired an affinity for Negresses, Indian nautch girls and Arab maidens, obtaining a small fortune along the way. Rowena’s talents were legendary on the London docks, but her personal taste ran to her own sex. Hence my visit this morning: if you’re going to do something, you may as well do it with style, and who better to give this affair some class (not to mention verisimilitude) than a real live tom? I didn’t have any doubt that Rowena would be willing to join me in my escapade. She’d been trying to get into my petticoats for years.

Of course I couldn’t tell her the truth. I’d concocted a tale on the drive home, and now I spun it for Rowena, after we’d exchanged the usual pleasantries and complaints about customers, peelers and the Contagious Diseases Act. I’d given considerable thought to how I might explain the case and what was in it and why I wanted it, bearing in mind that while Rowena might jump at the chance to strip off my knickers (not that I was planning on things getting to that point), she’d be even more likely to offer her assistance if I could enlist her sympathy, having, as I said, a soft spot for yours truly.

So I laid out a yarn that would have made Dickens’s readers weep, how I’d promised my mother to take care of her dearest friend in her old age, how the friend had suffered grievously from a rare disease that could only be cured by taking the waters at Baden-Baden, how I’d borrowed the money from one of my customers, a Russian nobleman (Count Yusopov, by name, the rascal) and delivered to him as security the deed to Lotus House, how I’d repaid the debt but had been shocked and dismayed to learn that Yusopov had no intention of returning the deed to me, unless I agreed to provide him with services that no tart should ever have to provide.

I did my fiction credit, if I do say so myself, letting tears well up in my eyes at just the right moment and allowing my voice to choke when I mentioned dear Mother. Rowena lapped it up like a cat laps up cream (beautiful she may be, and possessed of a naïve cunning, but not what I’d call a scholar), her plump lips parted in amazement, her eyes growing luminous with unshed tears as my voice faltered and finally blazing with indignation at Yusopov’s treachery. I knew the last bit would get her, you see, her being a fellow property owner.

At the end of my tale, she was ready to do battle, and willingly agreed to join me in attending the gala at the embassy (it never occurred to her to wonder how I’d managed to wrangle an invitation) and in recovering my stolen deed. I invited her along to Monsieur Gaspard’s, for I intended to take full advantage of the offer to have a suitable gown run up for the soiree, as it was the only compensation I was going to receive for my services (I didn’t count French’s gracious offer to let me stay in business as remuneration), and I didn’t see why Rowena shouldn’t receive some recompense as well, since I’d lied to her to get her to join in my scheme. Thus we spent the next few hours being fussed over by a petite, cranky Frenchman, who talked through his nose and smelled of Camembert, but was a dab hand with silk and lace.

T
hat evening, at the appointed hour, a hansom cab drew up to the Lotus House, and Rowena and I joined Endicott and French for the drive to the embassy. We looked, if I may admit so, ravishing. Monsieur Gaspard had done us proud. He’d decked me out in a watered-silk gown of ice blue, with a plunging neckline that showed the swell of my breasts to perfection, and the new cuirass bodice fitted my curvaceous figure like a glove. Rowena had fared as well, for she sported a moiré gown of pale yellow in the same style that glowed warmly against her coffee-coloured breasts and arms. Her Majesty’s government (albeit unknowingly) had sprung for lace gloves and matching cashmere shawls for us both.

No woman of a certain class would attend a social affair unescorted, and it had been arranged that French and Endicott would act as our attendants, though I suspected their real role was to see that I carried out the retrieval of the case. Rowena and I had preened like peacocks in front of the mirror at Lotus House, but our sartorial splendor was wasted on the two men. French was reserved as always; Endicott even chillier, though he seemed momentarily taken aback when the dusky Rowena climbed into the cab, turning to glare at French before composing his face into a marble scowl and sulking all the way to the embassy. French, who’d known about Rowena since I’d vetted her with him on the ride from Dizzy’s, assumed an air of innocence, which was about as convincing as a crocodile masquerading as a brindled gnu. Rowena was too experienced to do more than glance curiously at the men before turning away to gaze out at the streets of London as we traveled. We rode in silence, while the cab swayed and the driver cursed the carriages and pedestrians that impeded our progress.

The Russian embassy occupied a handsome mansion in the Regency style in Belgravia. The building was ablaze with lights when we drew up, the windows hung with scarlet and gold banners, the flag bearing the double-headed eagle of the tsar snapping in the breeze. Inside, an orchestra was playing a Strauss waltz, and the gay melody carried out into the street, where a throng of carriages and hansom cabs discharged a crowd of well-heeled revelers. The men were in white tie and tails, looking haughty and self-important, and the ladies decked out in gorgeous gowns, long white gloves and ermine wraps. There was a crush at the front door, as the parties jostled for entry and waited in line to be announced by a Slavic-looking cove in a tailcoat and crimson sash. French offered me his arm, Rowena tucked her hand into Endicott’s, and we passed through a double line of guards standing like a row of statues, spectacularly turned out in long grey coats with light blue stripes and gold cartridge loops, light blue
beshmets
or waistcoats, grey trousers and tall fleece caps of light blue. Each guard wore a wicked looking sword at his side.

“Terek Cossacks,” whispered French, when we’d exited the corridor of guards. “One of the oldest of the Cossack hosts. That sword they carry is called a
shashka
. You never want to face one of those.”

We entered a great hall with a marble staircase and illuminated by a chandelier of glittering crystal and gilt. Endicott handed the footman a card. The footman read the script, blinked, cast an anxious glance at Rowena’s toffee-coloured skin and bit his lip. Endicott’s growl recalled the man to his duty. “Mr. William R. Endicott and Miss Rowena Endicott,” the footman stammered. In the light from the chandelier, Endicott’s hair was the colour of burnished gold, his face as pale as the marble columns in the hallway.

“Siblings?” I hissed in French’s ear. “Couldn’t you have come up with something better than that?”

“I thought a wife might be stretching things a bit thin.”

“You’re not a nice man, French.”

“I’m in politics. Being nice is a disadvantage.”

We swept through the hallway and into the dining salon, where dozens of tables were scattered about, all covered with snowy white damask, gleaming crystal and individual silver candelabras. I’ll say this for the Russians, they don’t let the plight of the serfs stand in the way of a good party. The buffet tables in the dining salon groaned with food: caviar in silver bowls resting on a bed of crushed ice, oysters on the half shell, lobster and venison, borscht and dumplings, ices and puddings and chocolate gateau
.
There were iced buckets of Taittinger and Veuve Clicquot, and bottles of vodka, Madeira, brandy and claret. The rooms of the mansion were no less impressive, being decked out in that over-the-top style the Russkis favor, the one that makes most tarts envious, all velvet, gilt, marble, jewels and silk. In the ballroom, couples twirled dreamily around the parquet floor to the music of Tchaikovsky while diamonds and emeralds twinkled in the candlelight. A waiter scurried over with a tray of glasses, and French handed round the champagne.

Rowena swallowed appreciatively. “We’d nothing like this in Kingston.”

French nudged my elbow. “There’s your man,” he whispered, and nodded discreetly at a paunchy, bearded fellow in white tie, with a chest full of medals and a luxuriant mustache, who was laughing uproariously at some anecdote being related by his companion, an overbred English woman with an aristocratic, horsy face. Yusopov had an air of languid dissipation, heightened by his flushed cheeks and the way his eyes drooped at the outer corner, as though he’d only just gotten out of bed.

He must have felt my eyes upon him, for he lifted his head and looked me squarely in the eye. His candid appraisal left me feeling as exposed as if he’d stripped me naked. He must have approved, for he bowed slightly and leered at me, raising his champagne glass in a wordless salute.

Beside me, I heard French’s indrawn breath. “Quick work,” he muttered.

“Can you blame the man?” I’m accustomed to the effect I produce in men (with the evident exception of French, of course, who looked at me with the same interest as a chess player would regard a pawn). “Just don’t get cocky, boyo,” I said. “I haven’t gotten my hands on that case yet.”

“I’ve no doubt you’ll be successful tonight,” said French, still marveling at the way Yusopov had honed in on me.

I returned Yusopov’s gaze, simpering and pouting and otherwise announcing my availability. Then I shared a smile with Rowena, whispering to her behind my fan, and she tossed the count a look of frank interest, giving him an unobstructed view of two coffee-coloured breasts swelling out of her pale yellow gown. She smiled invitingly, put a proprietary arm around my waist and her lips to my ear, as though we were sharing a confidence and would likely share a bit more before the evening was over, and if Yusopov played his cards right, what we shared might be him. The count swallowed convulsively, muttered something into the ear of a uniformed lackey hovering nearby, and then turned his attention back to the equine-faced woman with difficulty. Rowena and I were subjected to a moment’s scrutiny by the uniformed man, who was no doubt filing away our faces for future reference.

The game was afoot, but Yusopov played at a slow pace. No doubt he had certain social obligations to fulfill, for he circulated around the room, slapping backs and kissing hands and engaging in fervid discussions with various official-looking gents, but he made sure Rowena and I knew of his interest, casting a number of lusty glances in our direction and toasting us with the ever-present glass in his hand. As the evening wore on, his cheeks grew pinker, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

We spent the better part of three hours guzzling champagne and dancing to the latest tunes. French proved surprisingly light on his feet, if not particularly attentive. He spent his time tracking Yusopov over my shoulder as we pirouetted around the ballroom floor, and quizzing me about the blueprints of the embassy he’d shown me the night before.

“And Yusopov’s office is on the second floor, right below his bedroom.”

“I know,” I said. “You’ve told me ten bloody times.” French’s mouth was an inch from my ear and his hand was nestled in the small of my back. It was unsettling, this pleasant interlude with a man who’d done nothing but cause trouble since he came into my life. Fortunately, the moment was ruined when French spoke again. “There’s little margin for error. You’ll have to work quickly.”

“You’d be surprised how many men prefer it that way,” I said, swaying gently in time to the music.

“Rowena knows what’s expected of her?”

“Yes. Stop fretting. It won’t be the first time Rowena and I have rolled a customer and made off with his valuables.”

“Should I check my pockets to confirm I still have my wallet?”

“I’d never steal your wallet, French. You’d be after me with all the hounds of hell. I plan to say auf Wiedersehen to you tonight and trust you’ll never darken the doors of Lotus House again.”

“You’re an ungrateful wench, India.”

“Ungrateful?” I yelped, sotto voce
.
“And for what should I be grateful?”

“Inspector Havelock of the Metropolitan Police hasn’t stopped by to see you, has he?”

“That’s low, French. You helped me dispose of the body.”

“Indeed I did. But no one, least of all an unimaginative plod like Havelock, would believe it. Your word against mine, India. How do you like your odds?”

I stamped on his ankle with the heel of my slipper and had the satisfaction of hearing him grunt in pain.