India Black (12 page)

“Not very nice of you, old girl.”

“I’m a whore. Being nice is a disadvantage.”

At one point in the evening, I thought I detected the familiar odor of
eau de Vincent,
but as we’d just swept past the caviar bowl on the buffet, I couldn’t be sure. I kept a close eye on the table to see if the linen covering moved, but it remained still and I presumed Vincent, in a rare fit of obedience, had followed French’s orders to remain away from the embassy.

Endicott and Rowena went galloping by, Rowena’s teeth gleaming and Endicott looking grim and hanging on for dear life. She gave me a wink as they thundered past.

“Did I detect some animosity between the PM and Endicott last night?” I asked. “I thought you were all on the same side.”

French executed a turn that left me breathless. “Endicott works for Lord Derby, the foreign secretary. He must advocate Lord Derby’s position with respect to matters in the Ottoman Porte. Lord Derby is by nature quite conservative about the expansion of British hegemony. Indeed, some say he is an isolationist who will never find any cause or purpose compelling enough to warrant the use of military force, short of an outright invasion of a British dominion. The prime minister sees things a bit differently. He favors a more aggressive attitude, both in the extension of our empire and the protection of it. He doesn’t intend to let the Russians gain so much as a toehold in any area he deems to be within Britain’s sphere of control.”

“If they differ so much on the issue, why is Lord Derby in the Cabinet?”

French shrugged. “Politics makes strange bedfellows. And he’s much too prominent to be excluded from the Cabinet. That would have created difficulties within the Conservative Party.”

“I thought a brothel was full of intrigue and drama, but there’s more theatrics in politics,” I said.

“The stakes are rather larger, though.”

The music ended, and among polite applause we retired to one of the tables in the dining salon, with plates piled high with some of the delectables on offer. Rowena and Endicott joined us. Her face was flushed a dusky rose, and her dark eyes were lively.

She fanned herself vigorously and tucked into a mound of oysters. “Lord, what a spread! Did you see the meringues?”

Endicott screwed a cigarette into his holder and struck a match. “Perhaps you should exercise some restraint with respect to those oysters. Don’t forget you’ve got work to do tonight.”

Rowena ogled me across the table and patted Endicott on the knee. “Don’t you worry, my lad. I’ve appetite enough for both oysters and India.”

Over Endicott’s shoulder, I saw a chap approaching, a tall, lithe figure elegant in the full dress uniform of a Russian major. French had seen the man, too; I felt him stiffen reflexively at the sight of the Russian.

“He looks a right villain,” I whispered, and he did, with a face as lean and cruel as a wolf’s and unnaturally green eyes. He looked as though he’d be more at home on the snow-swept steppes, cursing the peasants and applying the knout, than threading his way through the elegant tables of the dining salon. I knew his type: the kind who sent a frisson of fear through a bint when he walked in the room. You just knew he was going to ask for something you didn’t want to supply and were damned glad you wouldn’t. One glance at him and I had to hold back a whinny of fright.

He approached our table and bowed stiffly to French.

“Major Ivanov.” So this was the military agent who’d acquired Latham’s case. I was surprised that French accepted the outstretched hand.

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight, Major. I thought you were with your regiment.”

“No doubt I’ll be rejoining my regiment soon.” He smirked. “I have good reason to believe we’ll be called into action shortly, to deal with those recalcitrant Turks.”

“Bully for you,” said French.

“It should be quite an interesting little war. The Turks haven’t fielded a decent army since Kara Mustafa Pasha nearly took Vienna in 1683. I expect we’ll be in Constantinople in a matter of weeks, once we cross the Danube. But enough talk of war. Who are your charming companions? Be a good fellow, French, and introduce me.”

The Russian fawned over Rowena and I, clicking his heels and kissing our hands. Endicott looked nauseous, and never more so than when Ivanov clasped his hand and shook it heartily. “A representative from Lord Derby’s office? Splendid! Count Yusopov will be so pleased. Have you spoken to him yet?” Ivanov plopped down in the seat next to me without waiting to be invited.

“We haven’t yet had the opportunity,” said Endicott stiffly. “He’s been rather busy.” Endicott looked meaningfully at a table near the window, where Yusopov could be seen single-handedly reducing the champagne stocks and fondling the knee of the rotund young woman seated next to him.

Ivanov chuckled indulgently. “How he enjoys these festivities. All Russians do. We understand the brevity of life and take our pleasures where we find them. Unlike you English. So earnest. So staid.” His eyes swung round to me. “Except here I think we have a young lady who is not so earnest.”

“I am enjoying the party, Major. The refreshments are delicious and the music sublime.”

“You rival the music, my dear,” said Ivanov gallantly. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of dancing with me later?”

“Certainly,” I replied.

“Wonderful. I shall look forward to it.” The Russian cocked an eyebrow at French. “And now, Mr. French, what may I and my comrades in arms expect from the British lion? How soon will we be locked in mortal combat, eh? The prime minister’s speech at the lord mayor’s banquet has the generals in St. Petersburg all aflutter. I’ve been summoned back to the mother country myself, in preparation for posting to God knows where.”

French blew a smoke ring and looked bored. “You’ll be leaving England? What a pity.”

“No doubt our paths will cross again. You English have a habit of turning up in the oddest places.” Ivanov leaned across the table, and his brilliant green eyes twinkled merrily. “Or perhaps we may become allies in this war. Two Christian nations closing ranks to end the reign of terror of those despicable Turks.”

French’s smile was wintry. “How like Russia to cast this war as a holy crusade. I could have sworn her chief interest in the Ottoman Empire was not the religious persecution of its Christian subjects, but its deep-water port at Constantinople. The British government will not stand aside and let you violate the territorial integrity of the Porte.”

Ivanov’s smile was lupine. “This must be an event of the first instance. I was unaware the British government concerned itself with the territorial sovereignty of other nations, except in the event it determined that the interests of Great Britain required the invasion of that sovereignty.”

“Naturally, a nation will put its own interests first,” said French.

“Naturally,” Ivanov said with mock solemnity. “But perhaps your Mr. Gladstone feels differently. He is a man who places his religious beliefs before his political ones. He has expressed to the ambassador his distress at this administration’s failure to act. And from what I have read in your newspapers, many here in England support his view. Perhaps we will be allies, after all.”

I was glad Dizzy wasn’t around to hear this last, for we’d have no doubt been subjected to another one of his screeds against Gladstone.

“Do Mr. Gladstone and Count Yusopov share an interest in theology?” I asked. Yusopov’s hand was out of sight beneath the tablecloth, but its location could be ascertained by the behavior of the rotund woman, who was jumping like a spurred colt and uttering muted squeals of pleasure.

Ivanov followed my gaze and let out a bark of laughter. “The count enjoys certain religious rites more than others.” He rose gracefully, kissed my glove and Rowena’s, and shook hands with Endicott and French. “I must ask your pardon; there are duties to which I must attend.” He bowed and stalked gracefully away through the crowd.

“He’s a scary chap,” said Rowena. “Did you see those eyes?” She shuddered theatrically, which made her breasts quiver like Mrs. Drinkwater’s blancmange and attracted the attention of every gentleman in a twenty foot radius.

Even Endicott sat up and took notice, until he was diverted by the sight of a short, thickset fellow with a luxuriant mustache and bald head bearing down on our table like the daily express from Manchester. “Good God,” he groaned. “Here’s Penbras, come to make our lives a living hell.”

The stout fellow dropped into a chair, raised a shout of “Ho, waiter, whisky,” and thumped Endicott on the back. “Willie, my boy. How are you?”

“How the devil did you get in here?” Endicott hissed. “The press isn’t usually allowed at these functions.”

“I’ve got connections, Willie, as I’ve told you a hundred times. Not everyone views me with the loathing and suspicion that you do. I’m welcome in lots of places your regular journalistic type is verboten.” He beamed round the table. “Allow me to introduce myself, ladies. Peter Penbras, of the
Morning Chronicle
. Correspondent, bon vivant and world traveler.”

“Poltroon, fabricator and con artist,” said French, almost affectionately, I thought. Observing the proprieties, he introduced us to the stout bloke.

Penbras took my outstretched hand and pronounced himself delighted, eyes roving unashamedly. With reluctance, he dragged his attention from me and turned to Rowena.

“Willie, you’ve outdone yourself, my lad. Who is this winsome creature?”

Endicott choked on his champagne, spewing a fair amount of the ambrosia over his shirt front.

“Dear me,” said Rowena. “He does get excited at the smallest thing.” She extended her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Penbras. Please, call me Rowena. Everyone does.”

“Then I shall do the same, my dear. I say, do you think I should fetch some water for Willie there? He’s turning purple.”

“He’ll be fine,” said Rowena. “These spells often last a few minutes.”

Penbras winked and helped himself to a slice of cold tongue from French’s plate. “Good grub here, ain’t it? And the likker is first-rate. I do love these embassy flings.”

“What brings you out tonight, Penbras?” Endicott asked. “A whiff of scandal? Carrion wheeling in the sky over the embassy tonight?”

“Whisky,” said Penbras to the waiter. “And be quick about it, my good man. My throat’s as dry as the road from Cardiff to Swansea.” The waiter hurried off, clucking under his breath about British manners. Penbras watched him go with an air of benign amusement, searching absently through his pockets. “I say, Endicott, you wouldn’t offer a friend a gasper, would you?”

“Certainly I’d give a friend a cigarette,” Endicott said, resting his hands on the table and studying his manicure. A long minute ticked by.

Penbras grinned. “You’re not subtle, Willie. Not the least bit crafty or sly, my man. That’s why I like you. I just wish you’d play cards with me sometime.”

“You’re a mischievious bugger,” said French. “I’m surprised the ambassador let you through the door.”

Penbras waved a hand airily. “His Excellency and I have known each other for donkey’s years. He’s good copy, always has something to say, and he loves to see his name in print. Almost as much as Dizzy does.”

“Most politicians are cut from the same cloth.” French opened his case and offered Penbras a cigarette.

“Thanks, old man. You’re a decent chap, despite what Endicott says about you.”

French smiled but didn’t rise to the bait. Endicott was staring round the dining salon, studiously avoiding the journalist.

Penbras extracted a small notebook and the stub of a pencil from his coat pocket. “Either of you gents got anything to say about the crisis in Turkey?”

“No,” said Endicott. French shook his head.

Penbras sucked his teeth. “Rumor has it the PM is annoyed with the lads at the War Office. Got ’em shaking in their boots over there, calculating their pensions and drafting up their notices.”

French smiled. “Isn’t that how civil servants usually spend their time?”

Penbras looked thoughtful. “My source seemed confident something unusual has happened. Said it had something to do with Dizzy getting bad news about English troop strength.”

French smoked languidly. “I can assure you there is nothing to this tattle.”

Penbras tacked, sailing in a new direction. “What a shame about poor old Archie Latham,” he said.

Endicott bridled. “
Sir
Archibald.”

“Right,” Penbras said. “Damned shame, that. We’re none of us safe walking the streets. Especially the streets around the jute docks. Damned odd thing, for Archie to be trolling about down there in the dead of night. Something strange about that.” Penbras assumed the expression of a newborn babe. “Wouldn’t you say so, Willie?”

Endicott rose abruptly. “Listening to your gibberish is tiresome, Penbras. I’m here to enjoy myself. Shall we dance, Rowena?” He swept her away to the dance floor with her mouth still full of meringues.

“Stiff brute, ain’t he?” Penbras said cheerfully. “About as much fun to play with as a starving mastiff. Now I enjoy going a few rounds with you, French. You’re a fine sparring partner. You understand the give and take of the game, unlike your surly friend there.”

“
Have
you something to give me?” French asked.

Penbras cocked his head to one side, like an appealing pup. “Maybe I do. Have
you
something to give
me
?”

“Perhaps later.”

“Ah. Well, I was hoping you might confirm or deny the rumors about Dizzy and the War Office.”

“I can’t do that, Penbras. But I’ll tell you that the prime minister’s position on the Russian aggression in Turkey remains unchanged.”

“You don’t mind if I don’t write that down, do you?” Penbras stroked his bald head. “What else would he say, if he wants to keep those Slavic bastards from the Bosporus? I was hoping for something a bit more definite.”