India Black (13 page)

“Stay in touch. Perhaps I can offer you something more specific in the days to come.”

Penbras looked thoughtful. “Two questions come to mind when I hear you say that. One, why would a member of Dizzy’s inner circle volunteer to toss me a juicy morsel? And, two, supposing that he does, what’s it going to cost me?”

“Your source in the War Office.”

Penbras chortled. “Oh, ho. Hoisted on my own petard. No doubt you think I’ll lunge at the chance to acquire a source in the PM’s office and gladly sacrifice my contact at the War Office to get it.” He wiped his eyes, clucking gently. “I’ll have to mull that over, but I must tell you, it’s a privilege to enter the ring with a man who understands the role of strategy.” He took a final drag of his cigarette and crushed it out in Endicott’s plate. “I’m off to tackle Ambassador Shuvolov. He’s promised me a few words on the Russian struggle to save the Christians of the Ottoman Empire. Mustn’t tarry.” He waggled his fingers at us, drained the last of his whisky and rumbled off to seek out the ambassador.

“How the devil did he get wind of the cock-up at the War Office?” French stabbed out his cigarette with considerable force.

“Who’s his source, I wonder?”

French shrugged. “Impossible to tell. The senior officials are political appointees and generally loyal to the prime minister. But there are dozens of people who might lean toward the Liberal Party or Gladstone personally. And Penbras could be paying some lowly clerk for the information.”

“Do you think he knows anything, really?” I asked.

“He’s sniffed out something. He knows just enough to be dangerous.” French took his watch from his pocket. “It’s nearly midnight, and Yusopov’s barely glanced at you in the last hour.”

“I can change that,” I said.

“Do,” said French. But I was not to get my chance at Yusopov yet, for Ivanov materialized from among the partygoers and reminded me of my promise to dance with him. I left French brooding at the table, pondering the identity of Penbras’s source and worrying whether Yusopov had gone in for a bout of celibacy, and let Ivanov sweep me onto the dance floor for a spirited caper. I couldn’t help but feel some misgivings at the masterful way he whirled me around the floor, my feet barely brushing the parquet. Holding his lithe, strong body was a bit like embracing a leopard, and if he’d wanted to break my neck with one swipe of his paw and carry me up the nearest tree, he could have done so easily.

Watch this one, India, I said to myself. He’s more dangerous than French.

“Is this your first visit to the embassy, Miss Black? I don’t recall ever seeing you here before, and I could certainly never forget a young lady of such charm and beauty.”

“Thank you, Major. Yes, this is my first time here. The embassy is lovely. I’ve never seen such exquisite décor.”

He smiled mirthlessly at the lie. “And how did you come to be here on the arm of Mr. French? Are you old acquaintances?”

The last thing I needed was a grilling about French, since I knew nothing about the man and would be hard-pressed to invent any stories about a brother fagging for him at Eton or sharing digs with him at present.

“A recent acquaintance,” I said cautiously, which at least had the virtue of truth, if not being particularly informative.

“An unusual fellow,” mused Ivanov. “I quite like him, although I suspect he doesn’t feel the same about me.”

“Really? Why?”

Ivanov looked down at me, green eyes glowing in the lamplight. “Possibly we are too much alike, and we know each other too well. What is the expression? Familiarity breeds contempt?” The music ended with a flourish, and the band struck up a waltz.

“Another dance?” asked Ivanov.

“I think not,” I said.

“I am not boring you? I should so hate to be tedious to such a lovely woman.”

Ivanov’s green eyes were mesmerizing, his gaze predatory.

“Certainly not, Major. You are ... stimulating company. I’m just a bit fatigued.”

“But you cannot leave yet. You have not met the count.”

I yawned, feigning indifference. “Perhaps another time.”

“It would be a shame to attend a party at the embassy and not be introduced to Count Yusopov.”

As if on cue, the uniformed lackey who had received Yusopov’s instructions when he first laid eyes on Rowena and me appeared at Ivanov’s elbow. Ivanov smiled down at me. “You have come to the attention of the count. He would very much like to meet you and your friend with the delightful smile.” He took me by the hand and gestured at the lackey. “If you would be so kind as to accompany this gentleman, the count will be along shortly.”

I tried to catch French’s eye, but he was embroiled in an intense discussion with a somber fellow in military dress. The underling escorted me off the dance floor and up the winding staircase to the third floor, where I was shown into a parlor swagged out in velvet and gilt. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and a table covered in snowy linen had been laid for three. The table held a cut-glass bowl of caviar and a bottle of vodka in a bucket of ice. Through a connecting door, I saw a massive four-poster in carved teak, turned down for the night. Apparently Yusopov was confident that Rowena and I would be receptive to his overtures. I suppose when you’re a Russian aristocrat, related to the tsar, and the head of military intelligence for Russia, you don’t have to deal with disappointment very often.

The door to the room swung open and Rowena waltzed in on the arm of the lackey, who bowed to her, then to me, then to both of us again, and he disappeared into the hallway, closing the door softly behind him.

Rowena collapsed into a chair. “Wherever did you find that pretentious little toad?”

“Endicott?”

“Yes, bloody Endicott. Stiff as a dildo and not half as entertaining.”

“He’s in government.”

“That explains a multitude of things.” Rowena sniffed the caviar and inspected the label on the vodka bottle. “Those Russians love fish eggs, don’t they? Give me a cut of rare roast beef any day.”

“Have a swig of vodka,” I said. “It may be hard sledding tonight.”

Rowena tilted an eyebrow and looked smug. “Not for me, darling. You know I’ve been dying to get you out of that corset for ever so long.”

“Remember what we’re here for, and don’t get distracted.”

“There’s nothing says I can’t enjoy my work while I’m doing it.”

“Ladies,” a voice boomed, and Count Yusopov glided into the room, if a portly, middle-aged cove may be said to glide. He was bubbling over with spirits and full of the devil. He bowed low over my hand and kissed it, letting his tongue wander idly over the knuckles while I swallowed the urge to knee him in the crotch and flee, but I couldn’t, of course, as I’d yet to lay hands on Latham’s case. Yusopov spent a good five minutes slavering into Rowena’s palm and mewing like a kitten, while she yawned and rolled her eyes at me.

“Ladies”—he beamed—“please sit down and enjoy some refreshment.” How he could be hungry after devouring our hands was beyond me, but sit we did, and watched as Yusopov spooned caviar onto the Meissen plates and poured us generous glasses of the ice-cold vodka. He raised his glass in a toast. “To English roses,” he said, gazing salaciously at us over the rim.

“To English roses,” we echoed.

He tossed off his vodka in one swallow and we followed suit. It burned like brimstone on the way down, but not as badly as some of the rotgut gin I’ve tasted. Yusopov smacked his lips and poured another, then shoveled a dollop of caviar onto a cracker and popped it into his mouth.

“The finest beluga,” he said. “Harvested from the sturgeons of the Caspian Sea.” He gave us a confidential wink. “I serve a slightly inferior brand in the dining salon. I hardly think the hoi polloi will know the difference. But for ladies of quality, only the best.”

I won’t bore you with a blow-by-blow account of our conversation. Despite the fact that Yusopov was a Russian toff with a diplomatic address and a chestful of medals, he wasn’t any different than Dick from the insurance company when it came to making small talk with whores; they all want to brag and make more of themselves than they are, which is damned amusing since they’re forking over cold cash for a bit of the rumpo and not trying to convince a maid of their prospects. No, when it comes to chatting up whores, men are all the same. For make no mistake about it, the count had pegged us both as ladies of experience, and being a man of experience, he intended to take full advantage of the situation.

He spouted on for a good while about his estates along the Volga, and his close personal relationship with the tsar, and how important and busy he was, while Rowena and I tutted and exclaimed and smiled coquettishly and displayed our décolletage. I was wondering how long it would take the count to get down to business, as it was getting on toward two o’clock in the morning, and Rowena and I still had to portray
Sappho and Anactoria on the Isle of Lesbos
before we could lull Yusopov to sleep and nip off with the case, when he finally inquired whether we ladies would enjoy looking at some pictures.

I didn’t think he had in mind a visit to the National Gallery, and I wasn’t surprised when he whisked us down the hall to a locked room containing a number of paintings that might have done duty as illustrations of female anatomy at the Royal Medical College, though, come to think of it, they might have been a bit risque for the young medicos. Yusopov was inordinately proud of his paintings, commenting on perspective, brush strokes and pigment, as though he was the art critic for the
Times.
Truthfully, I’d seen better pictures in the bawdy houses of London, but it doesn’t do to ruin a man’s illusions, so I pretended an awed admiration while I calculated just how long it would be before the bugger would be down for the count.

Yusopov ambled down the row of pictures, paused before a gaudy excrescence entitled
The Milkmaids Find Love
and gazed with veneration at the canvas, which depicted two Rubenesque dairy maids applying their milking skills to each other’s udders. “My dears, tell me what you think of this particular work.”

“Lovely,” I said, with forced enthusiasm.

Rowena’s ardor was genuine. She slipped a hand around my waist and pulled me close. I heard Yusopov suck in his breath. Rowena’s lips traced the arc of my neck. “An accurate depiction of reality, wouldn’t you say, India?”

Faster than you can say “Bob’s your uncle,” Yusopov herded us down the hall to the bedroom, locked the door behind us, pitched us onto the four-poster and pulled up a chair to watch the action. He was randy as a bull in springtime, and if I do say so myself, Rowena and I gave a marvelous performance. We thrashed around on the bed like two Grecian wrestlers, flinging gowns and stays and petticoats with abandon, and moaning like, well, whores. The headboard thumped the wall and the springs shrieked like a banshee, and any minute I expected the guards to come bursting through the doors in an effort to stop what was obviously an assassination attempt. They knew the count well, however, for we remained undisturbed.

There was nothing for it but to put our backs into it. It was, I think, the finest such performance of my life. ’Twas easier for Rowena, as she didn’t have to act at all. Indeed, she was enjoying herself a bit too much, and once or twice I had to bite her ear and remind her in an urgent whisper that the point of this exercise was to recover my stolen deed and, for God’s sake, try to remember that. She’d mumble agreement, then fasten her lips on mine, stifling further conversation.

I kept stealing surreptitious glances at Yusopov to see how close he was to satiation, and that was an exasperating business, for I’ve yet to see the man who can rival the count for sheer bloody stamina. But finally, I could see he was just about ready to cross the goal line, and I put the whip to Rowena in a bid to push him over. She had a mouthful of my knickers and Yusopov was pumping away like a piston when a key turned in the lock, and the three of us froze, still as statues. The door swung open slowly, and a woman in a silk dressing gown and carrying a candle stepped into the room. Yusopov struggled upright, fumbling with his trousers, and held out a hand to her. “Oksana,” he cried.

The woman regarded him malevolently, then turned her hostile gaze on Rowena and me.

“Oh, dear,” I said. “Hello, Arabella.”

I
t had all the makings of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, with Yusopov echoing “Arabella?” in a puzzled tone, and me saying “Oksana?” in a disbelieving voice, and Oksana staring at me incredulously, and everyone flailing around in various stages of dishabille and trying to talk at once. When the dust had settled, Rowena and I were left trying to explain our presence in Yusopov’s bed chamber, while Oksana (it’s going to take some time for me to get used to calling her that) paced the rug, looking daggers at me and assuring Yusopov it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that I had appeared at the embassy within forty-eight hours of Latham’s case disappearing from my brothel. Yusopov seemed inclined to agree. He was rather surly about the whole affair, having been denied the opportunity to spread his seed, so to speak, and consequently looking angry, red-faced and somewhat constipated. The upshot of the thing was that Yusopov arranged his trousers and summoned the embassy guards (though not without a bitter smile and a shrug of the shoulders, as if to say he regretted not seeing the end of our performance), and Rowena and I were hustled away to a cold, barren room in the embassy attic.

“I never believed that silly story about your stolen deed,” Rowena grumbled. We were sitting back to back, with our feet bound and our wrists tied together. It was bloody cold, especially since Yusopov and Oksana had been disinclined to let us dress before tossing us into the room. No doubt the temperature might be that of St. Petersburg on a summer day, but for an English-woman, it was icy.

“It’s true in a sense,” I said, shivering. “If I don’t get those documents back, I
will
lose Lotus House.”