India Black (15 page)

“That’s it,” I whispered. “Now show us the way to the kitchen door, Reverend.”

“It will be my pleasure,” he said. “Permit me to carry the case for you.”

I was loath to let it go, now that it was in my possession, but Calthorp seemed bent on being the gentlemen, and who was I to argue with the gallant knight who’d ridden to my rescue? I relinquished the case into his possession, took up the candle, and led our little procession through the darkened hallways and public rooms of the embassy, with Calthorp whispering directions to the kitchen. It was a great relief to crack open the kitchen door and breathe the dank, polluted air of London, and see the moonlight cascading over an expanse of manicured lawn that terminated in a row of plane trees that separated the embassy property from an alley.

Calthorp put his hand on my shoulder. “Allow me, Miss Black. I’ll just slip out and ascertain the location of the sentry.” He melted away into the darkness with all the expertise of a Zulu scout, which roused my admiration once more, falling over rubbish bins and tripping over paving stones being, I would have thought, more in his line. Rowena and I waited on the flagstone path, and I occupied my time imagining the casual way I’d fling the case onto Dizzy’s desk and humbly accept his profuse and ecstatic expressions of gratitude. Even French couldn’t fail to be impressed; and then perhaps I’d see the last of that arrogant cove with the malacca walking stick. I saw no reason to mention Calthorp’s heroics. You may think me churlish and grudging; I don’t give a tinker’s damn if you do. I’d taken the risk, why shouldn’t I have the credit?

 

 

 

But as so often happens in life, just as I was congratulating myself, imagining the look on French’s face and gloating like the owner of the prize-winning pig, fate intervened. Pride goeth before a fall, per the Old Testament, and truer words have never been penned. There was a thumping sound out there in the darkness, followed by a muffled oath and then a shout of surprise from Calthorp, half-stifled, to be sure, but loud enough to rouse the Cossack guards. I heard the clatter of steel and the thunder of booted feet coming round the corner of the building, and suddenly lights were blazing from the windows and the beams from several bulls-eye lanterns were crisscrossing the lawn.

I clutched Rowena’s arm and gave her a shove. “Run for it,” I cried.

Our best hope was to bolt like rabbits, while the confusion and excitement raged. If we stayed any longer, those searching lantern beams would find us, and I wasn’t keen on a return ticket to the room in the attic. We darted away into the cover of darkness, headed for the border of plane trees and the freedom beyond.

I gathered my skirts in my hands and raced across the lawn. The grass was slick with moisture, and my dainty heels were useless. I kicked them off, feeling the ground cold and wet beneath the soles of my feet. It would be a miracle if Monsieur Gaspard’s creation survived the night.

A Russian sentry came looming up out of the darkness, his eyes still full of sleep, but he’d had the presence of mind to draw his sword. We collided at full pace, and I heard him grunt with pain and utter a strangled curse as I went down, flung like a rag doll to the ground. Rowena hared past, hurtling the fallen sentry and looking like a ghost as her pale yellow gown fluttered away into the night. Not cricket, you might say, but I’d have done the same if I’d been her. The Russian staggered around, holding his breadbasket and gulping for air. I lay on the ground, too winded to flee, counting the seconds until the guard regained his breath and remembered he had a sword in his hand and thought to use it. Well, India, you’re in a pickle this time, I thought. Losing Lotus House will be the least of your worries.

The sentry drew a great shuddering gasp, straightened his spine and began looking round for the object that had felled him. His eyes fell on me, and with a guttural oath (I presume, for he spoke Russian, but the tone was unmistakable), he grasped the nape of my neck, hauled me upright and shook me like a terrier shaking a rat. He was angry as only a professional soldier can be when laid out by a slender woman in an evening gown, which, if you’ve never seen it, is very angry indeed.

The streets of London are a hard school; a girl learns early how to protect herself. I’d done my fair share of grappling with amorous drunks and fighting off loutish sailors, and if this Russian swine thought to carry me off as a prize, he’d pay a heavy price for his insolence. I was wheezing like a barrel organ myself, but I summoned the strength to lash out at my captor, raking my fingers across his face, aiming for his eyes. He inhaled sharply and struck me a blow across the mouth with the flat of his palm that made my teeth rattle and tears spring to my eyes.

If he wasn’t going to play nicely, neither was I. I let myself go limp in his arms, flopping like a puppet, and signaling that I was through playing the hellcat. It works every time, especially with these muscular, oafish sorts who can’t believe a woman would ever get the better of them. His grip on my neck relaxed. He sheathed his sword and patted his cheek, where my nails had left a calling card. He was railing softly at the perfidy of women (that sounds the same in any language, as well), when my toes drove into his crotch with all my weight behind them. He pitched over like a felled oak, clutching his gonads and barking like a seal. I felt absurdly pleased with myself: that was two assailants in two days I’d cut to size with a well-placed blow. But it wouldn’t pay to linger to enjoy my triumph. A number of dark figures, more guards by their hoarse Russian voices, were quartering the lawn, searching for intruders. At the edge of the plane trees, fisticuffs had ensued; I could hear the thud of body blows and the ragged panting of two men engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

A shadow appeared at my shoulder, and I let out a squeal of surprise.

“Hush. This way, India.”

“French?”

“There’s no time to lose. Follow me.”

Footsteps pounded toward us, and I heard the metallic swoosh of a sword being drawn from its scabbard.

French shoved me in the direction of the trees. “Run for the alley. Endicott should be there,” he said. “I’ll join you presently.” He turned to face the oncoming swordsman, and I saw that he carried his malacca walking stick, from which he now drew a sword. The Cossack who was bearing down on us took one look at the slim blade and gave a dreadful smile. He of course carried a
shashka
, that great, single-edged weapon of the steppes that bore no guard to protect the swordsman’s hands, so that he might cleave his opponent’s body with the blade as near the hilt as possible, then draw it backward, slashing brutally downward as he did so. I waited for French to extract a revolver from his pocket and shoot the Cossack bastard, rather than going into battle with his rather effete swordstick, but French took up an en garde position, for all the world as if he were competing at some international fencing competition. I half expected him to touch swords with the guard before being slashed to ribbons by the fellow’s
shashka
.

It did not seem the proper time to mention that French looked seriously outmanned in the sword department, that there were sounds of battle coming from the direction of the alley, and that Endicott might be preoccupied at the moment and unable to play nursemaid to a fleeing whore. In any case, being a spectator at a sword fight in the dim hours before dawn did not seem a sensible thing to do either, and I was just about to creep stealthily away and retreat to Lotus House to lick my wounds without troubling either French or Endicott any further, when a fleshy hand closed on my wrist and I felt a breath, redolent with fish eggs and vodka, on my cheek.

“Don’t run away so soon, Miss Black. I have not yet finished with you.” Yusopov chortled harshly, a great rumble that started in his belly and exploded in my face in a fishy gust.

French whirled at the sound of his voice, the point of his swordstick glittering in the light from Yusopov’s lantern. He and Yusopov locked gazes, French looking as cool as though he’d just met the count strolling through the race-day crowd at Newmarket, and the count just as unflappable, with an amused smirk parting his whiskers.

“Put down your sword, Mr. French.” Yusopov issued a sharp command to the Cossack sentry with the unsheathed
shashka
(a phrase that sounded vaguely erotic, but believe me, there was nothing sensual at all about it), and the fellow stopped short, eyeing French warily. Yusopov spoke again, and the fellow retreated a few steps, but he did not return his blade to the scabbard, turning it loosely in his hand and looking ready to attack at a command from Yusopov.

“I believe I’ve the whip hand here, as you English say,” he said. “Intruders on the embassy grounds, a violation of Russian territorial sovereignty and all that. The laws of diplomacy are quite clear on the rights of foreign powers in cases such as these.”

“The laws of Great Britain are equally clear,” French drawled. “You’ve no right to detain British citizens.”

Yusopov swept an arm in an encompassing gesture. “Your English law does not apply here, Mr. French. You might as well be in St. Petersburg.”

“You may find yourself exiled to the northern reaches of Siberia, if you embarrass the tsar by holding an official of Her Majesty’s government against his will.”

“It’s just as likely that I’ll be rewarded for delivering to the tsar certain valuable information from the British War Office,” Yusopov mused aloud. “Perhaps a posting to Paris. Paris would be lovely. The finest champagne and French fillies would make a pleasant change from overcooked mutton and rain.”

“You’ll free us immediately,” said French, “or face the consequences.”

Yusopov laughed his great belly laugh again, spreading a cloud of caviar-scented breath. Really, the man needed to learn some elementary hygiene practices. “What consequences? I hardly think Mr. Disraeli will want to publicize this affair. How will he explain one of his aides attempting to burglarize the Russian embassy? He would find it so mortifying, so humiliating, to acknowledge the incident. Mr. Disraeli would have, what do you English say? Egg on his face? No, I think it more likely that the prime minister will want this embarrassing episode kept out of the public eye.” Yusopov pursed his lips and looked shrewd. “And I’ve no doubt that the prime minister would prefer that Mr. Gladstone remain ignorant of this matter. Such irresponsible behavior might well call for the formation of a new government, under a steadier hand.”

“You’re wasting your breath, sir.” French sheathed his swordstick and held out a hand to me. “Miss Black and I must be going.”

“Not just yet, Mr. French. The young lady has something I want.” Yusopov’s hand contracted around my wrist. “Where is the case?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

The amused smirk disappeared. “Oh, come now. This is no time to be coy.”

“I don’t know where it is.” I waved my hands. “As you can see, I don’t have it.”

“Plainly, the case is not in her possession,” said French. He looked insufferably smug. The idiot probably thought I’d taken the papers from Latham’s case and stuffed them down my petticoats.

Yusopov swung round and issued a brusque command to the sentries. The guards snapped salutes and rushed off, swords clanking and lanterns swinging.

“We shall soon see if the case is here.” Yusopov looked at me speculatively. “I suppose you think I’m too much the gentleman to search you.”

“I would never accuse you of that,” I said.

“Here,” French objected, “that won’t be necessary.” Sweet of him (and so English, too) to protest the injury to my honour, but since Yusopov had us cornered like rats and we weren’t leaving the embassy grounds until he was satisfied I didn’t have the documents on my person (not to mention that he’d already seen most of my wares earlier in the evening), it seemed much the wisest course of action to submit to a search.

“I usually charge for the privilege, but under the circumstances, I’ll waive my customary fee,” I said.

“You needn’t submit to this appalling degradation.” French’s brow was furrowed in indignation. I suppose in the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten I was a whore. Or maybe he was just a poor loser and hated being forced to capitulate to Yusopov.

So while French fretted and fumed and threatened serious repercussions, I acquiesced to having my person searched by the count, who, by the way, was a dab hand at ferreting out a girl’s secret hiding places, including some I hadn’t known I had. Naturally, since I’d last seen the case in the possession of Calthorp, the ambassador’s search was in vain, though he may have derived some secondary form of satisfaction from it, as evidenced by his heavy breathing and sweaty palms.

The guards returned from their treasure hunt with their tails tucked between their legs, having turned up nothing untoward in their search of the embassy and its grounds, except the hall porter’s secret stash of brandy and the wheel of cheese gone missing from the embassy kitchen the week before (located, I believe, under the bed of one of the scullery wenches).

Yusopov looked pained at the news, twirling a mustache and belching softly. He paced a few steps in one direction and then back again, while the guards shifted nervously and glared at French with their hands on the hilts of their swords. Finally, the portly figure came to a halt, grasped his chin with one fleshy hand and subjected French and me to the minute scrutiny of a Harley Street practitioner.

“I must say, Mr. French, that I am very displeased with your extraordinary audacity in bringing this disreputable young woman here. I’m thinking of lodging a formal protest with the British government.”

French yawned affectedly. “If that is the best you can do, Count, I would suggest you stand aside and let us leave now.”

Yusopov’s mustache twitched violently. “It appears we have reached what the Americans call a Mexican standoff.”

“Indeed,” said French. He put his hand under my elbow, nudging me in the direction of the alley. “Miss Black and I will be going.”