India Black (34 page)

Peter Penbras continues to expose shocking stories of governmental ineptitude. He is never without material.

Rowena Adderly still plies her trade at the Silver Thistle. She hasn’t given up on breaching the walls of my petticoats, and I haven’t given up resisting her siege.

And Vincent? Suffice it to say that exposure to the influence of French was not enough to render him into a clean, presentable, Christian young gentleman. In short, Vincent remains Vincent.

I don’t know how he brooked it, but after Dizzy’s term as PM ended, French served the Grand Old Man. I know this for a fact, as French and I were destined to share a few more adventures together. And no, I haven’t discovered French’s Christian name. Of course, it would be easy enough to do; a brief trip to the British Library should reveal the information. But where’s the fun in that?

As for my sable coat and hat, I doubt that I shall ever see it delivered to Lotus House. Apparently, some clerk in the office of the exchequer took one look at French’s expenses incurred during our escapade and fainted dead away. When he’d regained consciousness, he took a red pencil and began slashing through the itemized list like a man possessed. Unfortunately, my hat and coat were victims of his bureaucratic mania.

You might think I’d be bitter, after an experience like that. But I’m a cynic, and so the fact that I failed to change the world with my adventure didn’t dishearten me in the least. By the time I was back at Lotus House, comfortably ensconced in my study, counting the day’s receipts and using a chisel to break up one of Mrs. Drinkwater’s ginger biscuits, I’d recovered my equanimity. Besides, this affair proved to be just the first of many such, when I have found the British government at my doorstep humbly asking for my assistance in extricating them from some predicament. And in most cases, I’ve graciously agreed to help.

In fact, I’ve rendered my assistance so frequently that I’m contemplating having cards printed up. Nothing flash, you understand. Something discreet, but elegant. Jet-black ink on cream vellum, perhaps. “India Black: Consultant to the British Prime Minister on Affairs Foreign and Domestic.” Who knows, I might even induce that great lump Vicky to grant me the royal warrant for Lotus House, and I can post a brass plaque by the front door: “Lotus House: Purveyor of Sluts by Appointment to Her Royal Majesty.” Now, wouldn’t that be something?