India Black and the Gentleman Thief Read online

  “That ancient mother downstairs who’s ordering the girls around?”

  His words struck a chill in my heart. I was going to have to do something about the marchioness and soon. At the moment, however, downstairs and out of my hair was the safest place for her.

  I summoned a weak grin. “She’s a firecracker, isn’t she?”

  “A bloody cannon, more like. If you’re not careful, she’ll be running the place soon and put you back to work.” He crossed one elegantly trousered leg over the other and looked at me appraisingly. “You’ve done well for yourself, India. I knew you were a goer, but I never thought you’d pull together the ready to buy a place like this.”

  I prefer these direct attacks. No need to waste time on feinting and darting hither and yon; just open up with the artillery and charge. Easy to repel, though, if you know what you’re doing.

  “I had a patron,” I said. “Harold White.”

  Philip’s face lost some of its smooth composure. He blinked. “White?”

  I thought that would throw him. I pressed the attack by shrugging apologetically. “He took a shine to me, after that visit to his house. He used to come up to see me in London. When he told me he was going back to St. Louis, he offered to set me up here.”

  “White paid for this house?” Philip asked, incredulous.

  “Yes,” I said. Well, it wasn’t quite a lie as the American millionaire had paid for my brothel, though he hadn’t known it. I’d used the proceeds from the sale of his precious ruby to fund the purchase of the building and the contents and to set up business.

  I stood up and walked over to Philip, whose mouth still hung agape. I plopped down in his lap and ran a hand through his hair. He responded automatically by putting his arm around me but I could see his heart wasn’t in it. Yet.

  “I am sorry, Philip. I knew White was hunting you, but I was sure he wouldn’t catch you. You’re far too intelligent to be caught by the likes of him. And I did my best to point him in the direction of that Ashton fellow.”

  As expected, this news cheered Philip immensely, as he’d thought Rupert Ashton had snatched the gem from under his nose. Ashton was a jewel thief, you see, like Philip, and he’d wangled an invitation to White’s house in Devon, just as Philip had, for the sole purpose of relieving White of ownership of the Rajah’s Ruby. There was no love lost between the two men, and that’s to my advantage. I knew that the mention of Ashton’s name would anger Philip. It’s all complicated, I know, but the important bit is that I ended up with the ruby and Philip had to hightail it to the Continent wondering whether Ashton had stolen the gemstone from Philip’s case or I had been involved somehow. I’d given some thought as to the story I’d tell Philip if ever he reappeared in my life, and now I’d laid it out for him. When I’d concocted it, I had thought only to offer Philip an explanation and brush him off. But his involvement in this Mayhew matter had changed the situation and now I needed him to believe my tale and to trust me, at least to the point that I could penetrate his defenses and learn exactly what that involvement might be.

  I leaned my cheek against his and sighed deeply, just to show the chap how pleased I was that he’d returned to the Big Smoke. He patted me absently, still mulling the information I had shared with him. It was time to bring him back to the present.

  I fingered his gold chain admiringly. It was attached to a handsome timepiece, which I pulled from his pocket. I whistled softly. “Ooh, look at you. That’s a work of art you’ve got there. Cost a pretty penny, too. Are there any jewels left in France?”

  He smiled. “A few.”

  “And did you leave any virgins in L’hexagone?”

  That made him laugh, and he gave me a squeeze. I relaxed a little at that, for it signified that we were moving back to our old ways together.

  “I’ve been saving myself for you,” he said, burying his mouth in the hollow where my neck met my shoulder.

  I know I’ve been wittering on about French and how anxious I was to get the poncy bastard in my bed, provided he could be persuaded to forget that precious fiancée of his, but I’ll be damned if Philip’s lips didn’t arouse a powerful feeling in me. I won’t apologize. It’s unnatural for a woman of my youth and vigor to behave like a nun and French had been no help at all in that department, given his propensity to act like a virgin on her wedding night. Philip’s touch aroused a lust I hadn’t felt for some time and I grasped his head between my palms and angled it so that I had a clear field of fire. Then I pressed my mouth to his. His lips were as soft and pliable as I remembered, and I spent a good deal of time reacquainting myself with every tasty morsel of that delectable mouth, nibbling on his lower lip and easing the sting of my teeth with soft caresses from my tongue. He cinched his arms around me and hugged me tighter. There was heat building between us, and suddenly Philip stood and carried me to the bed. He dropped me rather unceremoniously, which in the old days would have been merely the prelude to greater athletic endeavours from us both, but today the shock of hitting the bedcover served as a reminder that my dalliance with Philip was duty, not pleasure. I needed information, not to scratch an itch that had been building since I’d met French. The thought of French returned me to my original objective in locating Philip, namely winkling information from him about the stolen arms.

  Philip launched himself at me but as he did I rolled sideways off the bed and sprang to my feet. He looked up at me in astonishment.

  I gathered my dressing gown around me and stood panting, a pained smile on my face. “Dear boy, you’ve quite swept me off my feet.”

  “Have I? Then what the devil are you doing out of bed?”

  “As much as I’d love a frolic, I’ve got to attend to some business.”

  “You own the place, India. Tell that old bird downstairs to handle things for you.”

  He reached across the bed for me and I took a step back. I smiled hastily, for I didn’t want to discourage the chap.

  “Now that you’re back in London, we’ve plenty of time to get reacquainted.”

  Philip winked at me. “I should like to start now.”

  I took his hand. “As would I. But I’ve got to leave here soon and I must bathe and dress.”

  “You look inviting to me just as you are. Rather sleepy and rumpled.”

  I smiled at him fondly. “What a smoothboots you are. Tell me where I can reach you and I’ll send word when I’ve finished my business and sorted out the girls and the customers. Then we’ll have a proper rendezvous.” This last I said in a husky voice that was full of promise. I’ve worked on that voice and it’s been very effective with men, if I do say so myself.

  Unfortunately it did not elicit the desired response from Philip. I’d been fishing for an address. I’d planned to hire a few street urchins to stake it out and report to me on Philip’s movements. But Philip sidestepped my enquiry with ease.

  “I’m afraid I’ve some affairs of my own to see to this week. It would be best if I contacted you.”

  I pouted a bit, to show him how unsatisfactory this arrangement was, but the chap held firm. He wasn’t going to trust me yet. Wise man.

  “What’s your business?” I asked him. “A house in Belgravia with an absent owner and a safe full of gemstones?”

  Philip stood up and adjusted his clothing, tightening his cravat and arranging the creases in his trousers. “I’ve given up that work for the moment. I’m into something else. Much less dangerous than climbing around on rooftops. And I can stop praying that the old butler won’t come charging into the room with a service revolver while I’m cracking a safe.”

  “Oh? What are you up to now?”

  He put a finger to his lips. “Can’t say much, my dear. Even to you. But it’s as close as anything can come to being a sure thing. I’m piling up the dosh. In a few months, I plan to set up my own empire. I’ll hire the best cracksmen and fingersmiths and p
ut them to work. I’ll plan the operations and fence the goods and if things get hot, I know where to send my boys and how to get them there without a hitch. Running from White was a useful exercise, actually. I know how to avoid the police in a half-dozen countries. I’ll make a fortune and live like a king.” He smiled dreamily, in contemplation of the criminal monarchy he proposed to establish.

  “You’ll need a queen,” I observed.

  “Have you someone in mind?” He shot me a teasing grin.

  “You’ll want someone bright and ambitious and beautiful, of course.” I put a finger to my chin and pretended to think.

  “Are you saying you might be interested in the position?” asked Philip. He swept a hand around the room. “You’d leave all this behind?”

  “Who says I have to give it up? You want an empire, don’t you? There isn’t any reason we couldn’t expand operations and build a score of Lotus Houses around the country. And in Paris and Berlin and Brussels.” I knew the idea would tempt Philip and I was rather proud that I’d thought of it. In fact, I wish I had earlier. Things were now complex, given French’s newly declared interest in me, my role as a British agent and the fact that I was an heiress, though I had no idea what that meant. There are heiresses and then there are heiresses, and I’d want to see the size of the house and accounts of the estate before I gave up Lotus House, regardless of what the marchioness might think. Her idea of a proper house was probably a hovel with a kennel for a hundred hounds attached.

  “I say, you might be onto something.” Philip looked thoughtful.

  “We have a great deal to discuss when we meet next.”

  Philip looked sly. “Perhaps we could talk another time. There are other things I’d prefer to do at our next meeting than converse.”

  I smiled and hoped to hell that Philip couldn’t see that the prospect that seemed so pleasing to him left me feeling singularly nonplussed. My word, this was getting convoluted. Well, you can worry or you can work, so I hustled Philip out the door with a lingering kiss and the promise of another day and went off to have a bath and a think.

  • • •

  I was hoping to have a long soak in the tub, scrubbing away the effects of last night’s binge and pondering my next move with respect to Philip. I’d known I wouldn’t be able to pry his secrets from him at our initial meeting, but future assignations with the fellow would be fraught with danger. Oh, I don’t mean the throat-slitting kind of danger. No, I mean the peril posed by a handsome blond chap with hazel eyes, a lazy smile and absolutely no morals at all, one who would expect us to pick up right where we had left off. And I will admit that I’d led him to believe we would. I sighed. Perhaps that had been unwise. Perhaps I should have chosen a different tack with Philip, though for the life of me I couldn’t think of an approach more likely to loosen a fellow’s tongue than a tumble in the hay. You might even say it was my duty to bed Philip, though I suspect French would disagree.

  Dear French is such a different creature from Philip. I suppose I’m rather drawn to French’s public-schoolboy persona, with his code of honour and principled behaviour, until the same ethical standards collide with my desire to sweep him off his feet. But I’ve always had a fondness for rascals and rakehells, and Philip qualified as both. What made the situation even more untenable for me was that Philip appeared to be involved in some nasty business this time. Philip’s kiss could not erase the vision in my mind of Colonel Mayhew’s blood-spattered room. There was also the matter of those three thugs charging into Lotus House and pummeling me. At this very moment, Philip might be sitting down to a glass of beer with those fellows. And then there was French, who was surely the better man, only I might never know that for certain if the poncy bastard insisted on being such a ruddy gentleman.

  I was lying half asleep in my now-tepid water, thinking about the dilemma I faced, when Mrs. Drinkwater barged in.

  “She’s a terror,” complained Mrs. Drinkwater as she poured a pail of scalding water into my bath.

  “I don’t suppose you’re talking about one of the girls?” I asked gloomily.

  “There’s not a whore alive who could cause as much trouble as that confounded woman.”

  I suspected Mrs. Drinkwater’s assessment of the marchioness was an accurate one. “What’s she done now?”

  The cook snorted. “What ain’t she done? Them dogs of hers has the run of the house. The girls traipse into your study anytime they want just to have a natter with the witch. And that chap she brung along? What’s his name? Angus? Douglas?”

  “Fergus,” I answered.

  “He thinks he runs the kitchen. He won’t even let me boil water. Says I couldn’t make a proper cup of tea if my life depended on it.”

  This happened to be true, but I didn’t think that now was the time to break the news to Mrs. Drinkwater.

  The litany of complaints continued. “And that march’s nest, or whatever she calls herself? This morning she ordered me to fix her hair for her. Ordered me, she did. I told her I don’t fix hair. I’m the cook and the housekeeper and I don’t lift a finger when it comes to hair. I guess she got that through her head. She had one of the girls do it for her, not that it looks like much, because there’s not a lot to work with, if you understand me.”

  I did. While portraying the marchioness’s maid at Balmoral, I’d waged war against her frazzled locks more times than I cared to remember.

  “I’ll have a word with her,” I said.

  “It’ll have to be more than a word. It’ll have to be a whole damned sermon. How long is the old bag staying?”

  I was curious about that myself.

  Mrs. Drinkwater lingered for a few minutes more, grumbling incessantly until I asked her to rustle up some sandwiches for me.

  “Alright, but don’t you be surprised if that awful man interferes again. If the sandwiches aren’t fit to eat, it won’t be my fault.”

  I cheered up a bit at this news, remembering the tasty tea Fergus had provided. If I could only figure out a way to send Mrs. Drinkwater north with the marchioness and retain that inestimable man.

  The cook disappeared, to be replaced by Clara Swansdown, formerly known as Bridget Brodie from Ballykelly. Clara’s my most reliable girl and if I have to be away from Lotus House for an evening, I trust her to run the show for me. She marched in and shut the door behind her, upended the pail on the floor and sat down on it.

  “Sure, and by now you’ll have heard about last night,” she said, frowning at me.

  My heart sank. For a moment I contemplated putting my head underwater and drowning myself.

  “The marchioness?” My voice was faint.

  Clara nodded vigorously.

  “What happened?”

  “She sent Sir Alfred packing.”

  “Packing?”

  “Threw him out the door,” Clara confirmed. “Landed on his bum in the middle of the street.”

  “The marchioness tossed Sir Alfred down the steps?” This was difficult to believe, as Sir Alfred was a podgy bloke and the marchioness, soaking wet, weighed about as much as a six-year-old.

  “It was that Fergus chap who done it. He may be old, but he’s strong.”

  “Ye gods,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “What did Sir Alfred do to deserve such treatment?”

  “Said the Scots were an ignorant bunch of savages who were so stupid they couldn’t even think up trousers.”

  “I see.”

  “Sir Alfred said he wouldn’t be back here, and he’d tell his chums not to visit here again either.”

  I groaned. “Thank you for telling me, Clara. I’ll send a message to Sir Alfred right away and smooth things over. I suppose it’ll cost me a few free hours with his favourite girl. That’s Molly, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ma’am? The marchioness is a grand gal and all the girls like her, but she’s got a t
ongue on her like a razor. Some of the customers aren’t used to that. Is she going to be here long? If she’s staying for a bit, you might want to have a word with her about being a little kinder to the gents. I mean, I know you’re related and all, but still, this is your house.” Clara blushed.

  “How’d you know we’re related?”

  “She told us you were. Said you were her favourite niece.”

  “I’d hate to see how she treats her least favourite,” I grumbled as I reached for the towel.

  • • •

  The marchioness was sprawled on the sofa in my study, snoring softly, with Maggie the bitch curled around her feet. Fergus was asleep in one of the chairs, snuffling like a buffalo with his head tilted back and his mouth agape. The other three dogs had made themselves at home on the furniture. One lifted its head as I came into the room and curled a lip at me. I curled a lip right back, then slammed the door. If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t. The slamming door woke the rest of the dogs, who erupted into a snarling, barking frenzy, dashing about looking for something or someone to bite. Fergus sprang to his feet and fetched the poker from the stand by the fireplace, turning to brandish it at me and shouting some kind of Gaelic war cry. The marchioness mumbled something I could not hear over the cacophonous roar and turned over in her sleep.

  “Aye, it’s you,” said Fergus, lowering the poker and glaring at me. “You shouldna wake us like that.” He made a feeble attempt to quiet the dogs.

  I closed my eyes. “That noise is giving me a headache. How can the marchioness sleep through that?”

  I knew the answer to that question from my days as lady’s maid to the marchioness up at Balmoral. She never slept when people usually did. She’d be up half the night, demanding to be read to from the Bible or drinking whisky into the wee hours. No wonder she needed a nap during the daytime.

  “Did you toss one of my customers out into the street last night?” I asked Fergus.

  “Aye, I did. A fat bastard who insulted the marchioness.”

  “I’ll thank you never to do that again, Fergus.” My voice was like iron.