“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 tongue 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.
Fergus looked sullen. “I willna let anyone ridicule the mistress.”
“No doubt she deserved the abuse,” I snapped. “That fat bastard is one of my best customers.”
The marchioness opened one eye and stretched luxuriously. “He’s a rude bastard, as well as fat. Why d’ye tolerate the feller?”
“This is my house, and I’m the one who decides whether a customer is welcome. I’ll thank you both to keep your noses where they belong. If I’m not here to run things, then Clara Swansdown is in charge, and you’ll do as she says.” By this time I was nearly shouting. “And in heaven’s name, what the devil were you two doing hobnobbing with the clients anyway?”
The marchioness pursed her lips. “We were just lookin’ for some entertainment, y’see. What’s the harm in a glass or two with the chaps? Everything was goin’ splendid until that idiot mouthed off about the Scots.”
“And then you had to defend your honour?”
The marchioness nodded vigorously, completely missing, or perhaps ignoring, my sarcasm. “Precisely.”
“In the future, I’ll thank you to stay away from the clients. Go to the theatre, or the music hall. Read a book. Pet your damned collies. But whatever you do, do not step foot out of this study.”
“How am I goin’ to get to me bed?” asked the marchioness innocently.
I gave her the look I usually reserve for tarts.
She gave me her toothless smile. “Ain’t it time for tea yet? I’m famished. Fergus?”
But her loyal retainer had already slipped from the room. Mrs. Drinkwater would not be happy and I suppose I should have pattered off to the kitchen and sent Fergus packing, but I was hungry too, and reckoned my chances of an edible meal to be substantially greater with the dour Scot in the larder.
French arrived, which set the dogs to barking again, and then Vincent breezed in, his ugly mug breaking into smiles that stimulated the canines once more. By the time they’d quieted down and the marchioness and French and Vincent had exchanged pleasantries, Fergus had returned with the tea tray and we all fell on it like starving wolves. If I allowed this to continue, Mrs. Drinkwater was likely to storm out and I’d have to look for a new cook and housekeeper, a prospect I did not relish. Have you ever tried to hire household staff for a brothel? Good servants are hard to come by, and those who can do their work while ignoring naked women and priapic gentlemen are rare as hen’s teeth. I pondered just how rare they were as I savoured a flaky scone slathered in butter and dressed with a generous helping of plum jam.
“I got news,” Vincent announced. Through a mouthful of cake, per usual. “One of the boys says the
Sea Lark
is loadin’ for India, and some crates from the Bradley Tool Company went aboard this afternoon. She sails tomorrow mornin’, on the tide.”
“Well done, Vincent. Pity we weren’t there to see if Bradley accompanied the cargo.” French’s praise made the young scoundrel blush.
“’Tweren’t nuffink to do wif me. I just know who to ask.”
The marchioness had been listening with interest. “What are you lot up to? Is somebody else tryin’ to kill the Queen? I’ll bet you ten quid it’s the damned Irish.”
“Not this time, Aunt Margaret.” French explained the events of the preceding two days. I’d have let the old woman die of curiosity, but then French did not have to worry about the marchioness interfering with his business. Now there was a thought. I made a mental note to apply the screws to French and persuade him to invite the marchioness and Fergus
chez
French. After all, he was the marchioness’s nephew and thus by all rights he should have the pleasure of at least half of her company while she was here in London.
The marchioness sputtered with indignation at the report of the attack on French and me and the theft of the envelope. She clucked in sympathy over the description of Mayhew’s body, and, damn her wretched soul, she looked thoughtful at French’s bitterness at having lost the trail of the handsome blond Peter Bradley, due to India’s defective boot heel. The marchioness cut her eyes in my direction, her lips pursed. Damn and blast. Philip had seen her when he’d come to Lotus House this morning. Had the marchioness caught sight of him? She must have, or she wouldn’t be giving me the fisheye at the moment. I was beginning to doubt whether I’d be able to keep all the plates spinning in the air while this game played itself out.
