The Mark of the Golden Dragon (32 page)

Peel picks it up.

"There!" he shouts, pointing at the fob hanging out of the pocket of the unfortunate Mr. Smollett. "There it is!"

Mr. Smollett gazes down at the damning thing, dumb founded. "Wot...? Wot...?" is all he is able to get out, his lower lip quivering, eyes wild.

"Most irregular!" shouts the Duke, incensed. "Most irregular!"

People are flying about, aghast at the turn of events, but the levelheaded Peel is on the spot.

"Let us take care of this, Your Highness," he says, directing the men he had stationed about.
Could it be Carr and Boyd? Yes, it is! Lay on, lads!

Smollett is grabbed by his arms and relieved of the watch that rests most damning in his pocket. He is then hustled out without ceremony, his poor wife wailing behind him.

Mr. Peel looks
very
satisfied, very gratified, indeed.

When things quiet down and the music resumes, Richard takes my hand and leads me to a table where glasses of fine wine are arrayed. He gives me one and I place it to the lips.

"Umm?" I ask, since his look is quite intense. "Wot?"

"One of these days, Princess," he says, looking at me rather sternly. "You are going to find that slender little neck of yours in a noose that it won't be able to wriggle out of."

"It is true, milord, I have always feared that the rope would be my ultimate fate, but let us not speak of that now."

"What would you have done if that plan of yours had gone awry and you had been caught picking the Duke's pocket?" he persists.

"Me? I would have done nothing except put the back of my hand to my forehead and gone into a swoon, whereupon my gallant Captain Lord Richard Allen would have scooped me up in his arms, drawn his mighty sword, waved it about, roaring out something incredibly romantic, like, 'Back you dogs, you shall not touch one hair on this fair head!' Then we would have crashed through that window there in a fine shower of crystal, mounted your fiery stallion with my frail self clutched to your chest, and pounded off into the night, on the road to even more splendid adventures."

"Hah. Well, I am rather glad it did not come to that, Prettybottom," he says, grinning in spite of himself. "It is very possible you underestimate my good sense, and overestimate my bravery."

"Your good common sense, maybe, Lord Dick, but your bravery...? Never!"

I put out my lily-white hand...

"Shall we dance?"

"I don't know about makin' common cause with the Shankies like this," grumbles Davy. "Me, of course, bein' an upstandin' member of the King's Own Cavaliers. Worked my way up the ranks till I was Third in Command, Officer in Charge of Procurement, I was. Still got some of that old Cavalier pride, y'know."

Pride,
I say to myself.
Pride in being a dirty little urchin in a dirty little street gang. Ah, well, I had a certain pride in bein' one of Charlie's bunch, I did, so I know, Davy, I know ... and old animosities do die hard.

"Well, the Cavaliers ain't no more, Davy," I say. "And the Royal Street Rounders ain't neither, Tink, in case you were about to say you were the warlord of that mob. And what's left of the Rooster Charlie Gang is standin' right here." Joannie, dressed in her black rig, nods at that. "All what remains in the way of the old street gangs is the Shanky Boys, and we got to work with 'em. Are we ready?"

There are murmurs of assent all around.

We are all in my cabin, suiting up. Davy has a coil of rope around his shoulder and Tink carries a medium-sized block and tackle, a pulley, as it were. They are both dressed in as dark clothing as we could manage to put together. I am dressed in my full Oriental splendor: sari wrapped tight about me, silken shawl on head, and a light veil draped across my nose, hiding my lower face. Higgins, mercifully, is off with Lord Byron, no doubt advancing our efforts—and maybe his own, too—and so is not here to worry about me or to admonish me to be careful, which I certainly will be, anyway. I am not as rash in my actions as many people think.

Captain Liam Delaney, well-armed and resolute, is left to guard the ship and her cargo, and I know the
Nancy B.
is in good hands. I believe he is rather glad to be left out of what is going to happen tonight, as it is sure to be beneath his dignity. He is right on that, I'll own.

"Then, let's go. Davy and Tink, follow Joannie. She knows where to go and how to get there. Ravi, you're with me. John Thomas, McGee, you know what to do. Everyone, be careful."

And with that, we are out into the night. Davy and Tink lope off down the street, Thomas and McGee disappear down Fore Street, and Ravi and I climb into a cab.

When we are settled and on our way, Ravi says, "Missy Memsahib going to do some more naughtiness."

He does not even put it as a question.

"It might look like it, Ravi, dear," I say, giving his hand a reassuring pat. "But if everyone does their part, yours included, everything should go all right."

"We go now to the place of many ladies?" he asks, plainly not quite convinced as to the "all-rightness" of this expedition. He is quite nicely turned out in his snowy white turban and pantaloons.

"Yes, Ravi," I answer. "And here we are." I hand him the train of my dress as we alight from the carriage, then enter Mrs. Featherstone's Fine Emporium.

The door to that illustrious establishment is opened for us and we enter to find Mr. Benjamin Crespo waiting for us, rubbing his hands in anticipation of a lucrative evening.

"Ah. The Lotus Blossom her own self." He smiles, showing an unpleasant set of yellow teeth. "Are you ready to go?"

I stick out my hand. "As soon as I receive one half up-front. Twenty-five pounds sterling now, the rest ... after ... as agreed, Mr. Creespo?"

Benny the Creepo reaches into his pocket and pulls out the required coins and drops them into my outstretched palm. As I slip them into the tiny beaded purse that hangs at my hip, I reflect that I have already made considerable money at prostitution. First it was my gallant French artillery major, whom I took back to my room at 127 Rue de Londres in Paris, and now this. All the while, I've remained ... well ... a maiden ... sort of.

"You'd better be worth it, sweetheart, or your ass will pay," warns the ever pleasant Creepo, gesturing me toward a waiting carriage. "My client is not a forgiving sort."

I frost him with a look, then get in, with Ravi following close behind.

The pimp whips out a linen hood and goes to put it on my head. "Tell the little wog to lie on the floor so he can't see where we're going."

I nod for Ravi to follow his order, but shake my head at the hood. I pull from my sleeve a silken scarf.

I am actually somewhat relieved to see the hood being brought out—it ensures that we are going to Flashby himself. I mean, Crespo could have had some other client in mind, and had that happened, I would have feigned sudden sickness and brought things to a quick halt. But, no, it's Flashby for sure.

"Take your filthy cloth away, whoremaster," I say, wrapping my scarf around my eyes and tying it behind my head. "I will do it myself. There. Satisfied?"

He checks the blindfold to make sure I cannot see out and then calls to the driver to proceed.

Oh, don't worry, scum, my eyes are quite blind—but then, again, I do not have to see, for I know exactly where we are going.

As we clatter along, Crespo cannot resist making pointed remarks about how he and I might get together after, as he puts it, "
my client has broken you in, as it were.
"

I maintain a stony silence until we arrive at our destination.

"All right, you can take off the blindfold," says Crespo, as the coach comes to a stop. "Get out."

I pull off the scarf and, without moving, give him a kick in the shins.

"You will open zee door for zee Lotus Blossom, pig."

He grunts and reluctantly gets out and holds the door for me, and I climb out and down, followed by a silent, and I know very worried, Ravi.

"Later," says Creepo, under his foul breath. "Then we shall see."

Yes, we shall, Mr. Crespo, oh yes, we certainly shall...

We are escorted to the door and, after a few hard raps of the knocker, it is opened by a big surly ruffian showing a lot of muscle and not much in the way of forehead or neck. I make sure my veil is securely in place.

"Here is tonight's offering for our Mr. X," announces my slimy escort, smiling and handing me in.

"Awroight," says the thug. "Getcherself gone, pimp."

The door closes behind me and I am led up the stairs. I notice, on my way, that there are several more guards on station, each one looking more brutal than the last. Harry Flashby is being
very
careful. I notice also that the guard finds Ravi's presence unremarkable—there must have been many rather bizarre combinations of visitors to these rooms in the past—and much more bizarre than the mere addition of a little boy to this evening's ... entertainment.

When we get to the fourth floor, the brute shoves me to the wall and begins frisking me for hidden weapons...
very
thoroughly inspecting me ... His hand goes up the inside of my leg.

Expecting this, I did not wear my shiv this night, and feeling miffed at being so handled, I bring the back of my hand across my abuser's face and hiss, "Hands off, churl!"

He starts back and then snarls, "Listen, bitch, I'll—"

Just then I hear a latch thrown and a door opens behind me. I turn my veiled face and there stands Lieutenant Henry Flashby, glowing cigar clenched in his teeth, his mouth framed by his luxurious mustachio. I force myself to be calm and not leap upon the bastard and claw out his eyes.

"Now, Randolph, you shall have her back later, and on her knees ... just like the others ... Just be patient, hmmm...?"

The guard retreats, fixing me with his gaze, as Flashby bows and waves me into his room. I enter, with Ravi right behind me.

The room is laid out just as Joannie and I had observed when we had trained our long glass from the rooftop. The bed is in the center of the room with the window beyond. There is a washstand, a wardrobe, and a bureau upon which sits a lit lamp. Good ... no chairs ... The only place to sit is on the bed.

"Ha! I get you and the little wog, too! Capital! He can watch and see how Englishmen do the job!" Flashby puts his arms about me, ready to get down to business right away, but I push him gently away, murmuring, "Please, Honorable Master, if we take this slowly, it will be much more pleasurable for you. The Lotus Blossom promises many,
many
fine things ... Things you will never forget ... Please to sit, and she will now dance for you."

"Very well, let's see what you've got." He plunks his rump down on the bed, grinning in anticipation. There is a small table next to him and on it is a bottle of gin and several glasses. He takes a drink from the nearest glass, draining it. He is dressed only in breeches and white undershirt. It is plain that he does not stand on ceremony. "Here, have a drink, Lotus Bottom, or whatever it is you call yourself."

"I prefer," I reply, shaking my head, all demure—"when I am with such a handsome man, not to dull my senses so that I will be better able to enjoy his tender touch."

I let slip the silken shawl that covers my head and it floats to the floor, exposing not only my smooth head, but also my bare midriff, which has my emerald firmly implanted in my bellybutton.

"Good Lord, look at that," breathes Flashby. "I gotta feeling you're gonna be worth every cent, girl."

"This girl hopes she pleases you," I whisper, hands together, big eyes gazing at him over the top edge of the veil. "What shall this humble one call you, Master?"

"Master's good," he says. "I rather like that. However, the name's Henry, but you can call me Sir Harry," he says, leering, his lips rolling the cigar around twixt his teeth. "Now let me see your face."

"Honorable Sir Harry-san. I will show you my face in a very little while, and then the rest of my poor self, too ... But now this worthless one shall dance for you. I know you will enjoy. Ravi?" I say, and nod to the lad. He puts the Indian flute—the one we had gotten in Burma, the one with the bulbous end—to his lips and begins to softly play the simple but exotic sounding melody I had taught him over the past few days. Yes, it is that time-honored tune:
There's a place in France where the ladies wear no pants. And the dance they do is called the hootchy-kootchy-koo.
And yes, I begin doing a version of that old hootchy-koo dance. It has served girls like me in good stead in the past, and it serves me well now.

"Oh, you bet your sweet, sweet ass!" exclaims my gallant consort. "Dance on!"

Out in the hall I had put on my finger cymbals, and now, putting palms together over my head and gently chiming the things, I begin to dance, swaying myself and my hips as sinuously as I can. When I was at Chopstick Charlie's place, I had observed several performances of Arabic belly-dancing, and had picked up a few of the moves from the girls residing there. It's enough to get by with this lustful bastard, anyway.

I twitch the belly muscles enough to make the emerald jump around a bit, anyway, turn around and shake the tail, and then turn around again. This time, as I gyrate about, I reach up for the brooch on my shoulder and unfasten it. The top of my sari immediately loosens and begins to fall away, unwrapping swath by swath, fold by fold.