I tried to think of something to say; deuced difficult though it was. "Er . . . I take it that that is not her customary practice." Not bad under the circ.u.mstances. Sometimes I surprise myself.

"Indeed not!" Dizzy expostulated. "She has never done so in the past. She always spends the holiday at Osborne, her home on the Isle of Wight."

"Well," said French carefully, "if she wants to make a change, is that not a good thing? She has been rather restricted in her habits since the prince died. Perhaps an alteration of her usual schedule would benefit Her Majesty's health."

Dizzy looked aghast. "Mr. French, I do not object to her changing her holiday plans. If she wanted to spend Christmas in Kathmandu, I should not mind. No, sir, I should not mind in the least. The problem, however, is that she requires that I also go to Balmoral, as minister in attendance, and I am not well. Not well at all, at the moment."

He settled back in his chair with a "there, how do you like that?" air.

"I see," said French.

I did not. How to approach this? Stupidity always works. "Minister in attendance?"

"Yes," said Dizzy. "The Queen must always be accompanied by a senior member of the government, to deal with correspondence and any issues of importance that might arise when she is away from Windsor."

"You said, 'a senior member of the government.' Does that not mean that someone else could go instead of you?"

"Of course," Dizzy groaned. "But the Queen insists that I accompany her to Balmoral. G.o.d, what a disaster."

Spending the Christmas holiday confined in a draughty stone house in the middle of the Cairngorm Mountains with Vicky and her retinue did indeed sound like a dreadful proposition, but I figured Dizzy had no one to blame but himself. He'd gone out of his way to woo the Queen since he'd become prime minister, flattering her egregiously, calling her the "Faery" (difficult to believe, I know, since she's built like a brick lavvy, but there you are), sending her flowers and valentines, collaborating in her deification of her dead husband, Albert, and basically fawning over the woman until the rest of her ministers and attendees had to leave the room because they were feeling nauseous. Can't say I blamed Dizzy, though. As a result of his loving attention to this plump, homely woman, he had more influence over her than any previous prime minister. He had unparalleled access to her, and now, it seemed, he also had an invitation to Balmoral.

"I abhor that pile of stone," Dizzy sniffed. "Her Majesty, as you know, always insists on the windows being left open to let in the fresh air, and since she can't abide coal fires, it's like living among the Esquimaux. I swear there were icicles on the wall of my bedroom the last time I was there. A man can't even console himself with a bit of tobacco. If you want to smoke, you have to go outside and stand in the cold. It's uncivilized, I tell you. Uncivilized."

Quite a predicament for the old chap, but it didn't really sound like a problem requiring the abilities of India Black. Or French, for that matter.

He must have been as perplexed as I was, for he drained the last of his brandy and soda and asked, "Why does the Queen want to go to Balmoral at this time of year?"

"Because," Dizzy said bitterly, "Albert told her to go."

"Sent a telegram, did he? 'Dear Vicky, go to Scotland. Al.' Is that it?"

French looked daggers at me and I shut my mouth, but Dizzy seemed undisturbed by my appalling lack of etiquette.

"He communicated with her through a spirit medium." Dizzy rose and staggered to the sideboard, where he replaced his gla.s.s of milk with one of brandy. He took a large gulp. "You've no doubt heard the rumours: the Queen believes that Albert speaks to her from beyond the grave. She consults mediums quite frequently. Apparently, Her Majesty has just seen an American woman, Mrs. LeBlanc, who is all the rage among the aristocracy at the moment. People claiming to see their dead rat terriers and that sort of rot." He seemed to realize that he was skirting near the edge of the cliff labeled "casting aspersions on the Queen's sanity," and made a beeline for safety.

"Oh, what does it matter if the Queen believes that she speaks to her dead husband? If she derives some solace from these seances, then there can't be any harm, can there?"

I supposed not, as long as Albert was only comforting his widow and not instructing her to declare war on the State of Vermont, for example.

"She's never recovered from his death," said Dizzy, coughing. "Do you know, she's kept his rooms just as they were on the day he died, with a clean nightshirt on the bed and hot water brought in every morning for his shave?"

Sounded like certifiable behavior to me, but I suppose one of the privileges of the monarchy is going mad while everyone goes on bowing and sc.r.a.ping, pretending you're merely the tiniest bit eccentric.

"Is there something we can do for you, sir?" asked French.

Dizzy's courtesy rea.s.serted itself as he noticed our empty tumblers. "Oh, good Lord, I've let your gla.s.ses run dry. You must have another, by all means. I'll call Ralph."

"You needn't bother. I'll manage for us all." I was grateful for the chance to do something other than listen to the old man (fond as I am of him) whinge about our sovereign, even if it meant serving drinks, a decidedly servile role I usually despised. I replenished French's drink and mine, looked helplessly around for the jug of warm milk and decided that what Dizzy needed was another stiff brandy.

"Thank you, my dear," he said when I placed the gla.s.s in his hand. It trembled slightly. That wasn't like Dizzy. He must indeed be ill, for he set great store in presenting an air of imperturbable insouciance.

"Perhaps you could explain to the Queen that you're not feeling up to the journey and that a stay at Balmoral might have deleterious effects on your health," I suggested.

Dizzy smiled weakly. "It's true I'm not up to my usual standard of robust vitality, but I fear the Queen has little sympathy for her ministers when she wants them by her side. They are expected to be there." He looked glum. "Besides, if she thought the trip to Balmoral might kill me, she'd likely jump at the chance to ask me to carry a message to Albert. No, I shall have to go, regardless of my health. Why, I'll even have to procure a note from my physician, advising the Queen that I will require a warm fire in my room and extra blankets. I've had to do so before, you know."

"Is there something else that's troubling you, sir?" asked French.

"Ah." Dizzy rubbed his nose. "Very perceptive of you, Mr. French. Indeed, there is another matter that causes me concern. Enough concern, I might add, that I felt it necessary to invite you and Miss Black here tonight to discuss it with me."

Now we were getting down to bra.s.s tacks, which suited me perfectly. I never was one for sitting around sickrooms and soothing fevered brows with a cool hand. I empathized with Dizzy, but I'd been growing increasingly impatient (and bored) as the minutes ticked by without a hint as to why French and I had been summoned.

"Russians again?" I asked.

"Worse," said Dizzy. "The Scots."

"Have they crossed the border and attacked York?"

Dizzy laughed mirthlessly. "That might be a less difficult issue to resolve. No, the clans have not risen and there's no revolution in sight. There are, however, a few men and women who refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of the British monarchy in Scotland. Have you heard of the Sons of Arbroath?"

French rose from his chair and raked the coals vigorously. "The Scottish nationalists? The group that is agitating for an independent Scotland?"

"The very same. Not that the idea of an independent Scotland has ever truly died out among the Scots. Quite a few of them still loathe the Act of Union of 1707, convinced that the Scottish parliament signed away Scottish freedom in exchange for trading privileges with the English colonies. You know that old saying of the Jacobites? 'We are bought and sold for English gold.' Many Scots continue to hold that view."

French nodded. "They do have a legitimate grievance. The act was shabbily handled by both members of the Scottish aristocracy and the English government, being pushed through the Scottish parliament by men who were rewarded with gifts of money, monopolies on trade, and grants of peerages. It's difficult to argue that the majority of the Scots agreed with the decision to join England, especially as Scotland relinquished the right to govern itself."

"It's been nearly a hundred and seventy years since the act was signed. Surely feelings have died down by now," I said.

"Certainly not among the Sons of Arbroath. They are fanatics. They will do anything to achieve their aims, including murdering the Queen."

French resumed his chair and directed a question to the prime minister. "What do you know?"

"India, my dear, would you mind fetching that shawl across the bed and bringing it to me? There's a draught in here."

I certainly couldn't feel a draught as French had just stoked the fire and the room was infernally hot. But I fetched the shawl anyway and draped it gently around the old man's shoulders, tucking it in and giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder as I did so. He smiled up at me in his charming way, and I felt a lump rise in my throat. Good G.o.d, this wasn't like me at all. I hurried back to my seat and gulped down some whisky to steady myself. The last time I'd felt something akin to sympathy was . . . well, it had been so long ago I couldn't remember. Sympathy was bad for business, and I'd vowed never to make a decision based on that most unreliable of emotions. Still, I couldn't help feeling a wee bit of compa.s.sion for the old gallant.

"As you're aware, Division A of Scotland Yard is responsible for the Queen's personal safety. Superintendent Robshaw, the head of A, is a reliable chap, not given to seeing threats where none exist. His informants have heard rumours that the Sons of Arbroath intend to a.s.sa.s.sinate Her Majesty."

"Is the intelligence accurate? The sources trustworthy?" asked French.

"Robshaw thinks so, and if he does, I must. There is more, however. It seems the Sons of Arbroath have learned of the Queen's impending visit to Balmoral and are planning to execute her there, on Scottish soil, in a daring act of defiance."

"How would they manage to do that?" I asked. "Surely security there will be as tight as a corset on a fat woman." The penny dropped. "Ah, I see. There's a fox among the chickens."

Dizzy nodded, the black curl on his forehead bouncing. "It would seem so. First, the Sons of Arbroath have learned of her plans to go to Balmoral, which are not widely known at this point. That would imply that someone has leaked the information to them."

"Could they have picked up gossip on the street?" French was contemplating the flames in the fireplace.

"It's possible, of course. But I only learned of her plans myself the day before yesterday. What is more worrying, however, is the rumour that the a.s.sa.s.sination will occur at Balmoral. The Queen will take a few attendants and servants with her, and some of the local Scottish n.o.bility will be invited to join her for a few days to celebrate the season. The Scottish servants who customarily wait upon the Queen when she is at the castle will of course be there. Robshaw is inclined to believe that the killer or killers may have infiltrated one or more of these groups of people. You are correct, India. Balmoral will be well defended from any a.s.saults that originate from outside the castle. But the Queen is vulnerable if the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin is among those who are within the castle."

Dizzy hugged the shawl tightly around his shoulders. "I want you both to go to Balmoral. Mr. French, you will accompany me as my private secretary, but your real purpose will be to observe the Queen's guests and ensure that none of them pose any harm to Her Majesty." He paused. "Will it be difficult for you to leave your fa-"

"Father," interjected French, quickly.

"Er, quite. Will it be difficult for you to leave your father during this time of year?"

"He understands the demands of my work, sir. Thank you for inquiring."

My ears had p.r.i.c.ked up at this exchange. I had a difficult time imagining French as a dutiful son, attending church with the pater on Christmas morning and sharing roast goose with the aged geezer at luncheon. Certainly, I knew he had parents, somewhere, at some point in his life, or he wouldn't be gracing this earth with his presence. But he'd never mentioned any details regarding his hearth and home since I'd known him. And I could have sworn that Dizzy had been preparing to say something other than "father." Well, I'd winkle the information out of French later. I scorched him with a glare, and he looked away. Guiltily, I thought.

Dizzy turned a bright eye upon me. "And Miss Black, dear Miss Black. You exhibited such ingenuity and bravery in that affair of the War Office memo."

Brace yourself, I thought. When Dizzy turns on the charisma, India Black is liable to end up in the soup.

"It would be extremely helpful if we were to have a sp . . . er, a source among the servants. We need someone trustworthy to ascertain if a traitor lurks among them. Where, I thought, can I find someone who has the intelligence, the courage and, may I say it, the bra.s.s to play such a role?" Dizzy looked appealingly at me, like an ancient and adoring hound. I had the urge to scratch his ears.

"The prime minister is right, you know," said French. "You have the nerve to carry it off, and that will be half the battle. Servants' quarters are usually closed to outsiders, but if anyone can find a way to wriggle in, you can, India."

Now, I know what you're thinking. They were flattering me shamelessly, courting me like lovers. Don't fall for it, you're thinking. A lesser woman might, of course, but then India Black is no lesser woman. Their compliments might sound like so much flaming balderdash, but the truth is they were right: it would take guile, confidence and a set of b.o.l.l.o.c.ks the size of cannonb.a.l.l.s (alright, I didn't have those, but I was only speaking in the figurative sense) to infiltrate the closed circle of the Queen's servants, and luckily, I possessed all those attributes in spades.

French and Dizzy were gazing at me expectantly.

"I shall consider your proposition carefully," I said. Well, you just can't do what men want without making them wait a bit; tends to make them more appreciative when you finally say yes, don't you know?

French rose briskly. "It's settled, then."

d.a.m.n that man. "It is not settled, French. I shall have to think it over."

French put on his hat. "While you're cogitating, I'll visit Superintendent Robshaw tomorrow, discuss the details of security around the castle perimeter and inform him of our plans."

"Excellent." Dizzy beamed at me.

"I shall be at Lotus House tomorrow at one o'clock, India. Why don't you provide luncheon for us, and we'll formulate a plan of action."

"But, French, I haven't said that I'm going."

He hefted his malacca walking stick. "Oh, but we both know that you will, India."

d.a.m.n and blast that man.

TWO.

When I had told French that I had to give some thought to disguising myself as a dowdy lady's maid (or G.o.d forbid, as the peon who had to empty the chamber pots), I'd meant it. You may think me unpatriotic for not throwing myself in front of the horses to save Victoria Regina, but I had mixed emotions about the whole thing. I mean, Vicky was not what you'd call the cream of the crop when it came to monarchs. There was that unhealthy obsession with her dead husband, for one thing. Long after anyone else would have pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and soldiered on, the Queen was still mooching about Windsor Palace and bemoaning the loss of Albert. In fact, she hadn't shown her face in public for years, years, after the old boy kicked the bucket and departed for That Better Place. She carried with her a miniature of the late prince, and when she came upon an especially scenic view, she whipped it out for Albert to share. Not for her the state of digamy.

She was also a bit of crank. There was her list of prohibited activities: speaking in loud voices in her presence, saying h.e.l.lo to her on one of her afternoon walks, building a coal fire in her rooms or bringing a bishop to luncheon. She adored planning funerals and memorials. Her servants were not allowed to leave her residence before she did, no matter the time of day. Then there was her propensity for exotic servants: those Indian fellows, decked out in flamboyant costumes like circus entertainers, who occupied their time cooking curries in the courtyard, trying to teach the old bat to speak Hindi or standing stiffly behind her while she ate her meals. She was so attached to the kilt-wearing farmer's son John Brown from Balmoral that she'd brought him to London with her and given him a room down the hall at Windsor. The two were so inseparable that the newspapers had spread rumours of a secret marriage and called the Queen "Mrs. Brown." Garden-variety stuff, really, you say. Just like my potty old aunt Dorothy. Completely harmless. Just humour the old gel when she goes off on one of her tirades about the b.l.o.o.d.y bishops.

But your aunt Dorothy isn't the Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India. In any other family, Her Majesty's eccentricities would have meant a locked room in the attic and a lifetime of meals on trays. In short, our present monarch is hardly the epitome of regal rule, and there's no denying that the Empire could do better. That brings us to the other side of the coin. If the Sons of Arbroath (and I must remember to ask French about that; I've a fair bit of history, but arcane Scottish lore isn't one of my interests) succeeded in slaughtering the Queen like a pheasant during the hunting season, the heir to the throne was Albert Edward, the present Prince of Wales, universally known as Bertie. Now if Bertie had shown up at Lotus House, I'd have been glad to see him, for he was a wastrel of the first order, with a propensity for drink, cards, racehorses and fast women. Just the type of customer you can count on to spend his sovereigns not wisely but well at your establishment. I suppose it must be hard on the chap, being portly and middle-aged now, and who likely had expected to be occupying the throne already but for the longevity of his stout little mother, who, despite possessing a hypochondriac's a.s.surance that every time she sneezed she was about to join dear departed Albert in the netherworld, was as healthy as a plow horse. Bertie hadn't done much to a.s.sure Mama that he was fit for the throne, however, running as he did with a fast set, impregnating women right and left (he even kept a doctor on call for those willing to have abortions), leaving a trail of b.a.s.t.a.r.d children throughout England and losing a packet at the gaming tables. In short, while Bertie would always be welcome at Lotus House, it was quite another thing to consider him opening Parliament and making state visits to Paris (all those wh.o.r.es and all that champagne!).

Given the choice between a dissolute rake on the throne or a neurotic, overweight widow, I'd plump for Vicky, which is why I was seriously debating a jaunt to Balmoral with Dizzy and French. Do not think, however, that I would do anything foolish such as jumping into the path of a speeding bullet to save the woman's life. If I could deflect an a.s.sault with minimal damage to myself, I would probably expend the effort, but the jury was still out on what I was willing to do to save Britain from Bertie.

There were other, indeed more important, factors contributing to my decision. The first was that the holiday season was notoriously slow around the brothels of London. All the customers were tucked up with their families, pretending a degree of amity that didn't really exist, watching their children open presents and listening to their wife prattle on about the neighbors. Things would pick up after Epiphany, when hordes of relieved customers would appear at the door of Lotus House, clamoring for their favorite bints and a bit of s.e.x that didn't involve their partners closing their eyes in dismay. My friend Rowena Adderly, proprietress of the Silver Thistle and an experienced abbess, could easily look after things while I was gone, provided the price was right and I didn't mind returning to find my best-looking wh.o.r.e trailing back to the Silver Thistle for a few nights of bliss with Rowena.

And as I have already indicated, I was fed up with the tedious task of running Lotus House, especially when the girls had all the time in the world to sit around and bicker while the revenue dried up. My prior escapade with French had sparked a current of excitement that needed a bigger outlet than umpiring spats over hair combs. I was, in short, as bored as a priest on Monday. I needed a change of scene. All things considered, I would have preferred the Greek Islands at this time of year, but if that wasn't in the offing, then the Scottish Highlands would have to do.

But I must confess to another reason for considering Dizzy's request. It amused me to cavort among the most powerful men in the land, men who wouldn't dare acknowledge me if they met me on the street but who weren't too proud to rely on a wh.o.r.e to help them out of a jam now and then. I enjoyed grabbing a pew near the seat of power, patting a government minister on the shoulder and handing him a drink, offering my services (so to speak) and getting the poor devil off the hook. You may say it smacks of arrogance and that it's unseemly for a lady to gloat, but as I'm not a lady, I don't care ha'pence for your opinion.

"India!" Rowena squealed. "Come here, you delightful s.l.u.t. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

I endured a crushing embrace and a less than surrept.i.tious squeeze of my womanly a.s.sets. Rowena, as even the dullest of readers will have gathered by now, is a tom, albeit the prettiest one in London. She's an island girl: dark, voluptuous and seething with eroticism. She's developed a nice business at the Silver Thistle, specializing in providing dusky maidens like herself to soldiers, sailors and civil administrators just home from the colonies and longing for the pleasures they enjoyed under the Southern Cross.

I extricated myself from her grasp (which was a bit like trying to peel off an enormous leech) and regarded her warmly. Despite her carnal interest in me, I consider her a friend and someone I can rely on when the chips are down. She'd played a peripheral role in the War Office memo affair, accompanying me to the Russian emba.s.sy and sharing a brief period of captivity there, so she was not surprised to hear that I was about to become embroiled in another mission with French.

Indeed, when I mentioned his name, she pursed her lips and gave me a shrewd look. "The dashing Mr. French, eh? Not my type, of course, but he is attractive. If you like men, which d.a.m.n it all, you apparently do, India."

"Some men," I corrected her. "Well, a few men. And despite what you think, I don't find French attractive at all. If you'd spent several days in his company, you wouldn't find him alluring either."

She harrumphed and looked at me knowingly, but she didn't say anything else, probably because she didn't want to lose her chance at some additional profits over the holidays. Friends we may be, but business is business.

So we shared a cup of tea and some lovely scones (no use providing the recipe to Mrs. Drinkwater; the effort would be wasted) and haggled in a good-natured way over how to split the proceeds from Lotus House while I was away in Scotland. There were a number of details to work out, like who gets which dress on which night, and what to do if a girl faints or expires when she's with a customer (I usually apologize, tell the customer I mistakenly thought he had expressed an interest in necrophilia, and offer him a 10-percent discount on his next visit).

We settled on a list of rules, with Rowena making a little moue of disappointment when I told her the girls were off-limits.

"You'll ruin them for the customers," I said. I knew it was a waste of time, as Rowena would be bedded down with the prettiest strumpet in the house before I had reached King's Cross, but one does have to make the effort to stamp one's moral authority on a situation.

I was lounging in my study late that morning, with my feet up and a preprandial whisky in my hand, enjoying the fire and waiting for French to grace Lotus House with his presence, when Mrs. Drinkwater staggered into the room, narrowly missing the pretty little French table I'd taken in payment from the impoverished third son of a peer. She was gasping like an out-of-condition prizefighter in the tenth round. Tendrils of hair had escaped the bun at the nape of her neck, and her face was pink with the effort of producing a suitable repast for me and my guest. Lord knows what we'd be eating today, but I felt sure we wouldn't enjoy it. I should have made French spring for luncheon at a nice restaurant. Why he wanted to dine here was a mystery beyond the comprehension of mortal man.

"What is it, Mrs. Drinkwater?"

The cook placed her hand on her bosom and inhaled noisily. "I tried, miss; I really did."

Burned the joint, I thought with satisfaction. Now French will have to take me out for a decent meal.

"It's that blasted boy." Mrs. Drinkwater rung her hands and burped loudly. Obviously, she'd been in the cooking sherry. Again.

"Boy? You mean . . ."

"'Allo, India."

I should have guessed. A stench had quietly pervaded the room, heralding the arrival of Vincent, last name unknown, a street arab who occasionally (and for an exorbitant price) a.s.sisted me in dealing with some of the problems encountered in running a first cla.s.s brothel: vetting the girls who came round looking for work, performing the odd bit of blackmail for me when necessary and, in one instance, helping me dispose of Sir Archibald Latham's body. Vincent had subsequently proved himself to be a loyal foot soldier in that business, extricating French and me from a rather sticky situation. Frog-faced, crack-voiced and wily as a hen-killing weasel, he was a good lad to have on your side, the only disadvantage being that he smelled like a troop of infantrymen who'd made a forced march from Karachi to Calcutta without soap and water while subsisting on rancid monkey.

"h.e.l.lo, Vincent," I said, gliding casually across the room to crack the window and then steering him away from the upholstered furniture to a suitable hard-backed chair. If the boy ever sat on one of my cushions, I'd have to burn it.