India Black and the Gentleman Thief (10 page)

The marchioness and Vincent talked a blue streak, reliving our adventures at Balmoral and our success at preventing Her Royal Porcinity (that’s Queen Vicky to you lot) from dying at the hands of fanatical Scottish nationalists. French chimed in from time to time, casting anxious glances at me all the while. I expect he thought I’d bite off his head if he enjoyed himself, but I was too shattered to make the effort.

Fergus returned and spent an hour in the kitchen, producing a tea the likes of which I’d never enjoyed before in Lotus House. He brought in a tray with a mountain of sandwiches, buttered toast and soft-boiled eggs. He apologized that he hadn’t had time to whip up a cake or a batch of biscuits, then soothed the marchioness’s complaints with a jug of fresh cream and a jar of Dundee marmalade. His tea was fragrant and hot. I had a taste, just to be polite, and then found myself wolfing down bread-and-butter sandwiches and toast with the rest of them.

“Glad to see ye eatin’, India,” said the marchioness. “Ye were lookin’ a bit peaked.”

“It’s been a long day,” I said. “And I’ve had a bit of a shock.”

The marchioness cackled. “I assume yer talkin’ about me.”

“And Fergus, and Maggie, and the rest of them.” The dogs were quiet now, having dined on the mince that Fergus had brought back with the other provisions. They were curled on the floor near the marchioness’s feet, except for Maggie, who’d been given dispensation to sleep on the sofa, being on the verge, as she was, of popping out a litter of mewling pups.

The marchioness sat back with a satisfied yawn. “That was a proper feed, Fergus.”

“Thank you, My Lady. I’ll clear up now. May I get you something before I go?”

“A glass of whisky wouldn’t go amiss. And my snuff box, Fergus.”

I stiffened. I’d spent a hellish few days in the draughty castle at Balmoral during a Scottish winter, pretending to be a lady’s maid to the marchioness, a situation arranged by French, which (now that I think of it) warranted some retaliation on my part. The worst of my tasks had involved dealing with the marchioness’s snuff habit. She was fond of the stuff, but after ingesting it was prone to sneezes loud enough to set off avalanches in the Cairngorms. She produced a fair amount of moisture with those sneezes, and I’d toweled off the old woman and everything in the near vicinity too many times to recall. Then there was her vision, which was dicey when it came to distinguishing snuff from powder or salt or any other granular material. In short, the news that the marchioness wished to partake of snuff sent me dashing to the kitchen for an armful of linen.

The marchioness had her fingernail in a porcelain snuff box when I returned. I bolted across the room, intent on swaddling the old gal’s face until the inevitable sneeze occurred, or I smothered her, whichever event might occur first. She inhaled heartily and her face screwed in preparation for soaking my study and I flung myself forward in desperation. As I passed Fergus he reached over and dexterously extracted a square of linen from my arms, which he deftly draped over the marchioness’s countenance. A muffled explosion echoed through Lotus House. The marchioness blinked and Fergus rubbed her down briskly with the towel. Well, he was a damned sight quicker and more adept at this sort of thing than I had been in Scotland. I relaxed a bit for the first time since the dowdy aristocrat had materialized on my doorstep. It occurred to me that I had been slipping unconsciously into the role of the marchioness’s lady’s maid, and that strategically that would place me at a significant disadvantage with the old trout. I needed to regain the initiative and letting Fergus tend to the marchioness’s needs was a start. Consequently I dumped the load of linens into his arms and settled myself in a chair with a glass of brandy at hand. I had a stiff jolt of the medicinal liquid and immediately felt better.

The feeling lasted less than five seconds.

The marchioness made herself comfortable. She had of course occupied my favourite chair, closest to the fire. “Weel, now. I reckon it’s time I told ye why I’ve left the comforts of hearth and home and come to London. ’Twas a dreadful journey for a woman of my age and infirmities and I hope ye appreciate the trouble I’ve gone to just so ye’ll stop sendin’ me those bloody letters.”

“There’s a modern invention you may not have heard of up there among the sheep. It’s called the Royal Mail. You could have answered my questions in writing and saved yourself the trip.”

The marchioness chuckled, which sounded like a maddened hen was trapped in the study, seeking escape.

“Aye, I could ha’ done. But I dinna think that matters of importance to the family should be handled from a distance.”

“Family matters,” I said faintly. “What family matters?”

“Dinna be dim, India. I am referrin’ to our family, o’ course.” She nodded at me, and then shot French a look that made him sit up and smooth his hair.

“You and French and the old lady are kin?” Vincent found this notion incredible.

So did I, although I’d already made the connection between the marchioness and myself. She was surely the great-aunt who’d taken in my mother when she’d been banished from her home. French had introduced me as his cousin and the marchioness had referred to him as her “Sassenach nephew,” which must mean that somewhere in my family tree, his branches intertwined with mine. The poncy bastard had actually spoken the truth.

It was a bit much to take in, frankly, like learning that fairies are real or that some politicians are indeed honest fellows. I couldn’t quite believe that I had a family, let alone that it included a demented, snuff-inhaling, collie-loving marchioness from Scotland and the poncy bastard who’d irritated and attracted me in equal measure since the day I’d met him.

“Blimey,” said Vincent, which reminded me that the odiferous lad was still present and there was no reason for him to be, unless the marchioness was about to disclose that Vincent and I were cousins or half brother and sister or something equally repugnant to contemplate. Even the Old Hirsute Character Upstairs wasn’t that cruel.

“I believe it’s time you left, Vincent,” I said.

“But, hit’s just gettin’ interestin’,” he protested.

The marchioness issued a maniacal laugh. The stumps of her ancient teeth winked in the firelight. “No need to shove the boy out the door, India. We dinna have a thing to be ashamed of, save the usual half-wits and nitwits. Just a reg’lar family.”

I had no idea what constituted a regular family, or indeed any type of family, and told the marchioness so in a curt voice. “And why the devil have you kept this knowledge from me for so long? You’ve known I was your great-niece for months now.” God help me, I sounded hurt. And desperate. India Black is never hurt or desperate. With some effort, I smoothed my face and regarded the marchioness with a stony expression.

“Have another drink, India, and settle yerself. I’ll tell ye the whole story.”

Sound advice. I downed my glass of brandy and poured another. Then I subsided into my chair and resigned myself to listening to the old girl meander through the ancestral grounds. I no longer cared that Vincent was still in the room, drinking my good brandy and petting that damned collie bitch that was due to give birth any minute. Apparently, the two of them had made friends after the leg-pulling incident.

The marchioness’s mouth flopped open and she stared at the ceiling, gathering her thoughts. I thought this might take some time, but to her credit the old girl waited scarcely a minute before launching into her tale.

“French tells me that ye’ve done some diggin’ and found out about yer mother and that groom feller.”

“Yes. The Earl of Clantham told me about that. We lived with him when I was small.” I had tracked the old reprobate to his home on Portman Square a few weeks ago and wangled from him a version of the truth. He’d been quite open about hiring my mother, who’d been beautiful and sophisticated, as his companion and allowing me to live with the servants, though he’d been less keen on that part of the arrangement. He’d also taken pains to absolve himself of any responsibility for throwing my mother and me into the street when she had become ill and ugly, and of no further use to the man. I still seethed at my interview with the fellow, and amused myself with the idea of dropping by unexpectedly and throttling the man one night while he snuffled uneasily in his sleep. But that was a matter for another day.

The marchioness sighed, and to my surprise, her expression was melancholy. “She was a good girl, yer mother. And lovely, oh, my. The boys come runnin’ from miles away, just for the chance of catchin’ a glimpse of her. She was spirited, too, was Isobel. And willful. Much too willful, that girl. When Thomas Black took the job o’ groom, she fancied herself in love with the feller. There was no talkin’ to her. She set her cap for him and had to have him, even if it went against her father’s wishes.”

“You’re speaking of my grandfather?”

“Aye. My brother Duncan. A good man, though stubborn. That’s where Isobel got her spirit. And ye too, I reckon. I couldn’t blame Duncan for wantin’ more for his daughter than a bloody groom. After all, she was the heiress.”

“’Eiress to wot?” asked Vincent, fondling Maggie’s ears. “Women don’t in’erent nuffink.”

The marchioness smiled indulgently. “Not usually. Not here in England. But the peerage o’ Scotland is different. Scottish titles pass to the heirs general, not just to male heirs, unless the charter from the monarch says that only menfolk are eligible. In my view, it’s a fine thing that women can inherit. They’re a lot less likely to throw away their estates on horses or dice, though it’s been known to happen, o’ course. Anyway, that’s the way things are in Scotland. We do things different up there, my boy. That’s why we’re a superior breed to you Sassenach.”

“And so my mother was the eldest daughter of your brother Duncan?”

“Your
grandfather
Duncan. Aye.”

I stole a glance at French. Here was an interesting development for the poncy bastard, I thought smugly. I was an heiress. Then it occurred to me that he might already know this. I would have to apply some persuasive methods to his nibs when I got him alone.

“Your grandfather was the seventh Earl of Strathkinness,” the marchioness said. “Until Duncan’s time there had always been a male heir to inherit the title. But Duncan and his wife didn’t have a son.”

“Only Isobel,” said French. “Your mother.”

“And that’s when the whole bloody thing went wrong,” muttered the marchioness, swilling whisky and waving the empty glass in the air. Fergus appeared silently at her side and freshened her drink.

“Isobel decided she was in love with that damned groom and Duncan sent her off to me so she’d get over the bloody feller. Only by that time, the damage had been done. She was with child. Poor Duncan. The news nearly killed him. He banished your mother and told her not to set foot on the estate again. Then he locked himself away in his study and drank himself to death.”

“What about my grandmother?”

The marchioness pursed her lips grimly. “She was a weak ’un, was yer granny. She should’ve kicked Duncan in the tallywags and told him to take the news like a man and see that the title went to Isobel, but she didn’t. She was half scared of Duncan’s temper, and a bit of a ninny. I’m pleased to see that ye ain’t a bit like her, India.”

“You can call India a lot of things, but ‘weak’ ain’t one of ’em,” said Vincent loyally. I felt the prick of a tear at the boy’s devotion, but I knuckled it away. It was just as likely that the little mercenary was already anticipating how he could get his hands on a portion of my inheritance. I’d have to keep an eye on him or he’d be haring off to Scotland to help himself to the family jewels. Assuming there was an inheritance, of course. After all, the marchioness had referred to me as an heiress. This being the most interesting feature of our conversation to date, I thought it time to press the matter.

“You’re telling me that I am the heiress to the estate and title of the Earl of Strathkinness?”

“Wot do you call a lady earl?” asked Vincent.

“Countess,” said French.

“India a countess?” Vincent found the notion so ridiculous that he burst into laughter, clutching his stomach and hooting loudly. Maggie raised her head and looked at him severely, as did the marchioness. Frankly, I found the whole scenario so surreal that I began to laugh. The marchioness directed her steely gaze at me, and while Fergus and the collies might have quailed before such a look, I’m afraid I found the old bag’s severity a new cause for mirth.

“You’re having me on,” I sputtered, though for the life of me I couldn’t quite figure out why the marchioness would do such a thing.

“Pull yerself together, lass. I know it’s a bit of a shock, but yer the rightful owner of a fair parcel of Scottish land and a big house and ye need to start behavin’ as such.”

I shot a glance at French to see how he was coping with this fantastical nonsense and caught him grinning broadly. I should think most women will understand what I felt when I saw that smile: an irrational anger. We’re complicated creatures, we females of the species, and while I suspected that French’s pleasure was genuine, I was furious that he’d known this information for some time and failed to acknowledge the fact. Not to mention that he’d involved me in a number of dicey situations in which the current Countess of Strathkinness might have become the deceased Countess of Strathkinness. A murmured warning just as we were going into battle against Russian agents or Scottish assassins wouldn’t have gone amiss. “Careful, India,” he said. “Remember that you’re a member of the ruling class now and shouldn’t take unnecessary risks if you want to live to enjoy that title of yours.”