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Authors: Carol K. Carr

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India Black and the Gentleman Thief

BOOK: India Black and the Gentleman Thief
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PRAISE FOR

INDIA BLACK AND THE
SHADOWS OF ANARCHY

“This is a wonderful series written in first person that advances from adventure to adventure, trimmed with clever language, historical details and wonderful characters. It is an incredibly fun read.”


RT Book Reviews

INDIA BLACK AND
THE WIDOW OF WINDSOR

“Following a strong debut . . . Carr’s Victorian series just gets better. Featuring historical authenticity, sharp vocabulary and plenty of parenthetical asides, this romantic suspense romp delivers both action and guffaws.”


Library Journal
(starred review)

“Fans of historical murder mysteries should rejoice at the appearance of a second India Black adventure and the prospect of more—the madam comes highly recommended.”


Open Letters Monthly

“Carr’s second India Black novel is fast, entertaining and funny as well as an engaging mystery.”


RT Book Reviews

INDIA BLACK

“A breathless ride through Victorian England . . . You’ll be hooked on this unique mystery from the very first line.”

—Victoria Thompson, author of
Murder in Chelsea

“I loved this cheeky romp—a kind of Fanny Hill meets Nancy Drew—through a world Dickens would have known. India Black, the witty and resourceful young madam of a London brothel, is a delightful protagonist. I shall follow her future career with particular interest.”

—Vicki Lane, author of
Under the Skin

“[A] breezy, fast-paced debut.”


Publishers Weekly

“This saucy debut is a satisfying amusement, with the happy promise of more to come.”


Kirkus Reviews

“Readers will enjoy this impressive debut novel, which provides a colorful portrait of Victorian society as seen through the eyes of a strong, intelligent woman.”


Booklist

“[A] breakneck romp through Victorian England . . . Provides plenty of laughter and thrills to keep readers turning pages.”


Gumshoe Review

“Bone up on your English and Russian history with this witty account of India Black’s escapades. She’s quite a character!”


Fresh Fiction

“India is a charismatic character with depth, coyness and an unexpected ability to get exactly what she wants, no matter what . . . For those who enjoy history, romance and mysteries rolled into one. This is one book that will satisfy all of your needs.”


Romance Readers Connection

“Expect to stay up late reading this fascinating and at times hilarious novel of espionage and intrigue; you won’t want to put it down.”


RT Book Reviews

“Terrific . . . Entertaining . . . A fast-paced Victorian mystery.”


My Reader’s Block

“The perfect mix of a great main character, interesting supporting characters, adventure, intrigue and historical setting—combined with a wonderfully descriptive writing style and fast pace.”


Fluidity of Time

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Carol K. Carr

INDIA BLACK

INDIA BLACK AND THE WIDOW OF WINDSOR

INDIA BLACK AND THE SHADOWS OF ANARCHY

INDIA BLACK AND THE GENTLEMAN THIEF

Specials

INDIA BLACK AND THE RAJAH’S RUBY

INDIA BLACK IN THE CITY OF LIGHT

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

INDIA BLACK AND THE GENTLEMAN THIEF

Copyright © 2014 by Carol K. Carr.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY
®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

eBook ISBN 978-1-101-59289-2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Carr, Carol K.
India Black and the gentleman thief / Carol K. Carr.
pages cm.—(A madam of espionage mystery)
ISBN 978-0-425-26248-1 (pbk.)
1. Nationalists—Scotland—Fiction. 2. Spies—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.A7726I53 2014
813'.6—dc23
2013039581

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / February 2014

Cover illustration by Alan Ayers.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

ONE

A
t that moment, I’d have given anything to have a rapier in my hand. I’d have used it to fillet French. I believe the poncy bastard knew it too, for he was casting about the room for a means of escape.

Now I ask you, after scattering a nest of anarchist vipers and nabbing one of Tsar Alexander’s best agents and finally settling down to a glass of champagne with a chap you’ve had your eye on for donkey’s years and that same fellow has finally discovered that indeed you are a woman and a deuced fine one at that—I ask you, is it fair that all this bliss should disappear like so much fairy dust? Damned right, it’s not fair. One moment I was admiring the dark, lithe figure of French and calculating how many glasses of champagne it would take before I could carry the bloke off to bed, and the next I was contemplating a missive from that maddening old trout, the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine, informing me that the object of my affection (French, in the event you had forgotten) was well-informed about the murky past of yours truly.

Dedicated readers of these memoirs will recall that ever since the marchioness had informed me that she had known my mother, screeching out this information at a train station in Perth as her carriage pulled away, I had been attempting to find out just what the wretched woman knew. Her correspondence had been evasive until this letter.

I quote her message here, so you’ll appreciate just how much kindling the marchioness had dumped on this particular fire.

Dear Miss Black,

If you want to know about your mother, ask French.

Sincerely yours,
Lady Margaret Aberkill
Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine

I do not think I need to emphasize just how irritated I was to find that French knew more about my family history than I did. Hence my desire for a rapier. Lacking that weapon, I brandished the marchioness’s letter at him.

“I suggest you find a means of defending yourself, as I intend to tear you limb from limb. After you’ve told me what you know, of course.”

I do believe the fellow actually considered for a moment whether I would make good on the threat. I could see the wheels turning as he reckoned his chances. In the end, he made the right choice. He believed me. He’s no coward, though. He drew himself up and put on his usual mask of polite indifference.

“I assume that note is from the marchioness and that she has informed you that I can shed some light upon your past.”

“Brilliant deduction. Now, if you and the marchioness are through playing your little game, please be so good as to explain what you know about my family and how you’ve come by the information.”

Despite what the gospel grinders would have us believe, I am convinced that the Whiskery Old Gent Upstairs plays favourites from time to time. Clearly he took pity on French, for just as the treacherous knave opened his mouth, someone hammered on the front door with such purpose that the champagne glasses trembled on the mantel.

I was disposed to ignore the caller at the door, for though I like custom as much as the next madam I was preoccupied with other matters just then.

French leapt to his feet. “I’ll answer that.”

“Let it go,” I snarled.

“It might be a messenger from the prime minister.”

“I don’t care if it is. Dizzy can find some other agent to take care of his problem. We’re in the middle of a discussion and I won’t brook any interference.”

Really, Benjamin Disraeli was becoming a bloody nuisance. You’d think that after I (with a little help from French and that odiferous street Arab, Vincent) had exposed that anarchist cell and captured a nasty Russian agent, the prime minister would slacken the reins.

The pounding on the door resumed. Bugger. If I didn’t answer the summons I’d soon have a gaggle of whores descending the stairs in their dressing gowns, standing around like a herd of cows and scratching their backsides while they gazed at French’s tousled black curls and giggled behind their hands.

“Damnation!” I shook an admonitory finger at French as I scuttled past him. “Don’t move, French. I’m not finished with you.”

I yanked open the door and confronted the bloke on the porch. He was a wormy little runt but polite, for he swept off his hat and pushed a hand through a thatch of brown hair, combing it down with his fingers.

“Miss Black?”

“We’re not open yet. Come back later.”

I was already closing the door when he thrust a boot inside.

“Wait, ma’am. Please. I got somethin’ here for you.”

I pushed open the door warily. When you’re a government agent, or, come to that, the proprietress of a thriving brothel, you’ve got to be on the
qui vive
at all times. One slip in concentration and you might be kidnapped or assaulted or worse.

However, I had already taken my measure of the fellow at the door and concluded that even in a fair fight, I had the advantage over the scrawny specimen in front of me. Not that I’d be fighting fair, you understand. I’ve always preferred the underhanded method myself, as it saves time.

Anyway, this bloke really did have something in his hand, which he thrust at me.

It was a buff envelope of good quality and light as a feather.

“Colonel Mayhew sent it,” his messenger said.

I examined the envelope and handed it back. “You’re mistaken. It’s addressed to Colonel Mayhew.”

The impertinent fellow shoved it back at me. “I know. Colonel Mayhew give it to me to bring ’ere. ’E said ’e’d be along dreckly to pick it up from you.”

I expelled an exasperated breath. The colonel was a client, albeit not the best. He ambled into Lotus House from time to time and deigned to purchase a bottle once a year. The girls didn’t care for him much, as he tended to pay only for services rendered and considered the giving of gratuities a mortal sin. He usually appeared in
mufti,
but his sweeping mustache, erect bearing and inability to make conversation that did not include the words “cannon” and “trumpet” revealed him as the soldier he was. In fact, he hardly spoke a word when he was on the premises, preferring to drink a single glass of brandy before selecting one of the girls and following her upstairs. I suspect the colonel did not receive many invitations to parties.

I hadn’t seen the man in a month, or perhaps longer, and he’d never used my brothel as a postal box before. I found it deuced strange that he did so now and frankly, it wasn’t at all to my liking. I discourage my clients from viewing Lotus House as a gentleman’s club where they can have a meal or exchange messages. I might consider offering such services in the future, but only at a price.

“Did the colonel say when he’d be by to pick up the envelope?”

“No, ma’am. Just said he’d be here soon, or somethin’ like that.”

“And when did he give you this?”

“Last night, ma’am. Round ten o’clock it must ’ave been. I brung it ’ere, but some battle-axe tol’ me she wouldn’t be responsible for it and to bring it back this mornin’.”

Mrs. Drinkwater, no doubt. My cook and housekeeper (I use those terms charitably) did the minimum amount of work necessary to remain in my good graces and was not likely to take on additional duties without first negotiating an increase in her wages. Frankly, it was just as well that she hadn’t taken the envelope last night as very likely it would still be tucked in the pocket of her apron, where it would have remained until she was sober enough to remember its existence, if she ever did.

I was not inclined to take Colonel Mayhew’s envelope but I
was
inclined to get back to my study and find out what French knew about my genealogical predecessors. Consequently, I sought to avoid a protracted discussion and consented to keep the bloody thing. The colonel’s messenger looked relieved and stuck out a hand, no doubt expecting a coin for his trouble. I disabused him of the notion by shutting the door in his face.

I strode back into the study, like Boudicca about to confront the Romans.

“What’s that you have there?” French asked, in a blatant attempt to divert my attention.

“It’s an envelope from one of my clients, addressed to him.”

“Curious,” said French.

I picked up a silver dagger I keep on my desk for opening letters and slid the blade into the fold.

“What are you doing?” asked French, though it was perfectly obvious what I was doing. “You’re going to open the man’s personal correspondence?”

“You’re a ruddy spy, French. I thought spies enjoyed intercepting messages.”

“In the line of duty, of course.”

“I consider it my duty to find out what’s in here. There’s obviously a reason Colonel Mayhew sent it to Lotus House. I don’t like my business being used as an accommodation address without my permission. Next thing you know, I’ll have every thief in London lined up to leave his swag with me.”

“The colonel’s swag is very flat indeed.”

“A counterfeit bond doesn’t take up much room,” I retorted. I will not be mocked.

The dagger’s blade made a soft ripping noise as it sliced through the envelope. I turned it upside down and shook it. A single piece of paper floated onto my desk.

French leaned over to look at it at the same time as I did and our heads knocked together gently.

“Pardon me,” said French.

“So sorry,” I mumbled. Deuced if we weren’t as polite to each other as old married folk. That would never do. “Your reprieve only lasts until I’ve examined this document, French.”

“I did not expect otherwise.”

I rubbed my temple absently and scanned the sheet of paper. “Bill of lading dated two weeks ago, for the merchant ship
Comet,
sailing on the twentieth of this month—”

“That’s tonight,” French interjected.

I ignored this gratuitous comment and read on. “Ten crates of tools, various, including shovels, axes, hammers and rakes. Consigned by the Bradley Tool Company, Peter Bradley, principal, of 28 Salisbury Street, for delivery to the authorized agent of the South Indian Railway Company, at Calcutta.”

“That’s odd,” mused French. “Why would a British army colonel care about a transaction between two private companies? And why would he send the bill of lading to you?”

“He didn’t send it to me. He intended to retrieve it from Lotus House. And in answer to your first question, I haven’t a clue as to why Mayhew would have this bill of lading.” I shrugged. “Perhaps he’s an officer in the Royal Engineers. They’re always slapping together a bridge or a road. The army could have hired this railway company to do some work. The colonel needed the bill of lading before he’d reimburse the Bradley Tool Company.”

“I also find that odd. Tools such as these are easily manufactured in India. Why would the army purchase them in England and ship them halfway around the world?”

I could see that French wanted to have a long chat about that bill of lading, probably to delay our pending discussion about the marchioness’s message and any bodily injury that might result therefrom. I wasn’t having that.

“Well, whatever the colonel’s interest in the bill of lading, I can’t see that it affects me one way or the other. I shall give it to him when he’s next in and inform him that I will not be acting as his agent in future.” I stuffed the sheet back in the envelope and dropped it on my desk. “Now, then. You were about to explain to me . . .”

Someone knocked at the front door. Bloody hell. Usually the clients were just leaving Lotus House at this hour of the morning; now they were clamouring to get in.

“Perhaps it’s Mayhew,” said French.

I marched to the door, prepared to chew off the ears of the unfortunate colonel.

But it was not Colonel Mayhew at the door. I pulled up short, taken aback at the sight of the three men gathered on my doorstep. They were rough brutes, and certainly not the type of clients who would cause me to run upstairs and roust three tarts out of their beds.

“Yes?” I asked in a brusque voice that implied I had better things to be doing, as indeed I did.

The chap closest to me tugged his battered bowler down over his ears. Then he closed the distance between us, hooked the toe of his boot behind my knee and shoved me in the chest. I toppled over like a skittle. My head bounced off the Carrara tiles of the foyer and I lay crumpled on the floor like yesterday’s washing. The bloke who’d walloped me spared me a glance as he stepped over me, his face as cold and smooth as the marble floor beneath my cheek.

Dear old French came riding to the rescue. My ears were ringing and there was a droning sound in my head that did not bode well for the future, but even so I heard his bellow of rage as he hurtled through the door from the study. My attacker was caught off guard. His hand moved to his pocket but if he had a weapon he had no time to draw it before French buried his head in the man’s stomach and sent him flying across the foyer into the wall. The house shook and flakes of plaster fluttered lazily to the floor.

For a moment there wasn’t a sound, save for my moans and the rasping breaths of the fellow against the wall. Then one of his companions shouted and French turned to meet the other two blokes as they rushed at him. They hit him high and low and the three of them staggered back into the study. I heard an almighty crash. The man French had felled shook his head, growled menacingly and clambered to his feet. He was a bit unsteady on his pins, but he staggered off to join the tussle in the study.

BOOK: India Black and the Gentleman Thief
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