India Black and the Widow of Windsor (37 page)

“How can you call that a success? There were three attempts on the Queen’s life, and the last one would have succeeded if Her Highness hadn’t felt the sudden urge to whisper sweet nothings into John Brown’s ear.”

Vincent had polished off his drink and slithered over to the whisky bottle without me noticing. “The old bird’s been shot at before. She must be gettin’ used to hit by now.”

French smothered a smile. “And we caught the brigands this time, India. The perpetrators are in gaol, and the Sons of Arbroath are scattered to the four winds.”

“This special-agent business seems to turn out rather inconclusively,” I said. “I was expecting something more definitive.” And a bit more heroic on my part, if I must tell the truth. I’d managed to survive my bout with Flora, but it hadn’t been me who dispatched her, or Lady Dalfad for that matter. I admit to feeling some disappointment at not being the heroine. It’s all well and good to blather on about the Queen and the monarchy and saving the country, but a little personal glory wouldn’t go amiss.

I was brooding on the topic when French rose from his chair. “I’ve brought you something, India. An early Christmas present.”

“I hope it’s a bottle of whisky. You and Vincent seem to have emptied this one.”

French bellowed for Mrs. Drinkwater, and the old cat came simpering in, bearing the parcel French had deposited with her.

He presented it to me with a flourish, laying it across my lap. Vincent came to look over my shoulder. I still shudder when I think about the smell that accompanied him.

The box certainly did not contain hothouse flowers. It was heavier than I’d expected, and the weight inside shifted as I positioned the box to open it. I removed the bow, tossed it to the floor and lifted the lid cautiously.

“’Urry up,” said Vincent.

The lid followed the ribbon to the floor, and I sifted through the tissue paper in the box. The gaslight flared and twinkled upon a metallic object. I lifted it carefully from the box and looked at it with some dismay. A rapier, of the finest English steel, with a tooled leather case of maroon leather scrolled in gold leaf.

“Blimey,” breathed Vincent. “That’s a beaut’.” I could see he was already calculating its worth at the nearest pawnshop.

“From Wilkinson,” said French, beaming. “The finest swordsmith in the country.”

“You shouldn’t have,” I said.

Really.

No wonder the bastard was still a bachelor.

Or was he? I remembered French’s awkward attempt to deflect the prime minister’s inquiry into his holiday arrangements. Then there was the matter of the marchioness. Was she on the prime minister’s payroll? Was she in league with Dizzy and French? What did she know about my mother, and did French know what she knew? I had several points to clarify with the poncy bastard, and if I didn’t get some satisfactory answers, I might find some use for my new Christmas present after all.

“I say, French—”

 

 

INDIA BLACK
INDIA BLACK AND THE WIDOW OF WINDSOR