some ancient types might be swooning right now, the marchioness is as tough as old boots. She isn’t the kind of woman to go all faint and fluttery at the news that I own a brothel.” Cue French’s distressed expression, which I ignored. “Frankly, I’m tired of dancing with the woman.”
“Please, one more letter. And I’ll write to her as well.”
“And if she doesn’t reply, or brushes off our requests?”
“Then we shall go to Scotland and demand answers.”
“You won’t get any,” I said. “She’ll retreat to her room and refuse to see us.”
“She’ll see me.”
I thought he sounded smug and told him so. But when I asked why he was so bloody sure the decrepit witch would admit him to her house, he gave me a cryptic smile and refused to speak about the matter, which of course annoyed me greatly.
“Very well, French. We’ll play this match as you suggest. I’ll write the confounded vulture once more, and then I’m finished playing nicely. You’d better hope the marchioness tells me the truth, or we’ll be on the first train to Scotland and it’s a damned long journey.”
This alarmed him, as I knew it would, and wiped the smile from his face.
“We’re still a few minutes from Salisbury Street,” I said. “Plenty of time for you to tell me how you found me.”
He squirmed uncomfortably and looked out the window. Then it dawned on me.
“You didn’t really find me, did you? I mean, you might have been looking but it was sheer bloody luck that you stumbled across me. If poor Latham hadn’t died at Lotus House, the marchioness might still be waiting to find her great-niece.”
Sir Archibald Latham, former customer and clerk in the War Office (otherwise known as “Bowser” to the tarts for his soulful eyes and tendency to hump anything in sight), had clocked out of his earthly shift at Lotus House in the middle of a session with one of my bints. Archie had been carrying a secret memo describing the state of Britain’s armed forces (appalling, I suppose, best described it), and Russian agents had nabbed the deceased clerk’s case and made a run for the Continent. The prime minister had dispatched French to shadow the tsar’s agents and keep an eye on Latham, and that, I suspected, had led French to my door.
I laughed. “Good God. What are the odds? Eight thousand whores in London and Bowser chooses Lotus House in which to die. It must have been a shock to learn that the woman you’d been dispatched to find was the madam there.”
French looked at me sourly. “I was on your track already, but I was bloody surprised to find that Latham frequented Lotus House. His death and subsequent developments certainly altered my plans for approaching you.”
“Subsequent developments?” I affected an air of nonchalance. “Ah, yes. You mean the way you blackmailed me into helping you get that memorandum. By the way, did you explain to the marchioness just how you manipulated me? I can’t think that she’ll appreciate your methods of extortion.” Privately, however, I reckoned the old trout would have done the same or worse. From experience, I knew the marchioness did not concern herself overmuch with trifles such as the Christian virtues. I must admit, I rather admired her for that view as my own philosophy regarding principles is equally elastic.
By this time, to French’s great relief, we had reached our destination. We swung out of the hansom into a short street of offices and shops. The pavements were deserted, the premises shuttered. After the sound of the horse’s hooves had died in the distance, the stillness was absolute. For my money, there’s nothing half so eerie as an uninhabited thoroughfare on a Sunday afternoon in London. I’d rather stroll alone through the rookery in Seven Dials in the wee hours of the morning (with my Bulldog revolver in my pocket, naturally) than wander down this desolate street. Every doorway seemed to hold menace, every window a shadowy figure
“Please, one more letter. And I’ll write to her as well.”
“And if she doesn’t reply, or brushes off our requests?”
“Then we shall go to Scotland and demand answers.”
“You won’t get any,” I said. “She’ll retreat to her room and refuse to see us.”
“She’ll see me.”
I thought he sounded smug and told him so. But when I asked why he was so bloody sure the decrepit witch would admit him to her house, he gave me a cryptic smile and refused to speak about the matter, which of course annoyed me greatly.
“Very well, French. We’ll play this match as you suggest. I’ll write the confounded vulture once more, and then I’m finished playing nicely. You’d better hope the marchioness tells me the truth, or we’ll be on the first train to Scotland and it’s a damned long journey.”
This alarmed him, as I knew it would, and wiped the smile from his face.
“We’re still a few minutes from Salisbury Street,” I said. “Plenty of time for you to tell me how you found me.”
He squirmed uncomfortably and looked out the window. Then it dawned on me.
“You didn’t really find me, did you? I mean, you might have been looking but it was sheer bloody luck that you stumbled across me. If poor Latham hadn’t died at Lotus House, the marchioness might still be waiting to find her great-niece.”
Sir Archibald Latham, former customer and clerk in the War Office (otherwise known as “Bowser” to the tarts for his soulful eyes and tendency to hump anything in sight), had clocked out of his earthly shift at Lotus House in the middle of a session with one of my bints. Archie had been carrying a secret memo describing the state of Britain’s armed forces (appalling, I suppose, best described it), and Russian agents had nabbed the deceased clerk’s case and made a run for the Continent. The prime minister had dispatched French to shadow the tsar’s agents and keep an eye on Latham, and that, I suspected, had led French to my door.
I laughed. “Good God. What are the odds? Eight thousand whores in London and Bowser chooses Lotus House in which to die. It must have been a shock to learn that the woman you’d been dispatched to find was the madam there.”
French looked at me sourly. “I was on your track already, but I was bloody surprised to find that Latham frequented Lotus House. His death and subsequent developments certainly altered my plans for approaching you.”
“Subsequent developments?” I affected an air of nonchalance. “Ah, yes. You mean the way you blackmailed me into helping you get that memorandum. By the way, did you explain to the marchioness just how you manipulated me? I can’t think that she’ll appreciate your methods of extortion.” Privately, however, I reckoned the old trout would have done the same or worse. From experience, I knew the marchioness did not concern herself overmuch with trifles such as the Christian virtues. I must admit, I rather admired her for that view as my own philosophy regarding principles is equally elastic.
By this time, to French’s great relief, we had reached our destination. We swung out of the hansom into a short street of offices and shops. The pavements were deserted, the premises shuttered. After the sound of the horse’s hooves had died in the distance, the stillness was absolute. For my money, there’s nothing half so eerie as an uninhabited thoroughfare on a Sunday afternoon in London. I’d rather stroll alone through the rookery in Seven Dials in the wee hours of the morning (with my Bulldog revolver in my pocket, naturally) than wander down this desolate street. Every doorway seemed to hold menace, every window a shadowy figure
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