India Black by Carol K. Carr Page A

House in a stylish barouche drawn by a pair of matching blacks, their breath smoking in the cold night air. French handed me in, then settled into the seat beside me. Vincent sat across from us. I’d have made him ride on top with the coachman, but French showed a surprising degree of compassion, unless of course he wanted you to steal government documents from the Russian embassy, and then he was prepared to blackmail you with impunity. French and I were uncomfortably close; I could feel the weight of his arm against mine. I shifted away from the contact, to the far side of the cab. I might be a whore, but I wasn’t going to let the man take any liberties with me. Not unless he paid for the privilege.
    “Mr. Endicott and I will be with you at the embassy tomorrow night, but we cannot do anything to assist you in finding the case. It’s critical that the government isn’t implicated in the matter.”
    “So if I’m discovered in the act of lifting the case, I needn’t suggest the authorities contact you to clear up things.”
    “Precisely.”
    “Remind me again why I’m doing this.”
    “Lotus House.”
    “Ah, yes. For the privilege of keeping what I already own, I’m to lie back and think of England?”
    “You could characterize it in that fashion.”
    “So what’s Count Yusopov’s pleasure?” I asked. “Whips and chains? Livestock? Jellied eels?”
    “He’s an admirer of Sappho.” French turned to look at me, and I felt his breath on my cheek. “You’ll have to bring someone along. I trust that won’t be a problem.”
    “You could have asked first. Every whore has something she won’t do.”
    “And what is it that you won’t do, India?”
    “I never share confidences, French. It’s a sign of weakness.”
    Vincent cut in. “Yer payin’ ain’t ye, Mr. French? I can fix ye up with a woman quicker’n ye can say ‘snap.’ And she’ll be cheaper than ye can find anywhere else.”
    “Hold on, Vincent,” I said. “If I’m going to play slap and tickle with another woman, I’ll choose the lucky lady.” I shuddered at the thought of the disease-ridden hag Vincent would likely produce.
    “I admire your entrepreneurial spirit,” said French. “But under the circumstances, I think we must honour the lady’s wishes. There is, however, one thing you can do for me, Vincent.”
    “Wot’s that?”
    French rummaged in his pocket and produced a handful of coins. “You can hand over the items you cadged from the prime minister’s office. This should compensate you for the money you would have received if you had pawned them.”
    “Wot are ye on about, guv?” Vincent contrived to look innocent, without, I might add, any noticeable success.
    French sighed. “Pray do not insult my intelligence, Vincent. Empty your pockets and take the money. I happen to know that Lord Beaconsfield is inordinately fond of that ivory-handled letter opener you have secreted on your person. It was a present from his wife.”
    Reluctantly, Vincent withdrew the aforementioned letter opener from his sleeve and placed it in French’s hand, then held out his own for the coins.
    French waggled his fingers impatiently.
    Vincent wheezed mournfully and extracted a star-shaped crystal paperweight, a small silver inkwell and a gold-nibbed pen. French critically examined each item slowly, then pocketed them.
    “Is that all, Vincent?”
    Vincent nodded resentfully.
    “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
    Vincent shook his head vigorously. I was about to inform French that Vincent was constitutionally incapable of telling the truth, but why should I interfere? I hoped Vincent had kept some choice bauble for himself; it would serve French right.
    After French had collected Vincent’s loot, paying him what I considered an unseemly sum for returning stolen property, we spent the remainder of the drive to Lotus House hashing through the details of our plans for the next evening. It wasn’t much of a plan. I (and my