She was also a bit of crank. There was her list of prohibited activities: speaking in loud voices in her presence, saying hello to her on one of her afternoon walks, building a coal fire in her rooms or bringing a bishop to luncheon. She adored planning funerals and memorials. Her servants were not allowed to leave her residence before she did, no matter the time of day. Then there was her propensity for exotic servants: those Indian fellows, decked out in flamboyant costumes like circus entertainers, who occupied their time cooking curries in the courtyard, trying to teach the old bat to speak Hindi or standing stiffly behind her while she ate her meals. She was so attached to the kilt-wearing farmer’s son John Brown from Balmoral that she’d brought him to London with her and given him a room down the hall at Windsor. The two were so inseparable that the newspapers had spread rumours of a secret marriage and called the Queen “Mrs. Brown.” Garden-variety stuff, really, you say. Just like my potty old aunt Dorothy. Completely harmless. Just humour the old gel when she goes off on one of her tirades about the bloody bishops.

But your aunt Dorothy isn’t the Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India. In any other family, Her Majesty’s eccentricities would have meant a locked room in the attic and a lifetime of meals on trays. In short, our present monarch is hardly the epitome of regal rule, and there’s no denying that the Empire could do better. That brings us to the other side of the coin. If the Sons of Arbroath (and I must remember to ask French about that; I’ve a fair bit of history, but arcane Scottish lore isn’t one of my interests) succeeded in slaughtering the Queen like a pheasant during the hunting season, the heir to the throne was Albert Edward, the present Prince of Wales, universally known as Bertie. Now if Bertie had shown up at Lotus House, I’d have been glad to see him, for he was a wastrel of the first order, with a propensity for drink, cards, racehorses and fast women. Just the type of customer you can count on to spend his sovereigns not wisely but well at your establishment. I suppose it must be hard on the chap, being portly and middle-aged now, and who likely had expected to be occupying the throne already but for the longevity of his stout little mother, who, despite possessing a hypochondriac’s assurance that every time she sneezed she was about to join dear departed Albert in the netherworld, was as healthy as a plow horse. Bertie hadn’t done much to assure Mama that he was fit for the throne, however, running as he did with a fast set, impregnating women right and left (he even kept a doctor on call for those willing to have abortions), leaving a trail of bastard children throughout England and losing a packet at the gaming tables. In short, while Bertie would always be welcome at Lotus House, it was quite another thing to consider him opening Parliament and making state visits to Paris (all those whores and all that champagne!).

Given the choice between a dissolute rake on the throne or a neurotic, overweight widow, I’d plump for Vicky, which is why I was seriously debating a jaunt to Balmoral with Dizzy and French. Do not think, however, that I would do anything foolish such as jumping into the path of a speeding bullet to save the woman’s life. If I could deflect an assault with minimal damage to myself, I would probably expend the effort, but the jury was still out on what I was willing to do to save Britain from Bertie.

There were other, indeed more important, factors contributing to my decision. The first was that the holiday season was notoriously slow around the brothels of London. All the customers were tucked up with their families, pretending a degree of amity that didn’t really exist, watching their children open presents and listening to their wife prattle on about the neighbors. Things would pick up after Epiphany, when hordes of relieved customers would appear at the door of Lotus House, clamoring for their favorite bints and a bit of sex that didn’t involve their partners closing their eyes in dismay. My friend Rowena Adderly, proprietress of the Silver Thistle and an experienced abbess, could easily look after things while I was gone, provided the price was right and I didn’t mind returning to find my best-looking whore trailing back to the Silver Thistle for a few nights of bliss with Rowena.

And as I have already indicated, I was fed up with the tedious task of running Lotus House, especially when the girls had all the time in the world to sit around and bicker while the revenue dried up. My prior escapade with French had sparked a current of excitement that needed a bigger outlet than umpiring spats over hair combs. I was, in short, as bored as a priest on Monday. I needed a change of scene. All things considered, I would have preferred the Greek Islands at this time of year, but if that wasn’t in the offing, then the Scottish Highlands would have to do.

But I must confess to another reason for considering Dizzy’s request. It amused me to cavort among the most powerful men in the land, men who wouldn’t dare acknowledge me if they met me on the street but who weren’t too proud to rely on a whore to help them out of a jam now and then. I enjoyed grabbing a pew near the seat of power, patting a government minister on the shoulder and handing him a drink, offering my services (so to speak) and getting the poor devil off the hook. You may say it smacks of arrogance and that it’s unseemly for a lady to gloat, but as I’m not a lady, I don’t care ha’pence for your opinion.

I endured a crushing embrace and a less than surreptitious squeeze of my womanly assets. Rowena, as even the dullest of readers will have gathered by now, is a tom, albeit the prettiest one in London. She’s an island girl: dark, voluptuous and seething with eroticism. She’s developed a nice business at the Silver Thistle, specializing in providing dusky maidens like herself to soldiers, sailors and civil administrators just home from the colonies and longing for the pleasures they enjoyed under the Southern Cross.

I extricated myself from her grasp (which was a bit like trying to peel off an enormous leech) and regarded her warmly. Despite her carnal interest in me, I consider her a friend and someone I can rely on when the chips are down. She’d played a peripheral role in the War Office memo affair, accompanying me to the Russian embassy and sharing a brief period of captivity there, so she was not surprised to hear that I was about to become embroiled in another mission with French.

Indeed, when I mentioned his name, she pursed her lips and gave me a shrewd look. “The dashing Mr. French, eh? Not my type, of course, but he is attractive. If you like men, which damn it all, you apparently do, India.”

“Some men,” I corrected her. “Well, a few men. And despite what you think, I don’t find French attractive at all. If you’d spent several days in his company, you wouldn’t find him alluring either.”

She harrumphed and looked at me knowingly, but she didn’t say anything else, probably because she didn’t want to lose her chance at some additional profits over the holidays. Friends we may be, but business is business.

So we shared a cup of tea and some lovely scones (no use providing the recipe to Mrs. Drinkwater; the effort would be wasted) and haggled in a good-natured way over how to split the proceeds from Lotus House while I was away in Scotland. There were a number of details to work out, like who gets which dress on which night, and what to do if a girl faints or expires when she’s with a customer (I usually apologize, tell the customer I mistakenly thought he had expressed an interest in necrophilia, and offer him a 10-percent discount on his next visit).

We settled on a list of rules, with Rowena making a little moue of disappointment when I told her the girls were off-limits.

“You’ll ruin them for the customers,” I said. I knew it was a waste of time, as Rowena would be bedded down with the prettiest strumpet in the house before I had reached King’s Cross, but one does have to make the effort to stamp one’s moral authority on a situation.

“What is it, Mrs. Drinkwater?”

The cook placed her hand on her bosom and inhaled noisily. “I tried, miss; I really did.”

Burned the joint, I thought with satisfaction. Now French will have to take me out for a decent meal.

“It’s that blasted boy.” Mrs. Drinkwater rung her hands and burped loudly. Obviously, she’d been in the cooking sherry. Again.

“Boy? You mean . . .”

“’Allo, India.”

I should have guessed. A stench had quietly pervaded the room, heralding the arrival of Vincent, last name unknown, a street arab who occasionally (and for an exorbitant price) assisted me in dealing with some of the problems encountered in running a first class brothel: vetting the girls who came round looking for work, performing the odd bit of blackmail for me when necessary and, in one instance, helping me dispose of Sir Archibald Latham’s body. Vincent had subsequently proved himself to be a loyal foot soldier in that business, extricating French and me from a rather sticky situation. Frog-faced, crack-voiced and wily as a hen-killing weasel, he was a good lad to have on your side, the only disadvantage being that he smelled like a troop of infantrymen who’d made a forced march from Karachi to Calcutta without soap and water while subsisting on rancid monkey.

“Hello, Vincent,” I said, gliding casually across the room to crack the window and then steering him away from the upholstered furniture to a suitable hard-backed chair. If the boy ever sat on one of my cushions, I’d have to burn it.

I settled into my own chair, glanced at the clock and smothered my dismay. French would be here any moment, and if Vincent learned that his hero’s arrival was imminent, there’d be no dislodging him with dynamite. French and Vincent had struck up an unlikely friendship (well, I suppose it wasn’t any more unlikely than my relationship with French, though I had the advantage over Vincent in looks, hygiene and literacy), with French admiring the boy’s pluck and Vincent respectful of French’s manly virtues. French had even gone so far as to upgrade the boy’s wardrobe, replacing his habitual rags with a set of fine . . .

“Vincent,” I cried, “where are your clothes?”

He looked at me, perplexed. “Got’em on, don’t I?”

“I meant the ones French bought for you.”

“Oh, those. They fetched a good price from ole Silverstein.”

“You sold them?”

He shrugged. “They smelled funny. An’ they hitched me.”

“I hope you have a better explanation than that to give to French.”

Vincent’s eyes gleamed. “Is’e comin’ ’ere? When?”

I opened my mouth to lie, but just then I heard the rap of a malacca walking stick on the front door, and Mrs. Drinkwater lurched past the study on her way to admit my visitor.

“That’s ’im now, ain’t it?” said Vincent, jumping to his feet.

Oh, hell. I scurried after him, but it was too late to intercept him; he’d met French at the door and the two were shaking hands manfully and enquiring about each other’s health. French’s eyebrows had shot skyward when he’d first laid eyes on Vincent, but being the gentleman he was, he didn’t enquire about the whereabouts of the clothes he’d bought or the aroma that enveloped Vincent (French had also arranged for Vincent to enjoy a weekly bath, which, in retrospect, had been a deuced optimistic prospect). I suppose all those years at public school with fellows nicknamed “Stinky” and “Grubby” had inured French to malodorous lads.

French handed his coat and hat to Mrs. Drinkwater and strode into the study, making for the fire, with Vincent on his heels like a newly hatched gosling.

“It’s a damnably cold day,” French said, warming his backside. “And I’m famished. Superintendent Robshaw’s entertainment allowance only runs to weak tea and stale biscuits.”

“Robshaw. Ain’t that the cove from Scotland Yard?” Vincent had made himself comfortable on the sofa. Bugger. “You been to the Yard today? ’Ow come?”

Mrs. Drinkwater plunged into the room, her stained apron flapping and her hair askew. “Luncheon is served, Miss Black.” She jerked her head at Vincent. “You can have some bread and dripping in the kitchen.”

“Mrs. Drinkwater, set another place at the table, please. Vincent will join us for the meal.” French bestowed a charming smile on my cook, which he no doubt used to great effect on the maids at his country home but which left Mrs. Drinkwater unimpressed.

“Suit yourself,” she sniffed, and gave Vincent a dark look.

You will notice that the bastard didn’t bother to consult me. I was in the bread and dripping camp with Mrs. Drinkwater, but French and Vincent were already on their way to the dining room, nattering away about knives and brass knuckles, from the snatches of conversation I could hear as I followed them.

As I expected, the meat was charred beyond recognition, the potatoes boiled to mush, and the peas had been cooked into a sticky green gruel. French looked momentarily dismayed, but Vincent dove in with all the grace of a suckling pig on the sow, chewing with his mouth open and grunting softly in satisfaction. Vincent was not a critic of a free meal. No doubt French was wondering why I employed a cook as shockingly bad as Mrs. Drinkwater. His cook had probably been trained in Paris and could whip out a turbot sauce mousseuse without blinking an eye, but then French’s chef didn’t work in a brothel. I counted myself lucky that I’d found a cook willing to work with a gaggle of naked women and a score of priapic, inebriated gentlemen parading through the halls on a daily basis. Unfortunately, Mrs. Drinkwater insulated herself from these conditions by drinking copious amounts of gin, sherry, wine, beer and even the odd bottle of vanilla extract. As you can imagine, this did not improve her cooking.

Vincent helped himself to seconds while French pushed his potatoes politely around his plate. “So wot’s up at the Yard, guv? Those blokes need us to sort out some trouble for’em?”

I prayed fervently that French would concoct some story about our involvement with Robshaw and the Yard, for if Vincent got wind of the plot against the Queen, he’d be in Scotland afore us, as the old song goes. But my prayers went unanswered (due, perhaps, to my never darkening the doors of a church); French launched into a summary of our meeting with Dizzy, which Vincent lapped up, hanging on every word and all the while forking food into his mouth as though he’d never eaten before.

“Blimey,” he said when French had finished. “Wot do we do now?”

“India and I will go to Scotland tomorrow,” said French.

He’d known that I would go, of course. I resigned myself to arguing with him later about his presumptuousness. Not to mention that music hall interchange between he and Dizzy regarding holidays with the French family, or was it the French family patriarch? French had some explaining to do.

“Wot about me?” Vincent cried through a mouthful of peas. I had to look away.

“There’s no place for you at Balmoral,” I said.

“But I could run errands for ya or deliver messages, or follow some of them hassassins around and report back to ya,” he protested. A tiny glob of peas landed on my lace tablecloth.

“You look perfectly at home on the streets of London,” I told him. “But in Scotland you would be as out of place as a donkey in the derby. The only people who will be there will be the Queen’s guests and her servants.”

“I could ’ide in the stables. They got stables there, don’t they?” Vincent looked appealingly at French. I could see French was weakening.

“The idea is impractical,” I said firmly.

“We’ll discuss it later, Vincent,” said French. “Now let me tell you what I learned from Superintendent Robshaw today.”

On your own head be it, I thought. If French couldn’t say no to Vincent, then French would just have to figure out what to do with the boy. Perhaps he could at least be persuaded to take another bath, being that he was going to be consorting with royalty.

French made himself comfortable, with a glass of wine at hand. “As you would expect, Scotland Yard keeps a watchful eye out for any individuals or organizations who pose a threat to the Queen. There’s always some disaffected Irishman who’s willing to take a shot at Her Majesty over the home-rule issue. And there has always been a small group of Scots who were passionately committed to independence for their country.”

French paused for a sip of wine. Now that the history lesson had begun, I could see that Vincent was losing interest rapidly; French would have to conjure up some tales of derring-do and swordplay, or the boy would be asleep with this head on the table before long. No surprise, really, given the amount of food he had ingested.

“Most of the Scottish nationalists have been ineffective organizations, consisting of a few crackpots who failed to attract many followers and ended up fighting amongst themselves. You know how the Scots are: a more cantankerous lot doesn’t exist.” French obviously hadn’t spent much time behind the scenes at his local brothel.

“But in recent months, a new group has appeared, rumoured to have connections to the Scottish aristocracy and headed by a mysterious figure called ‘the Marischal.’ Where previous groups were content to issue broadsides and hold up the odd mail train, this new organization has not hesitated to use violence. They have claimed responsibility for the murder of two Scottish magistrates and an English judge.”

This was more like it; Vincent’s nose was quivering.

“My whiskers! And this ’ere marshal is the one who done it? Ain’t a marshal got somethin’ to do with the law?”

“Marischal,” French corrected him gently. “And you’re correct, Vincent. ‘Marischal’ does mean marshal in the Old High German language. The word originally meant ‘keeper of the horses,’ which was an important role, but over the centuries the position evolved into that of a marshal, someone responsible for keeping the peace. The word is also used to designate the highest rank in the military. It’s an interesting word, with a fascinating etymology.”

Vincent now looked wide awake, but my eyelids were drooping. French must have noticed, for he emptied his glass, refilled it from the bottle nearby and plunged on.

“The Marischal did not choose his name randomly. In 1320, fifty-one Scottish peers signed a document that became known as the Declaration of Arbroath, in which they asserted their independence from the English king Edward I. You’ll remember him, of course, as the ‘Hammer of the Scots.’ The king even had the phrase carved on his tombstone, in Latin. He is reviled in Scotland for the brutality with which he crushed Scottish attempts at independence. Robert de Keith, then the Marischal of Scotland and one of the most influential men in the country, opposed Edward and put his signature to the declaration.”

I stifled a yawn. I admit to sharing Vincent’s views on history. Hangings and beheadings and torture are diverting, but my interest wanes when it comes to tales of sitting around a table and putting pen to paper.

“So the Declaration of Arbroath is the inspiration for a collection of fanatics bent on throwing off the English yoke?” I asked. “And they are killing government officials to achieve their objective?”

“Yes,” said French. “And now they have targeted the Queen. Robshaw’s men have heard that the present Marischal exerts a powerful influence over the Sons of Arbroath. He is charismatic, eloquent and passionately committed to the Queen’s death. Robshaw is convinced that the Sons and the Marischal constitute a significant threat to Her Majesty.”

“And Dizzy wants us to protect her. So what’s the plan?” I asked briskly. I doubted that there was one; French had a preference for improvising, but I had been a participant in some of his hastily devised schemes, and my predilection was for carefully planned enterprises that did not leave one staring down the barrel of a revolver.

“I suppose you’ll go as yourself.”

“Yes,” said French. “As Dizzy suggested, I’ll go along as his private secretary.”

“And I suppose you’ve got me seducing various household servants and reporting back to you on their political views?”

French glanced quickly at Vincent, to see if this graphic depiction of my presumed role had reached his tender ears, but Vincent was chewing meditatively on a piece of burned meat and ignoring the conversation. Probably devising a means of hiding himself among French’s baggage and joining us in the Highlands.

“I’ve arranged for you to act as a lady’s maid to the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine, a distant cousin of the Queen, who has been invited to spend the holidays at Balmoral.”

“How on earth did you manage that, on such short notice?”

“Oh”—French waved a hand vaguely—“the marchioness is always in need of a maid.”

My antennae quivered. “Am I expected to seduce the marchioness? Because if I am, I may just stay in London and send Rowena along with you.”

French snorted, the most inelegant sound I’d heard him make in our brief acquaintance. “Good Lord, no.”

“You seem inordinately amused by the idea.”

“She’s rather old, India. No, you will only be required to act as her personal assistant. In fact, the two of you share a similar personality. I expect you’ll get along famously. Here,” he said, handing me a packet of papers. “I’ve prepared letters of recommendation and a summary of your experiences as a lady’s maid among various Scottish aristocrats. All of it false, of course, but it will add credibility to your story, India, if you can rattle off the duchesses and baronesses for whom you’ve worked.”

“Presuming none of them are friends or acquaintances of the marchioness.”

“Not to worry. None of the ladies listed there have any connection whatsoever with any of the guests invited to Balmoral by the Queen. And should anyone enquire, they are each prepared to swear that you were in their employment on the dates specified and that you were an exemplary servant.”

“Should I bring the Webley?”

“I wouldn’t. You’ll have no privacy in the servants’ quarters, and it would look deuced odd for a lady’s maid to be carrying a revolver. I will, however, provide you with the necessary uniforms. Jot down your measurements for me, please.”

I scribbled down some notes for him, hoping that the British government had a good supply of costumes in my size, and passed it to him. He rose from the table. “I shall see you at the station tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Wear something dowdy and servant-like. You do have something frumpy in your closet, don’t you? It wouldn’t do to arrive at the station in that sapphire silk gown you were wearing the other evening.”

I assured him I would be sporting suitably cheap and practical clothing. I’d have to raid the bints’ wardrobes, but no doubt there would be a few threadbare dresses and shawls tucked away from their days as fishmongers’ daughters, milkmaids and flower peddlers. I escorted French to the door, with Vincent dogging his steps and begging to be allowed to tag along to Scotland. Knowing French’s resolve, I resigned myself to seeing Vincent somewhere in the vicinity of Balmoral. I trundled upstairs to conduct my scavenger hunt and to acquaint myself with my virtues as domestic help.

“Your uniforms,” he said.

“I hope they fit, French.”

He shrugged impatiently. “You needn’t worry. We know how to do these things.”

“For your sake, I hope you do.”

“Now, look over there,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder. “That’s the Queen’s train. Her coach is in the rear. The coaches in front will be occupied by some of her guests and the servants she is taking along from Windsor.”

The Queen’s train looked like any other except for the rear coach, which was painted a glossy black and bore the Queen’s coat of arms in gilt upon the doors, and the great-coated army of grave-faced coves patrolling the platform around it.

“Robshaw’s men?” I asked.

“Yes. In addition to the men you see here, he’ll have operatives on the train itself and at each station along the way. Agents from the Yard will inspect every inch of track between here and Balmoral. No one gets on this train without a special pass.”

He rummaged in his pocket and produced a document. “Here’s yours. You’ll be in No. 14, in a private compartment. Normally, you’d be expected to travel with the other servants, but since the marchioness will join the train at Perth, I thought you should enjoy the comforts of a first-class carriage alone while you can, without being subjected to speculation and inquisitiveness from the other servants.”

“Thank heaven for that. I’m not sure I’m up to the task of making conversation with the Queen’s equerry just yet.”

French pointed down the platform. “There’s Robshaw. Just as well that you see him now. Once he’s at Balmoral, he’ll be occupied with securing the perimeter of the castle. We won’t catch a glimpse of him then.”

Robshaw was a tall, thin chap with a supercilious nose and a set of luxuriant side whiskers the colour and texture of a seal’s pelt. His trousers were sharply creased, his hat was freshly brushed, and the shine on his boots was blinding at twenty paces. He tipped his hat to a passing gentlewoman, displaying a pair of spotless dove grey gloves, glared at a flying smut that had dared to land on his forearm and brushed it disdainfully away. If he cared half as much about Vicky’s security as he did about his appearance, the Queen was safe indeed.

“Looks a bit of a fusspot,” I said.

“He’s got an eye for detail, which is just what one needs in his job. Never leaves anything to chance and always has a trick up his sleeve.” French checked the time. “We’ll be leaving soon. When the train arrives in Perth, the marchioness will be escorted to the carriage and introduced to you by Sir Horace Wickersham. He’s provided a letter of reference for you to the marchioness.”

“I confess to having some doubts about this. It’s not really my nature to toady to the upper class.”

“I have my doubts, as well,” said French, fixing me with that cool grey stare of his. “Remember our fencing lessons; control the point. Don’t let your emotions get the better of you. And for God’s sake, don’t tell the marchioness to bugger off no matter what she does.”

“Bugger off, French.”

He smiled. “One other thing.” He removed the newspaper from under his arm and handed it to me. “You’ll want to read this. The Marischal has published a letter on behalf of the Sons of Arbroath. They have announced that they intend to kill the Queen and pursue a campaign of public executions until the government of England capitulates and emancipates Scotland.”

“That ups the stakes a bit.”

“Considerably.”

“And I’ll bet Vicky’s pantaloons are in a bit of twist.”

French’s lips twitched. “I’ll see you in Scotland.”

“Wait. How will we communicate?”

“Not to worry,” French called over his shoulder. “I shall be in contact with you.”

“You bloody well better be,” I muttered, and headed for my carriage, studiously avoiding looking directly at any of Robshaw’s men. You never know but what one of these steely-eyed fellows from Division A of Scotland Yard had once been an ambitious youngster walking a beat around Lotus House. Being a woman it was difficult to forget, I thought it best to keep my head down and my gaze averted. Sometimes my profession can be a liability, but as it affords me a great deal of money and the liberty to do what I like with it, I can endure the occasional inconvenience.

I handed my pass to the joker guarding the door to my carriage and waited while he scrutinized it with the avidity of Shylock reviewing his accounts. There was a tremendous commotion around the Queen’s train, with crates of wine and parcels of provisions being trundled aboard and red-faced men shouting instructions, and even, I noticed, several Thoroughbreds being loaded into a horse carriage. The steeds were plunging and stamping at the noise and the steam, and a few grim-faced lads were hanging on to their halters. Some swell must be making the trip under the erroneous impression there were no horses in Scotland.

I watched idly for a moment, and then a striking figure caught my eye among the toffs and their stable boys. It was French, but he was no longer the sober gent with whom I’d just conversed. He wore a vermilion frock coat with a black velvet collar, a low-cut brocade waistcoat and slim-fitting trousers the colour of smoke. He strolled languidly around the edge of the crowd, watching the horses and twirling his malacca walking stick in his hand. Somehow he had contrived to alter his appearance: his thick black hair was tousled and his eyes heavy lidded, as though he had just arisen from his bed in the nick of time to catch the train (or, perhaps, never made the acquaintance of the bed at all last night). I watched with interest as he sidled over to a staid gentleman in an elegant black suit and leaned over for a confidential word. The somber fellow looked startled, then vexed and finally positively outraged. He said something blistering to French and stalked off, leaving French with a look of impish delight on his face. What the devil was he up to? French usually conducted himself with tedious rectitude (barring the odd case of blackmail, as I’ve previously noted). Now he looked like a louche member of the Upper Ten (Thousand, that is, being a reference to the crème de la crème of English society, which, of course, contains its share of rotters and scoundrels, only they’re the richest rotters and scoundrels in the land and, therefore, above the law). French yawned and consulted his watch, then shouted instructions to one of the lads, who was holding a fine grey gelding and waiting his turn to lead the horse onto the carriage. I can’t say I was surprised to see Vincent, decked out in a new suit of clothes. I wondered what the secondhand clothing market was like in the Balmoral area.

Many hours later, we pulled into the station at Perth. Jolted awake, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and drew back the curtains. There wasn’t much to see, other than a bustling train station that looked much like any other. I noticed a few well-dressed ladies and men on the platform, waiting to board, and concluded that other members of the Queen’s party besides the marchioness were boarding here. French had instructed me to wait in the carriage until Sir Horace arrived to introduce me to my employer, so I cooled my heels and hummed a few songs, killing time, until I heard some timorous footsteps in the hallway and a gentle knock upon the door.

“Miss Black?”

I rose to my feet and smoothed my skirts. “Come in.”

Sir Horace Wickersham was a ruddy old squire with a cast in one eye, a halo of fluffy white hair and the confidence of a bullied mouse.

“Hello,” he mumbled. “Hello. Very nice to meet you. Very nice indeed.” He glanced briefly at me and blushed. His eyes skittered away from mine and toured the compartment. “Did you, um, have a nice journey?”

“Yes, it was fine.”

“Good, good.” He stared with some fascination at my Bible. “I asked, you see, because the rails are sometimes quite uneven, and the journey can be most uncomfortable.”

“It was tolerable,” I said.

“Um.” He now seemed mesmerized by my hat. At this rate, the train was going to be leaving for Aberdeen before the marchioness boarded.

“I’m looking forward to meeting the marchioness,” I said brightly, trying to prod the old codger into action.

“Yes. Quite.” Silence, while Sir Horace examined the floorboards of the carriage.

“Does she need some assistance in boarding?”

“No. No. I’ll fetch her.” He shuffled his feet and spun his hat in his hand like the captain of a ship headed for the rocks. “Look here,” he said stiffly, “has anyone told you about Her Ladyship’s, um, habits?”

“Habits?” I echoed. Damn that bastard French.

“You know, the—”

“Horace?” It was less a voice than the cawing of a demented rook.

Sir Horace leaped like a show jumper at the last hurdle. “Joshua and Jeremiah! It’s the marchioness.”

I was preoccupied with planning slow tortures for French, but Sir Horace’s reaction snapped me back to attention.

“Where are ye, Horace? Damn and blast, ye must be here somewhere. Come out where I can see ye.”

Sir Horace darted to the doorway. “In here, m’lady. I was just conversing with Miss Black. Catching up on old times, you know.” He laughed nervously.

“Bugger the old times. Come and help me, ye fool. I need an arm to lean on.” The raspy voice subsided into a raspy cough.

Sir Horace roused himself to action and disappeared into the corridor to escort the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine into the carriage. Oh, French, I thought. The torture will be long and slow. I pasted a smile on my face and prepared to meet my employer.

I had thought that voice had issued from an amazon, but the marchioness was a tiny woman, no bigger than a flea and as wobbly on her feet as a faulty skittle. She shuffled in on Sir Horace’s arm, leaning on a cane, and flopped like a rag doll onto the bench, from which she glared up at me through rheumy eyes. She was accompanied by a musty odor, equal parts camphor, tobacco and lavender. I had been harboring a secret fantasy of a kind, matronly and progressive aristocrat, one who was careful not to overwork the help and who made sure they were paid generously. My fantasy dissolved in smoke when the marchioness looked up at me. God, what a death mask. Her Ladyship’s skin was the colour and texture of the papyrus on view at the British Museum. Someone (and from the looks of it, it must have been the old girl herself) had applied a thick dusting of powder, which had settled into the cracks of her face. A wide streak of rouge had been smeared under each eye, giving her the appearance of a Comanche ready for the warpath. Her eyes were clouded with cataracts, and her mouth hung open, displaying a few discoloured teeth and a vast expanse of mottled pink gums. And her hair—good Lord, what was I going to do with that rat’s nest? Still, knowing that a great deal was at stake (i.e., the Queen’s life), I hid my dismay and tried to look servile and obsequious, which, if you’re as naturally handsome and confident as I, is deuced difficult.

The marchioness poked me in the shin with her cane. “Who’s this?”

Sir Horace grimaced apologetically at me. “This is the girl I told you about, m’lady. India Black. Your new maid. You’ll recall that I recommended her; she gave excellent service to my late wife.”

“Indian? What sort of name is that for a lass?”

“It’s India, Your Ladyship,” I corrected her gently.

“India.” She stared balefully at me. “Damned silly name. Who names a girl after a country? Especially one full of little brown people who don’t eat beef. Somethin’ wrong with them, I say. Give me a good bit of rare English beef any day. Horace, where’s my snuffbox?”

Sir Horace rummaged hastily through the marchioness’s baggage until he produced a beautiful little mother-of-pearl box with a painted miniature of a dyspeptic geezer on the lid. He offered it to the marchioness, who dipped a yellow nail into the snuff and shoveled it into her nose, inhaling deeply. She sighed like an addict smoking the evening’s first pipe of opium, then her face contorted in agonizing pain. I sprang to my feet, looking wildly at Sir Horace for assistance, but it was only the commencement of a series of violent sneezes from the marchioness, who, I don’t mind telling you, could have benefitted from a handkerchief. So could I; I wiped a few droplets from my skirt and shuddered.

My employer swiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Well, Imogen, tell me about yerself.”

“It’s India, ma’am,” I said.

“Damned silly name.”

Before she could cover the racial and dietary characteristics of the Hindoos again, I launched into a brief précis of my experience as a lady’s maid in various grand Scottish houses. The marchioness listened attentively, closing her eyes and nodding at the mention of the Baroness Haggis and the Duchess of Kneeps. I finished my spiel and glanced at Sir Horace, who was wearing out the brim of his hat again and stealing glances at his watch.

“What are ye doin’ still hangin’ about, Horace?” the marchioness snapped. “Get off the train or ye’ll be going to Balmoral with us, and ye know how the Queen hates uninvited guests.”

Sir Horace looked relieved, tipped his hat to me with a sympathetic smile, kissed the marchioness’s hand and vanished. I couldn’t help but envy him.

“Don’t just stand there gawpin’, girl. Put away my things and find a rug fer me. It’s bloody cold in here.”