Free India Black and the Widow of Windsor by Carol K. Carr

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