I left them to it; there was no point in my going along as French would do just exactly as he chose and ignore my opinion as to matters of transportation. So I introduced myself to the bottle of whisky (and shockingly bad, it was, but after it took the roof off your mouth it settled in your stomach with a lovely glow that nearly made up for the appalling taste). Another bottle of this turpentine would be the perfect accompaniment for our travels, and I helped myself to a bottle from behind the bar. The landlord returned then, stamping snow from his feet and brushing snow from his hat, and cursing the weather with enthusiasm. I told him to add the bottle to French’s bill and was looking around to see if there might be any other items of interest I could charge to the taxpayer, when French came striding in, smiling broadly and clapping his hands with glee.
“On your feet, India! We’re off!”
French never spoke in exclamation marks, so I knew he must have made trumps this time in a big way.
“Come and look,” he said, gesturing toward the frozen waste outside. “Ivanov doesn’t stand a chance now. We’ll be on him like hounds on a stag before the morning is over.”
I went to the door and spotted Evans holding the heads of two of the typical inn horses we’d been able to hire. Even the best of them were little better than half-starved, hammer-headed nags, and these were no different. This time, however, they were not harnessed to French’s brougham, but to the object which had excited such confidence in French that he’d run Ivanov to ground in short order: a bright red sleigh, with curved runners and a rakish silhouette. And no roof at all. As I watched, the snow was piling up on the seats. Oh, dear. How dedicated was I to the chase? It had been one thing, traveling in the relative comfort of the brougham, with a brazier of coals and rugs for warmth. An open sleigh in the midst of a raging snow squall was quite another. French had flung open the door to the sleigh, brushing the snow aside vigorously to clear the seat for me.
“Come along, India. There’s no time to waste.”
When I didn’t vault in at his command, he turned to me and gave me a piercing glance. Perhaps I looked a little bedraggled out there in the wind, the feathers on my hat drooping and my skirts wet from the snow. In any case, he came to stand before me, and as he did, his face softened a bit. It was such a shocking sight that I found it hard to pay attention to what he had to say.
“Do you want to stay here? I can send a man back for you when I reach Dover. You needn’t worry about coming on with me. The journey’s been difficult till now, and God knows, it will get worse before it’s over. This isn’t a job for a woman. I shan’t blame you for staying.”
That smug devil. There was no way I’d back down from a challenge like that, and he knew it.
“Oh, stop that insipid drivel, and let’s get on with it,” I snarled.
ELEVEN
T
he sleigh had room only for two, so we left Evans standing in the road before the inn in the first light of dawn, waving mournfully after us. I rather envied him, for the eggs and bacon, tots of whisky and warm feather bed he’d soon be enjoying. As for French and me, we were bundled to the teeth in rugs and blankets, shoulders hunched against the wind and snow. He flicked the whip over the horses’ backs, and they pressed forward, the sleigh following smoothly after them.
French whooped and urged on the horses, and I had to agree it was a completely different experience than the hours spent in the brougham, lumbering over one mogul after another and sliding precariously around corners on two wheels. This ride was smooth and effortless in comparison; ’tis true the horses still had to struggle through the heavy snow, but at least they no longer had to drag the brougham through the drifts. I was just thinking how much faster and more efficiently we could now travel when there was an almighty thump, the sleigh skidded sideways in the road, and French fought the reins as the horses shied violently.
“What the devil ...” he exclaimed.
“We must have hit a rock,” I said, turning round in my seat to look for the culprit, but the snow lay smooth and unbroken except for the trail churned by the horses and the tracks of the sleigh’s runners.
“It didn’t feel like a rock,” said French.
“How frequently do you drive a sleigh?”
“It’s not my driving skills. Next spring there’ll be a great bloody boulder in the middle of the road back there, mark my words.”
He subsided into silence, his attention focused on the horses and trying to discern the road beneath the snow. I snuggled into the rugs and considered our situation. We were still miles from the coast, and the weather would likely have an effect on shipping as well as ground transportation. We might be fortunate enough to catch Ivanov and Oksana before they made Dover, but even if we didn’t, they might find it difficult to locate a ship sailing for Calais in this weather, assuming, of course, that they were making for France. That seemed logical, given its proximity, but that was only a guess. It seemed to me that if we didn’t intercept them before they landed on French soil, the game was up, despite French’s brave words to the effect that he’d follow Ivanov to St. Petersburg if necessary. I for one would not be accompanying him if he did. After this experience, I couldn’t bring myself to think about winter in Russia.
In fact, the vista that presented itself to my eyes seemed depressingly like what one would encounter if one were foolish enough to take a tour of Mother Russia. In an open sleigh. In the middle of the winter. A frozen wasteland of fields and low hills surrounded us, broken by copses of trees, their limbs black against the snowy pastures. Here and there, a thin line of smoke marked the existence of a lonely farmhouse or inn. The wind moaned and torrents of snow poured over us, accumulating rapidly on any exposed surface, including yours truly. Every five minutes I had to lean over to shake the snow off my hat or I’d become top heavy. It seemed as though we had already followed Ivanov into the heart of Russia.
I had thought myself into a funk, which is unusual for me, as being a madam requires a great deal of optimism and perseverance, for God knows, it’s not an easy life, what with the interfering busybodies trying to rescue me from a life of moral turpitude, the heartless peelers and the witless bints scratching and clawing at each other like a roomful of cats. Perhaps it was just the effects of several nights without sleep, the numbing cold and a particularly vicious brandy at one of the inns along the way, but whatever the reason, I was feeling glum.
I thought French might be as well. After the initial exhilaration caused by our change in transport, he’d sat hunched over the reins in brooding silence, likely thinking the same uplifting thoughts as I, excluding the part about the busybodies, peelers and whores, of course. His thoughts were probably preoccupied with inferior ports, lackadaisical butlers and the Endicotts of the world.
If I wasn’t careful, I could lapse into a full scale attack of self-pity, and as my mother used to say, my girl, you’ve no time for that. Right. I straightened my spine and stamped my feet briskly.
“What’s our plan, French?”
“Plan?”
He’d been miles away, possibly composing a letter to his wine merchant or considering the fabric for a new suit. Well, I must admit that’s unfair. He was probably thinking of affairs of state and such, as he seemed the dedicated type.
“The plan for what we do when we catch up to Ivanov and Oksana. How do you propose to stop them?”
“Don’t you worry. I have a plan.”
“Is it a state secret, or can you share it with me?”
He mumbled and flapped the reins.
“You don’t have a plan, do you?” I said, aghast. “Do you mean we’ve driven all this way, in this weather, and you don’t have any idea what to do when we run into the Russians?”
He looked at me irritably. “I don’t have a plan because I don’t yet know what we’ll encounter when we find them. I’ll decide then what we should do. What is this preoccupation of yours with plans? ‘The best laid schemes,’ etcetera, etcetera. I’m at my best when I’m freelancing.”
Well, that had struck a nerve, which meant he had no plan at all. I think he really believed all that rot about freelancing and thinking on his feet. Thank God one of us was prepared. I’d yet to see the hard case who could say no to the business end of a British Bulldog. So I settled down (sullenly) to enjoy the sleigh ride, with the wind howling and whipping hard pellets of snow into my face and my feet slowly turning to ice. The sun had risen by then, but there was no warmth to it, its rays failing entirely to penetrate the heavy cloud cover and falling snow.
“I think our best hope is to follow them into Dover and snatch the case from them there,” said French abruptly. I suppose he was trying to be conciliatory. “They’ll have to arrange transport, which means they’ll be out in the town, exposed to attack. We’ll take the case and collect the two of them at the same time. They can spend a bit of time in gaol, contemplating the virtues of a democratic government.”
“And Yusopov? Presumably Ivanov shared the information on British troop strength with him.”
“I’d agree it’s likely he did. Yet Yusopov will be at a disadvantage if we snatch Ivanov and Oksana. He’ll have to send another agent out of the country with the news, or try to send it via diplomatic pouch. In either case, we’ll have the embassy under surveillance and can interdict the messenger.”
I contemplated the success to date in interdicting Russian agents with stolen information, but diplomatically refrained from comment.
“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to make Yusopov disappear? You know, a dreadful accident with two whores and a swing, for example?”
French chuckled. “A useful idea. We’ll see what Dizzy has to say about that.”
“If you’re planning a flimp, we should have brought that little blighter Vincent. He’s the finest fingersmith I know.”
“Yes, he’d be useful in this situation. But I couldn’t countenance exposing a minor to such danger.”
“I hate to disillusion you, but Vincent is about as innocent as a baby cobra.”
French’s stiff face cracked into a smile. “I don’t doubt it. I’d just like to see that he lives to become a full-grown cobra. Here,” he said, and handed me the reins.
“I’ve never driven a team in my life,” I said, pulling sharply on one set of reins and dropping the other. The horses looked back at me with, I swear, disdain, if not loathing. They knew an amateur when they saw one.
“High time you learned, then. I need some rest. While I’m resting, I’ll think of a plan.”
I punched him in the arm, which made not the slightest impression as he was protected by several layers of blankets.
“Any advice on how to handle this sleigh?”
“Don’t hit any rocks,” he said, shut his eyes and promptly dozed off.
I was nervous as a whore in church, as they say, for the first half hour, constantly tugging at the reins and trying to direct the team one way or another until I finally figured out that they had done this a damned sight more often than I had, and I’d be better off just leaving them alone to find the best route. The only thing I had to be aware of was the horses’ tendency to slow down unless I reminded them occasionally to keep up the pace with a flick of the whip across their rumps. Not unlike dealing with a bunch of tarts, come to think of it.
I’d settled into a nice little routine, with my mind elsewhere (on warm fires and dry clothes, to be exact), when I noticed a change in the sleigh’s speed. I glanced up sharply and noticed that the horses had broken into a jog, something they’d been unable to do previously because of the depth of snow in the road. Now they were clearly following a broken trail through the drifts, one made by a coach and horses, and one made quite recently, as the falling snow had yet to fill the tracks, leaving only a soft sprinkling, like icing sugar, over the ruts from the coach. Was it Ivanov and Oksana and their Cossack guard? Who else would be out in this weather, traveling the route to the coast? It had to be our quarry.
I prodded French with my elbow, and he was instantly awake.
“What is it?”
I pointed at the tracks with my whip.
“Ivanov,” said French. I could swear he licked his lips.
“Time to make a plan, French.”
He gave me a withering glance and relieved me of the reins and whip. He touched the horses lightly and they increased their pace a fraction, but it had been a few miles since we’d left the Green Man, and the pace and the distance had taken their toll. The nags were winded, straining at the tugs, and beginning to stagger. French noticed it, too.
“Let’s hope we come to an inn soon. We need fresh horses.”
This being England, where the national sport is drinking (I’ve never understood the chauvinistic urge to denigrate the Irish for their habits; in my book any John Bull was stiffish competition for any Paddy in the drinks department), we soon found one. The Golden Lion, this one was called, and it occupied a lonely knoll miles from anywhere. I was damned glad to see the rampant yellow lion on the sign and smell the wood smoke from the fire, as my feet and hands were cramped from the cold.
French pulled up into the yard, spraying snow and shouting for the stable boy. A sullen youth, chinless and vacant-eyed, came reluctantly out into the weather.
“Your finest horses, boy, and be quick about it.” French chucked the reins to the young man, catapulted himself from the sleigh, and charged into the inn, bellowing for the landlord.
“Eh?” The stable boy scratched his head, dislodging his cap in the process, then spent a considerable amount of time locating the cap in the drifts and knocking the snow from it before replacing it on his head.
“Eh?” he repeated.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Have you got any horses for hire?” I said.
“Oh. Aye. But they ain’t the finest we got. Those went to some foreign blokes who just come through here.”