As they had promised, John Thomas and Finn McGee returned at six and Richard Allen arrived by coach shortly thereafter. He was met at the gangway by Higgins, Davy, and Tink, all of whom were known to him from our treasure hunting expedition in the Caribbean. Hearty greetings were exchanged—brothers-in-arms, and all that. As Richard was dressed in his full red-coated regimentals, introductions to my good Irish Captain Liam Delaney were somewhat stiff but cordial, I later learned.
The lads then left the Nancy B. and headed off for some liberty of their own. They were dressed in the fine Spanish Naval Officers uniforms they had bought in Havana last year and they looked splendid.
“You two be good now,” I had warned earlier in my cabin as I gave them a bit of a brush and some good advice. “And find out what you can about the Highwayman.” I figure Dr. Sebastian has his ways of finding out things and these boys have theirs. ’Twas plain they intended to hit every low dive within two miles, and who knows what they’d discover?
Ravi, dressed in his loose trousers and white turban, then escorted Captain Lord Richard Allen down into the cabin where awaited the Dragon Lady, Western Edition, lurking in her lair.
“So what do you think, Lord Allen? Will this serve?”
I give a bit of a pirouette and hold my Chinese fan in front of the lower part of my face, my kohl-darkened eyes peeking out above. “You like, Ree-chard-san?”
He looks around my cabin, noticing, I believe, the new things I have acquired since last he was in this room—the little statue of Ganesh, for instance, that I had gotten in India. There is a little earthenware bowl in front of the jolly elephant god, and incense smolders within. My Chinese sword and sheath hang on the back wall next to Esprit, the sword given to me by my fallen comrade Bardot. And on the top of my bureau, my Golden Buddha smiles upon all within. Some frankincense burns in front of him, too. Ravi, who tends to these little fragrant offerings, is a committed Hindu, but he does try to cover all bases in the way of religion. I don’t blame him for that, being something of a pantheist myself. Yes, Father Neptune, I hear you rumbling below . . . Then, of course, there is my Jolly Roger flag draped over that wall, and my Golden Dragon pennant displayed over there . . . musical instruments all over the place . . . and, of course, there’s my bed—that noble structure that lies over there. Yes, his eyes play over it, but he says nothing of an amorous nature—he is a gentleman, after all.
Ravi pulls out a chair for Captain Allen and he rakes his sword to the side and sits. Ravi darts out of the room.
“Ah, yes, that simple little Indian girl I met in the forests of America . . . hmmm . . .”
“You have learned that appearances can be deceptive, milord, and I am glad to have been a helpful teacher as regards that part of your education,” I simper. ”Anyway, am I properly dressed for this Cockpit?”
I have on my rich silk sarong, shimmering all blue and gold, given to me by Sidrah of the House of Chen. It is wrapped tight about my bottom and goes up to wind about my chest, leaving my belly bare. My bellybutton proudly wears an emerald taken from the treasure trove below. Hey, who could possibly think that Jacky Faber, she of the Rooster Charlie Gang and of the pirate ship Emerald and the Belle of the Golden West, yes, and even the Santa Magdalena salvage crew, could give all that treasure to some dry old museum. Yeah, right . . . There’s enough to go around, I say. Even Ravi has a nice little red ruby stuck up on the front of his turban, of which he is most proud.
I wear the silk robe that Cheng Shih gave me, the one with the Golden Dragon on the back, over the sarong for a bit of modesty. As for my hair, I have on my brunette wig, which Higgins has pinned up with some really cunningly carved ivory pins, also from the treasure stash, to look a lot like the hairdos of Oriental women. We have seen pictures of them in the papers that protect the porcelain china that comes from the East. Some of the wrappings have lovely, delicate images on them—wood engravings, we think—and that’s how we know what their ladies look like. They are very lovely, and I have saved many of the thin tissuey prints, pressing them in a heavy book. If I ever have a house, I shall frame them up for all to admire.
“Yes, Princess, I believe it will serve quite well,” he says, smiling widely. “Now, why don’t you come over here and sit on my lap and we will discuss plans for the evening?”
Ravi comes back into the cabin, bearing a tray with a bottle and two glasses upon it. Ravi sets it down on the table and pours the golden Porto wine.
“A glass with you, Sir, as preface to what promises to be a lovely evening. I will, however, forego the pleasure of your lap, for now.”
“Ah, Princess, you slay me, you really do. Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“I have had many teachers, of whom you are one,” I say, taking a glass and holding it up to him in salute.
“Well, I am honored to be named as such,” he says, grasping the stem of his glass and clinking it against mine. Then he drinks from it. “Ummm. That is good.”
“Yes. It is from the Douro Valley in Portugal, but we took it from a Spanish merchant on our way here from the East,” I say. “It seems both our armament and our resolve were greater than his. Too bad for him that we did not know that the Spanish were once again our allies.”
“Well, serves the Spanish right for being so slow coming aboard.” He laughs. “I guess Napoleon’s naming his brother as King of Spain was the last straw for the Dons.”
Allen drains the glass and fishes out a cheroot from his vest and puts it to his lips. Ravi is right there with a glowing taper from the incense bowl.
He holds it to the cigar and Richard sucks deep on the vile weed. Soon smoke swirls about his head. Then he speaks—not to me but to Ravi.
“Shukriya, larka.” Then he adds in English, “Where do you come from?”
Ravi, a bit startled upon hearing a bit of Urdu spoken, answers, “From Bombay, Sahib All-en wallah.”
I had forgotten that Lord Allen had served in India.
“So where did you get the little wog?” asks Richard of me.
“In India . . . Bombay, Mr. Allen,” I reply, slightly huffily. “His name is not ‘wog’ but rather Ravi, which means ‘Sun,’ which suits him. He has proven most valuable to me and I love him very much.”
“Oh, do get down from your high horse, Princess, as it does not suit you,” he says, ruffling Ravi’s black locks. “He seems a fine fellow to me, and if you like him, so will I. Now, I believe it is time we are off to the Cockpit.”
Our coach draws up to the entrance of the place and I am handed out by a footman. I place my hand on Richard’s arm and allow myself to be led in. Covering all my Oriental gear, I wear a light cloak and hood, as my escort thought it best that I save some of the surprise for later, and I agree. After all, one must think about timing in any theatrical enterprise.
We go in, and my senses are immediately assaulted by the tobacco fumes that lie in dense layers all about the place. In what’s left of the air that exists in the room, there is the smell, too, of perfume and liquor, along with beer and ale, as well as sweat and clothes that need a bit of cleansing. The lighting is mostly from candles placed in front of enclosed booths wherein clusters of people huddle and laugh and raise toasts together in what appears to be great conviviality.
Richard leads me through the throng.
“Lord Allen, by God, come and have a drink with us!” “Over here!” And Allen is gracious, bowing and saluting, and bringing his fingers to his brow in recognition of the kind invites. “Come, Allen, show us that bit of fluff that decorates your arm!” “That Allen, I swear, always with a new one!” “Here, over here!”
He pushes on, with me clinging to his arm, toward the murky depths at the back of the place.
“Yes, Princess, it would be fun to stop to lift a few with them, and it would be entertaining, as many of them are fine fellows, but we are hunting much bigger game this night. Ah, here we are . . .”
We are guided to an empty booth and we slide into it, me gathering all my layers of cloth about me.
A girl comes up and Allen orders, “Claret, two glasses—no, four glasses—and oysters, lots of them. A plate of roast beef, too . . . Yes, and some cheese, a basket of bread, also . . . and whatever else you’ve got that’s good, bring it on!”
The girl smiles, lets her eyes travel over him . . . then me . . . and says, “Yes, milord, right away.”
The food and drink are brought and I settle into Richard Allen’s side, content for the moment.
There is someone far off playing a fiddle and a woman is singing, and I reflect, uncharitably, that I could do both much better, but let that go. The oysters are awfully good, and I lift one to my mouth to let it slide down, and then I hold one over Richard’s open mouth and, laughing, let that one slide down there, and then—
“Steady down, Princess,” says Richard. “Our quarry has arrived.”
I look over the room and see a very well-dressed man coming through the crowd, receiving invitations and salutations. He seems about to sit with one group when Richard says, “Jacky. Drop the hood . . . now.”
I do it, letting the whole outer cloak slip from my shoulders.
The man in question notices . . .
“Good . . . good,” says Allen.
“Who is he?” I whisper, mystified.
“He is the Duke of Clarence, and the woman on his arm is the famous actress Mrs. Jordan.”
The man wears a naval uniform, and the woman—a very beautiful woman—is finely dressed with a many plumed hat upon her head.
The pair is about to sit down with those who had hailed them when the man notices me preening on Richard’s arm. He murmurs apologies to that group and makes his way toward us.
“Good,” says Richard. “We have him.”
“But who is he?” asks the stupid me.
“He is the King’s youngest son, William Henry. He is third in line for the throne and does not have much chance of gaining the crown, but—”
What? The King’s own son?
I sit up and thrust out my chest as the pair approaches.
“Uh . . . a little more subtle, Miss,” says Richard. “Play it a little more . . . mysterious . . .”
I take the advice to heart, settle back, and wait.
The Duke of Clarence comes to our table and Lord Allen stands up and says, “Milord William Henry, so good to see you. And Mrs. Jordan, may I say how much I enjoyed your performance as Hippolyta . . . absolutely stunning.”
The woman accepts the compliment, but I can see that she is used to that sort of thing and is not at all won over.
“Will you sit and have a glass with us?” asks Richard. “My companion has a proposition that might be of interest to you . . . or to your family.”
The Duke flips out his tails and plunks himself down next to me, while Mrs. Jordan seats herself next to Richard, with whom she seems to be quite familiar. She takes a plump oyster, opens her mouth, and drops it down her neck. Hmmm. Wine is poured and idle chatter is the order of the evening.
“So what is this, Allen?” asks the Duke, referring to me. “Quite exotic, I must say,” he says, gazing at my hair with its ivory pins.
“You don’t know the half of it, milord,” says Richard. “She is the Lady Ju kau-jing yi, of the House of Chen, and she comes from the East with a proposition that I believe will benefit both the British Museum and the British people.”
I place my fingertips together and bow my head in acknowledgment of the introduction and then Richard gives him a brief description of the proposal . . . and the treasure.
“Remarkable,” says Lord Clarence. “If it is true, Father will be very interested. He does love his museum so . . . But are you sure? She seems to be but a child . . .”
I decide to attack from the left, where sits Mrs. Jordan, rather than the right. I will get to him later.
I rise enough to let the cloak slip completely off, revealing me in my silken sarong. There are several nearby gasps, which I find somewhat gratifying.
Then I reach up my forearm where rests my shiv, and pull out the necklace I had taken earlier from the stash and had placed there for just this eventuality. I hold it up to Mrs. Jordan.
Her eyes light up at the sight of the string of perfect pearls.
“My patron in Rangoon wished me to give these to you, as stories of your beauty have extended that far. If you would, my lord,” I murmur, in heavily accented English, handing the pearls to the Duke.
He gets up and places the necklace upon the neck of his paramour. It looks good there, and both seem very pleased.
To top it off, I slip the wig from my head, exposing both shaven head and Golden Dragon tattoo.
Many mouths go agape.
“I hope your mistress likes the pearls,” I purr. “I dove down for them myself.”
Richard leans into me and whispers in my ear, “I know you are lying about that, Princess, but I do believe you have done yourself some good here. Tomorrow, you shall be famous.”
The Dragon Girl hoods her eyes and nods.
I am already famous, Richard, my dear dragoon, but we shall see what comes of this . . .