By Carol K. Carr
ISBN-10: 0425238660
ISBN-13: 9780425238660
While Sir Archibald Latham of the warfare workplace dies from a center assault whereas vacationing her brothel, Madam India Black is unexpectedly thrust right into a lethal online game among Russian and British brokers who're looking the army secrets and techniques Latham carried. Blackmailed into convalescing the lacking files by way of the British secret agent referred to as French, India reveals herself dodging Russian agents-and the charm she starts off to believe for the good-looking conspirator.
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Extra info for India Black
Example text
This was not welcome news to the stranger with the silver-knobbed walking stick. He uttered an oath that made the curtains flutter, but his face was impassive. ” “Not here. ” The stranger’s tone was faintly incredulous. “We weren’t at Christchurch together, no. She probably sold violets at Piccadilly Circus or ran a loom in the cotton mills or worked below stairs at a country house until the squire’s son impregnated her and the housekeeper sent her away. ” My brittle tone had no effect on the stranger; he just looked faintly bemused that I hadn’t had Arabella fill out a ten-page application before buying her a couple of gowns and assigning her to a mattress.
I pulled it out and pointed it at my uninvited guest. ” The stranger chuckled. “Two murders in one night? ” “Oh. ” Sir Archibald Latham? Oh, hell. The nag tossed his head, and the man tightened his grip on the halter. ’” This chuckle sounded genuinely amused. “Is that what the old boy got up to? Well, well. I would have never believed that about him. ” “Do you think you could reminisce about the gay old times at a later date? ” The stranger relinquished his hold on the harness and patted the horse’s muzzle, as if to say there were no hard feelings.
Staying close to the buildings, I crept up the sidewalk, gingerly placing one foot in front of the other and praying that I wouldn’t take a header over a decaying apple or an empty ale bottle. Lotus House came into view across the street, looking forlorn and deserted, a pale wisp of smoke eddying from the fireplace in my study. I carried my revolver with me, and now I took a firm grip on it and leveled it waist high in front of me as I sidled along. I was thirty paces from where I’d seen the match spurt into flame, and I covered that distance at the speed of an arthritic snail, with my fingers locked around my weapon and my nerves screaming in anticipation.