Free India Black and the Rajah's Ruby by Carol K. Carr Page B

don’t hesitate to apply the whip to their own poor serfs in the name of national security and surely wouldn’t baulk at doing the same to the odd British agent who’d landed in their midst. Not to mention the fact that it was me who had saved French from being cut down by a Cossack guard wielding a bloody great sword. I’d felled the man with one shot from my .442 Webley British Bulldog. In short, I could take care of myself
and
French, and had proved it. If French thought he was protecting me by heading off to do a bit of spying without me, there’d be an unpleasant surprise waiting for him when he returned.
    But there was a second reason I thought French had vanished without seeing me. He knew I was waiting for the first opportunity to tackle him about his family. I’m only surmising that he has one, of course, as he’s never said a word about them. I have only the prime minister’s casual slip when he sent us off to Balmoral, enquiring about French’s “fa—,” causing French to change the subject faster than an Irishman can down a pint of Guinness. To be fair (and this is likely the last time I will be, so take note), I hadn’t disclosed much of my own past to French, but that’s because I don’t know much about the old pedigree. Given French’s guilty outburst when Dizzy spilled the beans (you may recall from that previous adventure that French interjected the word “father” to put me off the scent), I’d wager that somewhere in a London suburb is a rosy-cheeked blonde with a litter of rosy-cheeked moppets, all waiting for dear Papa to return to his family’s bosom. Of course, it’s French’s prerogative to have as many little sprats as he wants, and if he wants an insipid little wife, jolly good for him. He should, however, let his fellow agents know in the event, for example, that the fellow agent fails to save him from a Cossack guard with a bloody great sword and has to deliver the distressing news to his poor spouse.
    Between French’s disappearance and his avoiding any explanation of his clan and the blasted weather and the annoying tarts mooching around Lotus House, cleaning out the pantry and not earning a shilling, I was in a sullen frame of mind. I’d been brooding for weeks, and I fear my looks were beginning to suffer. A little of the gloss had gone from my raven black locks, and my blue eyes were now a little dull, having nothing to spark a flame of excitement in them. Worst of all, I’d grown a little pinched about the eyes and mouth, from frowning at the thought of the high old time French must be having, dodging bullets and matching wits with sinister foreign types with thick moustaches and heavy accents while I rotted away in St. James, riding herd on a bevy of unruly sluts.
    So it was that I was moping by the fire one April afternoon in 1877, while the wind blew the shingles loose on the roof, the rain bucketed down, and the whores lounged about stuffing their faces with Mrs. Drinkwater’s comestibles, though how they managed to bolt down a hunk of gingerbread that weighed as much as a cannonball, I do not know. It’s no excuse to say that Mrs. Drinkwater was drunk when she baked it, for she’s always drunk. I’ve no idea if her cooking would improve if she were sober. I have wondered whether, if she weren’t drunk most of the time, she’d have the initiative to find a position that did not require her to consort with half-naked bints and elegant wastrels. I stabbed my piece of gingerbread with the tines of my fork and was not surprised to see that they left no impression. I sipped the watery tea Mrs. Drinkwater had provided and grimaced. Thinking of my cook inspired me to rise and rummage through my drinks cabinet. I located a bottle of brandy and poured a generous dose into my cup, returning to the fire and the French novel I’d been paging through idly. I could hear Mrs. Drinkwater humming tunelessly as she rootled around the hall, bringing fresh tea and muffins to