Free A Soul of Steel by Carole Nelson Douglas

world.”
    “What of the world have you seen now?” His tone was so jocular that it unaccountably offended me. Certainly he expected this country mouse to have ventured not much farther than the parson’s pantry. Yet I knew myself to be no match for the exotic adventures that had occupied his life.
    I folded my hands upon my lap, as they become restless when idle. Naturally Lucifer, who had been sitting docilely enough upon the elbowboard at the window, proceeded to loft into my lap. Mr. Stanhope awaited my answer.
    “I have worked as a drapery clerk at Whiteley’s and as a typewriter-girl in the Temple. I have been privileged, if you can call it that, to see several freshly murdered corpses and to have solved a cryptic cartograph that led to buried archeological treasure. I have been to Bohemia and have met a king, although I did not much like him. I have also met a princess-to-be, and came to like her despite myself. I have never liked Sarah Bernhardt or Oscar Wilde, however much they may claim to cherish me; nor do I have anything but the most profound distaste for snakes, satin slippers, French cuisine and the dreadful Casanova. Lucifer is not among my favorites, either, though I would never neglect him.”
    Poor Mr. Stanhope struggled more upright among his feather pillows, which were as overblown and airy as French pastries. “The King of Bohemia? A princess? Bernhardt and Wilde? Casanova and Lucifer? I fear my fever has not waned, after all.”
    I smiled at his agitation, a sign of recovering strength, and stroked the black cat, who at least felt amiable if he did not behave so. “This is Lucifer. He is Persian and Parisian. A gift from Irene upon my arrival here last year. Most unwanted, I might add.”
    “Afghan,” Mr. Stanhope said in a clear, bitter voice. “The breed is Afghan. Persian is a misnomer.”
    “He is misbegotten, I’ll give you that,” said I. “But you mean to say that such cats originated in the unhappy land where you fought in that battle, My... My—?”
    “Luckily for you, it is not ‘your’ anything. The battle was called Maiwand, after an insignificant village on the site.”
    Lucifer, like all cats knowing himself to be under discussion and reveling in it, bounded soundlessly to the bed and stalked over to inspect its resident.
    “He’s a handsome fellow,” Mr. Stanhope said. “This sumptuous breed of cat is the only exportable product of that unhappy landscape, though I’ve spent enough years scraping over it like a scorpion. You must have been referring to domestic pets with all that King of Bohemia and Bernhardt and Wilde business.”
    “Certainly not! I am not personally fond of those persons but I would never compare them to animals. That would be quite... disrespectful. To the animals, no doubt. That would be something—”
    “Something that your friend Madame Norton would do.”
    “Exactly,” said I righteously. “Irene can, at times, be shockingly irreverent. But she means nothing by it.”
    “Of course not.” He did not sound at all convinced, but I am used to the people around me contradicting my convictions, having resided for so long with Irene.
    “Why did you take such a dislike to Mr. Wilde?” he asked. “I have overheard much of him in the cafés since I came to Paris.”
    “You habituate the cafés?”
    “Only the fringes. But tell me how Wilde offended you.”
    “For one thing, he is such a man with the ladies, always throwing himself into tortured metaphors in our praise and flinging flowers and quips at our feet. I may know little of the world, but I know that nothing good can come of it. He was quite taken with Irene, I’m mortified to say that she insists he also harbored a fondness for myself.”
    “And Madame Sarah Bernhardt?”
    “Quite an immoral woman, and utterly willful. She let Irene fight a duel disguised as her son, can you imagine it? I tried to stop it, but Sarah, of course, can be quite forceful for such a small woman. And