Free India Black in the City of Light by Carol K. Carr Page B

and captured a nasty Russian agent, the prime minister would slacken the reins.
    The pounding resumed on the door. Bugger. If I didn’t answer the summons, I’d soon have a gaggle of whores descending the stairs in their dressing gowns, standing around like a herd of cows and scratching their backsides while they gazed at French’s tousled black curls and giggled behind their hands.
    “Damnation!” I shook an admonitory finger at French as I scuttled past him. “Don’t move, French. I’m not finished with you.”
    I yanked open the door and confronted the bloke on the porch. He was a wormy little runt but polite, for he swept off his hat and pushed a hand through a thatch of brown hair, combing it down with his fingers.
    “Miss Black?”
    “We’re not open yet. Come back later.”
    I was already closing the door when he thrust a boot inside.
    “Wait, ma’am. Please. I got somethin’ here for you.”
    I pushed open the door warily. When you’re a government agent, or, come to that, the proprietress of a thriving brothel, you’ve got to be on the
qui vive
at all times. One slip in concentration and you might be kidnapped or assaulted or worse.
    However, I had already taken my measure of the fellow at the door and concluded that even in a fair fight, I had the advantage over the scrawny specimen in front of me. Not that I’d be fighting fair, you understand. I’ve always preferred the underhanded method myself, as it saves time.
    Anyway, this bloke really did have something in his hand, which he thrust at me.
    It was a buff envelope of good quality and light as a feather.
    “Colonel Mayhew sent it,” his messenger said.
    I examined the envelope and handed it back. “You’re mistaken. It’s addressed
to
Colonel Mayhew.”
    The impertinent fellow shoved it back at me. “I know. Colonel Mayhew give it to me to bring ’ere. ’E said ’e’d be along dreckly to pick it up from you.”
    I expelled an exasperated breath. The colonel was a client, albeit not the best. He ambled into Lotus House from time to time and deigned to purchase a bottle once a year. The girls didn’t care for him much, as he tended to pay only for services rendered and considered the giving of gratuities a mortal sin. He usually appeared in
mufti,
but his sweeping mustache, erect bearing, and inability to make conversation that did not include the words “cannon” and “trumpet” revealed him as the soldier he was. In fact, he hardly spoke a word when he was on the premises, preferring to drink a single glass of brandy before selecting one of the girls and following her upstairs. I suspect the colonel did not receive many invitations to parties.
    I hadn’t seen the man in a month, or perhaps longer, and he’d never used my brothel as a postal box before. I found it deuced strange that he did so now and frankly, it wasn’t at all to my liking. I discourage my clients from viewing Lotus House as a gentleman’s club where they could have a meal or exchange messages. I might consider offering such services in the future, but only at a price.
    “Did the colonel say when he’d be by to pick up the envelope?”
    “No, ma’am. Just said he’d be here soon, or somethin’ like that.”
    “And when did he give you this?”
    “Last night, ma’am. ’Round ten o’clock it must ’ave been. I brung it ’ere, but some battle axe tol’ me she wouldn’t be responsible for it and to bring it back this mornin’.”
    Mrs. Drinkwater, no doubt. My cook and housekeeper (I use those terms charitably) did the minimum amount of work necessary to remain in my good graces and was not likely to take on additional duties without first negotiating an increase in her wages. Frankly, it was just as well that she hadn’t taken the envelope last night as very likely it would still be tucked in the pocket of her apron, where it would have remained until she was sober enough to remember its existence, if she ever did.
    I was not inclined to take