India Black in the City of Light (9 page)

I staggered through the door and took in the scene. French, as you might expect, was putting up a good fight but it was clear he was nearing the end. He’d landed a few blows, for one fellow’s nose was streaming gore and the chap who’d shoved me was wiping blood from his mouth. But poor French had his back to the fireplace and our assailants were closing in on him like a pack of wolves. I caught the glint of a knife blade and the sight galvanized me into action. I forgot my throbbing head and charged into battle. No one was going to skewer French, unless it was me. I had not forgotten he owed me an explanation, you see.

I hurtled an overturned chair, snatched the champagne bottle from its silver bucket, and stormed the breach like the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz. Well, there was no breach, really, but I made one by smashing the bottle over the head of the bloke nearest me. He collapsed to the floor and the other two stopped pummeling French long enough to stare at me in open-mouthed surprise, which gave French just enough time to grab a candlestick from the mantle and swing it in a vicious arc which terminated on the wrist of the fellow with the knife. He howled like a banshee and dropped the weapon. French swooped to the floor, reaching for it. But the cool fellow who’d toppled me kicked away the blade and brought a fist down on French’s head. French grunted once and folded faster than a piece of campaign furniture. He was out of this fight.

So was I. It was all I could do to stay on my feet and much as it pains me to admit this, I had nothing left. The bloke who’d pushed me down could see it as well. He stalked over to me, clearly upset that he’d wasted valuable time thrashing French and me.

“The envelope,” he demanded.

“What envelope?” I should have known better, but then I don’t take kindly to being attacked by strangers in my own house.

I received a backhanded slap across my mouth from the fellow. I staggered a step or two, then fell to my knees. My head spun. A drop of blood fell from my lip and splashed on the floor.

“On the desk,” I heard myself say, in a voice I hardly recognized. I like to think it was quivering with anger, but I suspect it was fear.

I followed the sounds of my attacker’s footsteps as he walked to the desk. I heard paper rustling.

Someone screamed. I turned my head and saw the gaggle of whores I’d been worried about earlier, crowding through the study door.

“Here,” shouted Clara Swansdown. “What are you lot up to?”

The ringleader barked instructions and he and his cronies made for the door. I wondered briefly whether the tarts would make a stand. God knows I wouldn’t have, so I didn’t blame them when they parted like the Red Sea, gaping at the thugs as they strode out of the study and through the front door. Colonel Mayhew’s envelope accompanied them.