India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) by Carol K. Carr Page B

door of the Bag O’ Nails, that same drinking establishment visited by Martine and Vincent a few days ago. I entered with some reluctance, not because I was afraid of radical foreigners but because the place could have used a good cleaning. I could see why Vincent had been comfortable here; the level of filth met even his exacting standards. My boots made sucking sounds as Martine and I crossed the floor. I judged that the tables had last been wiped about the time our present queen had ascended to the throne. The scent was invigorating: equal parts stale beer, stale vomit and stale sweat, with just a hint of herring. I walked gingerly, tucking in my skirts to avoid touching anything.
    Martine made directly for a table in one of the far corners, where a couple of coves were arguing vociferously. One sported a head of wavy dark curls and a beard to match—obviously the bloke Vincent had observed with Martine. The other fellow was a short, fidgety chap with restless eyes and tangled black hair. He was yammering relentlessly in the bearded one’s ear. I didn’t imagine the expression of relief on the latter’s face when he caught sight of Martine. He put a restraining hand on his companion’s arm, who looked annoyed at the interruption of his sermon and looked round for the reason. Spying Martine, he jumped to his feet and rushed to meet us. He caught Martine’s hands in his and leaned forward for a kiss, but she executed a deft maneuver that left him staring after her with his lips still pursed.
    “Julian,” she gushed at the bearded fellow, looking up at him with adoration. I can’t say that I blamed her for doing so.
    Vincent had said the man with the beard was handsome, but he’d neglected to describe him as the veritable Adonis that he was. On closer inspection, his hair and beard were a deep, rich chestnut, which shone brightly even in the sulphurous gloom of the Bag O’ Nails. He had a manly jaw, a resolute chin and sapphire eyes. He would have looked at home on the parade ground in an officer’s uniform, save for the slightly undomesticated look about the eyes, which in my opinion merely added to his allure, having as I do a fondness for men who are not entirely civilized. He was indubitably the fairest fellow I’d seen in some time, and it took all my strength to stop staring at his features long enough to attend to Martine’s introduction.
    “Miss India Black,” she said, and then, glowing with pride, she indicated the handsome fellow. “This is Monsieur Julian Bonnaire.”
    I uttered something infantile while Bonnaire bent over my hand.
    “Charmed,” he purred, and held my hand for a moment longer than necessary, gazing into my eyes.
    He was remarkably clean for an anarchist, and his manners were impeccable. I reminded myself sternly that it was my cardinal rule never to mix business with pleasure, but I confess I contemplated briefly the consequences of disregarding said rule. Since I’d devised the rule in the first place, I considered it mine to amend as circumstances change. It wouldn’t do to share my thoughts with Martine, however, for it was clear she’d marked Bonnaire as her own.
    “And this,” said Martine with a trace of disgust in her voice, “is Flerko.”
    I looked down at him. The poor blighter wasn’t much taller than Vincent. Flerko’s beak was prominent, his lips thin and blue. He seethed with suppressed energy.
    Flerko quivered to attention. “I am Russian,” he announced.
    “Delightful for you,” I murmured.
    “I sell fish.” That accounted, at least in part, for the aroma of herring I had detected in the Bag O’ Nails.
    “I have been persecuted in my homeland.”
    I seemed destined to hear the History of Flerko in staccato bursts, but Bonnaire intervened.
    “Please sit down, Miss Black. Would you like a drink?”
    I considered the options. The ale in Flerko’s glass was murky. I fancied the whisky had been brewed last night and the gin would be the infamous