Phoenix Rising by Pip Ballantine Page A

cigarillo, leaned forward, and took the pot off the brass multi-tiered plates, one of which kept the liquid at just the right temperature.
    â€œAnother bloody McTighe device,” Bruce muttered, leaning away from it.
    â€œNot a fan of the Scotsman then?” Sussex carefully poured two cups. “What a pity. He is the nation’s foremost inventor.”
    The Australian shook his head, “When his gizmos don’t kill people.”
    â€œProgress has a price. Civilisation must move forward.” The Duke glanced around the room, taking in the quiet chatter of the ladies, and smiled. “And sometimes we do have to thin the herd a little.”
    Sussex reminded Bruce of nothing more than a crocodile. He’d dealt with plenty of those in his younger days in the wilds of Queensland, and was confident this one would be no different. He might lurk under water, but now he was ready to strike.
    â€œSo tell me, Agent Campbell, your position at the Ministry? Do you find satisfaction in your role defending the Empire?”
    Finally, they were coming down to the heart of the matter.
    â€œDoing my part, Your Grace, to defend good Queen Vic,” he answered with a shrug of his massive shoulders. For a few moments, they exchanged no words; and Bruce wondered in a panic what he needed do. Help himself to a tea? Grab one of those frighteningly dainty sandwiches.
    It was when he caught the eye of the table next to them, the looks of shock and condemnation clear on the patrons’ faces, that it dawned on him. His voice apparently carried beyond the table.
    â€œI see,” Sussex said, still stirring his tea. “Well, I’m sure Queen Vic appreciates your efforts—efforts that I will assume do not include diplomatic negotiations?”
    Bruce cleared his throat, squirmed in his seat, and took a chance to reach for a cup. “Well, I’m not the talker when partnered with other agents. I’m more of the . . . ah . . .”
    â€œThe muscle.”
    He saw that one coming. Bruce was more than fists and guns. He knew that. He was just more comfortable with the fists and guns than the diplomatic aspects of the Ministry. Bruce also knew that, and preferred it that way.
    â€œNothing wrong with being a man of deeds, not words. I assure you, there are members of Parliament who would prefer to hold open debate in the local pubs as opposed to the House of Lords. Strike a man on the floor, and it is an outrage. Strike the same man at the Prospect of Whitby and it is fair sport.” Sussex smiled, and Bruce felt the desperate need for a water closet. “You have a place in this world, Agent Campbell, but I must wonder if it is at the Ministry.”
    Bruce furrowed his brow as he leaned forward. “I don’t think I follow you, Your Grace.”
    The Duke spread some clotted cream on his scones with the precision of an artist. He raised his eyes and smiled at the agent. “It is not common knowledge amongst your fellows yet, but I would be surprised if the organisation sees the year out.”
    Bruce blinked. “Bloody hell!” he whispered as he brought the cup to his lips, pinkie extended. He had learned some things in London.
    The ladies around him shot him a second round of horrified glances, but this time he was too shocked to care.
    â€œYes, I am sure it comes as quite a surprise to you.” Sussex devoured his scone, and then dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. “I know you have become used to a certain lifestyle—as have your children.”
    His children? Bruce sat up a little taller, the one hand lowering the cup gingerly while the other clenched in a white-knuckled fist under the table.
    â€œI understand you have quite a number. Some with your darling wife”—the Duke tilted his head, that crocodilian smile flicking over his lips—“some not.”
    Despite the coolness of the tearoom, Bruce felt a thin line