The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel by Philippa Ballantine, Tee Morris Page B

knew a great deal rested on his next few carefully chosen words.
    There was one more uncomfortable fact he recalled about Miss Beatrice Muldoon: she didn’t take rejection at all well. Bruce slipped himself out of her grasp and patted her gloved hand, trying to think of a way to avoid any nastiness. “Now, Beatrice . . .”
    Her eyes narrowed as she sat back, slipping out of reach. “Last time you used that tone on me Bruce, you rather hurt my feelings . . . and then I rather hurt something of yours . . .”
    It was definitely time to switch from beer to whiskey. Then again, the glass mug in his hand could make for a better weapon than a shot glass. He took in a deep breath, and shook his head. “I don’t want to get back into the game, Bea. Sorry, but somewhere I lost my way . . . and it cost lives. Like I told ya, I need perspective, and hunting down my mates just ain’t the perspective I need at present.”
    Beatrice let out a long sigh and adjusted her hat, pressing back one of the jet hatpins that held it in place. “They told me this was going to be a waste of time, but I insisted. I thought I knew you better.” Her smile was crooked. Bruce recognised that particular smile as being the very same one just before she’d knocked him down with that vicious hook of hers.
    His eyes flicked back over to the man behind her. He suddenly had to get up from his place at the bar. He glanced at the mirror again, and simultaneously four more patrons—one of them wearing the tweed in his pants, two showing it in their coats, and the last one in the kerchief tied around his neck—also got up from their tables. All at the same time.
    Yeah,
Bruce thought to himself,
this kind of blunder is
exactly
why the Department is a right joke.
    “So,” he said with a laugh, “what did they tell you to do if’n I said no?”
    Beatrice’s eyes narrowed on him as her smile turned decidedly bitter. “I think we’re past the point where I tell you what’s going on. I think we’re at the really pointy end of the conversation.”
    He caught the flash of metal at her wrist which revealed some kind of armguard, as he slid away from a strike she’d aimed at his hand. Bruce knew his dismount off the stool was not exactly smooth, but he found his feet quickly enough and brought his mug around. The glass was of a good, solid stock as it dislocated the jaw of the bloke trying to flank him. Didn’t that idiot realise there was this giant
mirror
behind the bar where they sat?
    He took a few steps back, easing into a pugilistic stance. Beatrice’s blue eyes flashed, and she gestured behind her to those other four agents at the other end of the saloon. He could see their dingy reflections not closing in on him, but barring any exits. They all had clean sight lines, but Miss Bea—obviously the senior officer—right at this moment was buggering proper Department procedure. This wasn’t going to be a simple, elegant cleanup. She wanted to get into it with him.
    Fair enough.
    Beatrice slid off her stool and took up a similar stance. Bruce had forgotten that she was a good foot taller than him, and the delicate sleeves of her dress, stretched tight over impressive musculature, also reminded him of how physical she got in bed—and in mêlées such as this. The inhabitants of the pub, who had undoubtedly seen their fair share of fights, picked up their drinks and relocated to the edges of the room. When the piano player was on a break, this was the only entertainment to be had.
    “Bea,” he warned, “I’m gonna give ya—”
    The right hook, Bruce realised, he had been worrying about too much, as it was a
left
hook to the cheek that connected soundly, knocking him back into a table where a pair of miners were too settled into their drinks to notice what was coming. They looked at Bruce, then turned their eyes to Beatrice. Lady or not, she had spilt their beers and would pay. Or so these poor sods thought.
    This was hardly an even