India Black in the City of Light E-Book

Carol K. Carr

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

When it comes to undercover work, nobody does it better than Madam of Espionage India Black... India and the handsome British spy, French, are ordered to escort a Russian agent to Paris where he will be exchanged for one of Her Majesty's operatives. The task seems straightforward and India looks forward to enjoying the delights of the city—and the delights of French. But it isn't long before things go awry and the duo are battling for their lives in the City of Light. An e-novella, which also includes a preview of the Madam of Espionage Mystery, India Black and The Gentleman Thief.

Leseprobe

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INDIA BLACK IN THE CITY OF LIGHT

Carol K. Carr

INDIA BLACK IN THE CITY OF LIGHT E-book edition ISBN: 9781783292363

Published by Titan Books A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: July 2014 12345678910

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2013, 2014 by Carol K. Carr. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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Contents

Also by Carol K. Carr

Title Page

Copyright

India Black in the City of Light

Special Excerpt from INDIA BLACK AND THE GENTLEMAN THIEF

I reckon most women would jump at the chance to spend a few days in Paris in the company of Major Lachlan French. They would be blithering idiots to do so. I’m ashamed to admit that I was once one of this merry band of imbeciles. I too looked forward with anticipation to a stroll along the Seine in the company of that poncy bastard, who, I grant you, is quite a handsome fellow, what with the wavy dark hair, rugged jaw, and cool grey eyes. I envisioned a cozy afternoon drinking coffee from those tiny French cups and eating pastries filled with chestnut cream and sprinkled with sugared almonds. I imagined French admiring my buxom figure as I tried on pretty dresses in the salons of Paris and treating me to a night of champagne and dancing under the stars. Oh, yes. Mustn’t forget the perfume. My fantasy included the purchase by the handsome French of several bottles of expensive scent for moi. In any event, as you shall see, I was dead wrong on all counts. Except for the perfume. I did come away from this affair with a bottle of scent from the House of Guerlain, but only because it was a necessity. I’m not sure I’d have been allowed back on the steamer without the damned stuff.

* * *

Well, I can see that I’m getting ahead of myself and that you need of bit of background to make sense of this whole affair. Let me provide it.

It started innocently enough, with French, agent to the prime minister of Great Britain, sharing a cozy evening with me, India Black, at Lotus House, a high-class brothel owned by yours truly. Of course it’s not unusual for an army officer to consort with an attractive tart (which I am, in the event you hadn’t picked up on that fact), but there’s more to the scenario than meets the eye. If you haven’t read the previous adventures of French and me (and you damned well should, as I’m always in need of retirement funds), then you’ll need to understand how this rather unusual relationship developed. Let me summarize. A government clerk died at Lotus House. A Russian spy stole a document from said clerk. French blackmailed me into helping him retrieve the document. I acquitted myself so well in this venture that I became a government agent myself. Now I ply my trade as madam of Lotus House while doing a bit of spying on the side for Queen Vicky and Benjamin Disraeli, the wily old Israelite who currently occupies the post of prime minister.

I’m fond of French and he of me, and he frequently drops into Lotus House in the evening to drink my liquor and criticize my fencing prowess. I have pointed out to him that as he has been my teacher, my success on the piste, or lack thereof, rests with him. But, as he usually does, he merely ignores my logical arguments and continues to chunter on about the dedans and the dehors. I allow him to do so as the chap is quite the looker. I simply ignore three quarters of what he says and surreptitiously enjoy the Helios delivering the monologue.

Usually, pointing out my faults puts French into a good humour, but I could see that tonight his heart just wasn’t in it. He sipped his drink moodily and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. For a spy, French can be remarkably transparent when he’s up to something.

“What are you up to?” I asked. I’ve never been one for prolonged surveillance of the enemy camp. I prefer to blow the charge and spur the horses.