The Affair of the Porcelain Dog by Jess Faraday

Author:Jess Faraday [Faraday, Jess]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2011-06-14T04:00:00+00:00

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"It's not that I'm not happy to see you," I said as Lazarus packed me into a luxuriously appointed brougham.

The carriage was miles better than Goddard's. To be fair, Goddard preferred an unadorned black hansom. One didn't advertise ill-gotten gains, after all. On the other hand, St. Andrews's carriage was a gold-touched masterpiece of overstatement. While he chatted with the driver outside, I melted into the velvet-upholstered bench beneath a pair of gilded angels and closed my eyes. The inside smelled like old money and new paint. Lazarus folded down the hard little seat in the corner and perched on it. He and his earnest beau weren't my first choice for saviors, but they weren't going to leave me bleeding in a ditch, either.

"To what do I owe this eleventh-hour rescue?" I asked. "I'd think that you'd be happier with me out of the way."

"It would make things easier," Lazarus admitted. "But when St. Andrews learned you were caught up in the raid, he figured you'd be of more use to us as a free man."

I cracked an eye open.

"What do you mean 'of more use'? To you? And how the devil--"

"'O d'yer fink tipped off the rozzers, old chap? Eh?"

Wood squealed, and for one horrifying moment the carriage tipped onto two wheels as St. Andrews swung his long body through the door. He landed beside me in a heap of knees and elbows. His imitation cockney was appalling, but it was hard to be properly irritated with someone who resembled nothing so much as an overgrown puppy--soft of middle, floppy of limb, and grinning. St. Andrews's age was somewhere between Lazarus's and Goddard's--late thirties was my guess. Despite his lack of decorum, his enthusiasm did lend him a certain charm. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with the enemy only seemed to delight him.

"My old coat!" he exclaimed, looking me over with evident pleasure. He thumped a merry fist on the roof, and the cab began rolling. "You wear it well, Mr. Adler."

"I might have known you'd be at the center of it all," I said.

"Now, is that any way to speak to someone who's just pulled your crumpet out of the fire?"

"If I'd known there were strings attached, I'd have preferred my crumpet to remain where it was."

St. Andrews laughed and rubbed his enormous hands together, relishing a bout of witty repartee. My head throbbed. I yanked down the window shade.

"In case you were curious," he began.

"I wasn't."

"I told the police that you were our man inside. A special operative."

"Bet that didn't raise eyebrows," I muttered.

"We can take you back to prison, if you prefer," said Lazarus. The swelling had gone down on his broken nose, but it had turned a beautiful shade of purple.

"The way I see it," St. Andrews said, "Everyone benefits from our current situation. Mr. Adler, you're now a free man. Just say the word, and I'll have my driver deliver you to York Street, with no further 'strings.'"

"Right now, please," I said.

"But," he

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