rage.
“Ah, my new friends,” the Englishman said, a pleasant smile on his face. “I’ve been expecting you. Now. Who wants to go first? You? You? Perhaps all of you at once?”
He waited for one of them to move and when it happened he attacked. His senses were surging back to him, and, like an animal, he rejoiced in the feeling.
He broke two noses first, then lashed out at the third chap, his right foot the blur of a scalded piston. He connected, first hearing the snap of the fibula and then the deeper crack of the tibia, the inner and larger of the two bones of the lower leg. Sadly, it was enough to take all the fight out of them, and so he turned away and headed for home. It had started to rain, a raw, cold rain, and he removed his hat and turned his face up into it, enjoying the sting of the icy drops. He reached the house in Belgrave Square, and Pelham swung the door open for him, taking his hat and cane.
“Good heavens!” the old fellow exclaimed when the man removed his cloak to reveal his blood-spattered shirtfront. “What happened, m’lord?”
“Bloody nose, I’m afraid,” he replied, mounting the broad stairs. “Two of them, in fact.”
Ten minutes later, he was in his bed, yearning for sleep and the American woman he seemed to have fallen deeply in love with, Victoria Sweet.
A few hours on, the Englishman was staring at the ringing bedside telephone and the clock with equal disbelief. “Bloody hell,” he said to himself. He picked up the phone.
“Yes?” he said, with no intention of being polite. Christ, it was barely a quarter to five in the morning.
“Hi,” said the throaty female voice at the other end, altogether too cheery for the ungodly hour.
“Good God,” he said, yawning. He’d been in a deep sleep. Having quite a pleasant dream as he remembered. Vicky was undoing her—he’d lost it.
“No, not Him. But close. It’s the brand-new secretary. First day on the job!”
“Do you have even the faintest idea what time it is over here?”
“You sound put out.”
“May I be frank?”
“Oh, don’t be mad. I’ve had the most amazing day. I’m not calling to flirt, either. It’s strictly business.”
The Englishman, fully awake now, propped himself up against the many large pillows at the head of his bed. A hard rain, now mixed with sleet, was thrashing against his tall bedroom windows. The fire, which had been casting shadows on the vaulted ceiling when he’d at last fallen asleep, was now reduced to a few glowing coals, and a damp chill pervaded the lofty chamber.
He pulled the blanket up under his chin, cradling the phone against his cheek. Another soggy January day in London was about to dawn. He was sluggish. He was bored. His limbs, his mind, his very cells, had gone soft and flaccid.
The little scuffle in the street had been a pleasant distraction, but nothing more. The Englishman was in fact a restless warrior who, for far too long now, had been “between assignments,” as the euphemism has it.
Which is why the single word business had crackled like lightning around his languishing synapses and stirred his lazy blood.
“You mentioned something about business,” he said.
“Are you disappointed? Tell the truth. You were hoping it was phone sex. I could hear it in your voice.”
“Your voice does sound rather—never mind. Smoky. I thought you’d stopped smoking.”
“I’m trying to quit. I’m going hot turkey.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s the opposite of cold turkey. You fire up your first one the second you wake up and then smoke as many as you possibly can before you go to sleep at night.”
“Sounds brilliant. Well. You said business. Tell me.”
“First, you have to know something. This is not my idea. Your pal the president asked for you specifically. I’m telling you that just in case you’ve got too much on your plate already.”
“All right.”
“It’s not me who’s asking. It’s him.”
“Doesn’t matter to me who it
“Ah, my new friends,” the Englishman said, a pleasant smile on his face. “I’ve been expecting you. Now. Who wants to go first? You? You? Perhaps all of you at once?”
He waited for one of them to move and when it happened he attacked. His senses were surging back to him, and, like an animal, he rejoiced in the feeling.
He broke two noses first, then lashed out at the third chap, his right foot the blur of a scalded piston. He connected, first hearing the snap of the fibula and then the deeper crack of the tibia, the inner and larger of the two bones of the lower leg. Sadly, it was enough to take all the fight out of them, and so he turned away and headed for home. It had started to rain, a raw, cold rain, and he removed his hat and turned his face up into it, enjoying the sting of the icy drops. He reached the house in Belgrave Square, and Pelham swung the door open for him, taking his hat and cane.
“Good heavens!” the old fellow exclaimed when the man removed his cloak to reveal his blood-spattered shirtfront. “What happened, m’lord?”
“Bloody nose, I’m afraid,” he replied, mounting the broad stairs. “Two of them, in fact.”
Ten minutes later, he was in his bed, yearning for sleep and the American woman he seemed to have fallen deeply in love with, Victoria Sweet.
A few hours on, the Englishman was staring at the ringing bedside telephone and the clock with equal disbelief. “Bloody hell,” he said to himself. He picked up the phone.
“Yes?” he said, with no intention of being polite. Christ, it was barely a quarter to five in the morning.
“Hi,” said the throaty female voice at the other end, altogether too cheery for the ungodly hour.
“Good God,” he said, yawning. He’d been in a deep sleep. Having quite a pleasant dream as he remembered. Vicky was undoing her—he’d lost it.
“No, not Him. But close. It’s the brand-new secretary. First day on the job!”
“Do you have even the faintest idea what time it is over here?”
“You sound put out.”
“May I be frank?”
“Oh, don’t be mad. I’ve had the most amazing day. I’m not calling to flirt, either. It’s strictly business.”
The Englishman, fully awake now, propped himself up against the many large pillows at the head of his bed. A hard rain, now mixed with sleet, was thrashing against his tall bedroom windows. The fire, which had been casting shadows on the vaulted ceiling when he’d at last fallen asleep, was now reduced to a few glowing coals, and a damp chill pervaded the lofty chamber.
He pulled the blanket up under his chin, cradling the phone against his cheek. Another soggy January day in London was about to dawn. He was sluggish. He was bored. His limbs, his mind, his very cells, had gone soft and flaccid.
The little scuffle in the street had been a pleasant distraction, but nothing more. The Englishman was in fact a restless warrior who, for far too long now, had been “between assignments,” as the euphemism has it.
Which is why the single word business had crackled like lightning around his languishing synapses and stirred his lazy blood.
“You mentioned something about business,” he said.
“Are you disappointed? Tell the truth. You were hoping it was phone sex. I could hear it in your voice.”
“Your voice does sound rather—never mind. Smoky. I thought you’d stopped smoking.”
“I’m trying to quit. I’m going hot turkey.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s the opposite of cold turkey. You fire up your first one the second you wake up and then smoke as many as you possibly can before you go to sleep at night.”
“Sounds brilliant. Well. You said business. Tell me.”
“First, you have to know something. This is not my idea. Your pal the president asked for you specifically. I’m telling you that just in case you’ve got too much on your plate already.”
“All right.”
“It’s not me who’s asking. It’s him.”
“Doesn’t matter to me who it
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