’ ‘Militia, miss,’ Kimble corrected her. Maggot held up a lantern, which she found in the shop. She stood face to face with him, and his voice cut across her speech and made her stop abruptly. Vorsack would just have to live with it. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. But with the skill of a fencer he met the blow and broke it, seizing the wrist. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. “I expected you this morning,” he said. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire.
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