"Sabotage?" Arthur lifted a pink letter with a faint scent of perfume from the ledger using his pipe. "My job is to guard Britain's literary dignity, and you've compared Milton's Satan to a Russian bear in stockings. If those old scholars from Oxford and Cambridge see this, they could write a joint letter to the Privy Council, accusing the Foreign Office of treason."
Blackwell suddenly knelt on one knee, a position that caused the hem of his coat to sweep over the copper spittoon under the bed. "Sir, for the sake of our sneaky drink from the Earl of Dalmo's wine stash in St. Petersburg! That mink shawl indeed has intelligence and strategic value, as you know, Miss Duke Golitsyn's boudoir adjoins the Winter Palace's west wing corridor!"
