He spoke the King’s English with a regrettable French accent because in the British view, the French were becoming more and more suspect with their ...ealings with the Rebel rabble. Mister Brown was an advisor to the French crown having spent almost two decades in training the silver spoon young males of royalty the tricks of surviving a duel to the death with slender slivers of Toledo steel. I had never seen him with a firearm in his hand so I presume he could be added to the list of “silent”. ”There was a loud crash, like a door being kicked in, and then a man's voice yelling, “You fuckin' whore! You worthless cunt! Who the hell are you talkin' to?”“No one, baby. Wrong number. Please, don't....”Even over the phone, the sound could only be that of a hand slapping a face. Hard. There was a clattering sound, like the phone being dropped, and then a man's voice roared, “Who the fuck is this?”He sounded like a drunk spoiling for a fight. “Who the fuck are you?” I responded. The. .”I was nodding. I looked away and then back at the man. “It’s hard, sir, very hard,” I said.“Things, worth the time to do or to have, often come with a lot of hard work attached to them, Jim. Anyway, think about what we’ve talked about today. Okay?” he said.“Sure, I guess,” I said.****The man was right. There was no doubt about that. But could I do what he was suggesting? I wasn’t sure about that, not sure at all. But he had made a couple of offhand suggestions that might be worth the time to. Oh Lord." She wrung her hands and gripped my arms. "Go hide," she said to me. "Up in the attic."I watched the officer come striding to the back door and heard him let himself in. "Cecelia," he yelled. "Whose horse is in the barn?"When he walked into the room, I grabbed him by the lapels. "It's mine," I said, lifting him by his jabot. "Get down on your knees." He knelt, and I pulled his sword and pistol from his belt. I dragged him into a corner of the room, ignored his noisy protests and pushed.