Chapter Nine
The evening fog hung heavy and low that evening, making the air thick with moisture and filling Oliver’s lungs with the dankness of the streets. He knew from experience that the scent of mildew and refuse would cling to his clothing long after he’d returned home.
He walked with purpose and confidence—the biggest deterrent to pickpockets and thieves—but he was not foolish enough to traverse Covent Garden unarmed.
A man with a past like his was never caught so unprepared, nor did he possess such hubris to believe himself unapproachable by those living desperate lives in London’s slums. Not for the first time, he was grateful Emily had remained home that evening.
Of course, they would have hired a hackney rather than travel by foot, and Oliver never would have left her side, but he was still more at ease with her safely ensconced within the walls of their home rather than deep in the heart of Covent Garden on a night such as this.
Earlier that day, Emily and Oliver had shared a late luncheon and then went about their usual preparations for an evening at Lady Night’s.
It was immediately apparent to Oliver that his wife was not up for the long hours necessary to fulfill her obligations.
He witnessed her yawn no less than three times as he helped her unlace her dress in preparation for donning another to wear to her mother’s brothel.
The quality was slightly less than her usual wardrobe and the color was much more muted—anything to avoid drawing attention to herself should she need to leave behind the books and see to other business within the building.
It had taken Oliver a long time to come to terms with his wife flitting through the brothel and managing the employees, but she’d proven time and time again to him that her mind craved the stimulation and her skills with Lady Night’s employees were unsurpassed.
She was unfailingly kind and nonjudgmental. It was part of why he loved her so.
It did not take his keen observation skills to recognize the drowsiness in her doe-like eyes, the fatigue furrowing her brow, the slight slump to her shoulders.
“Why don’t you remain at home this evening?” Oliver had presented it as a gentle suggestion, though he took his time fiddling with the laces of her gown to delay her dressing.
“Because my mother has been feeling poorly. She could use the extra set of hands and eyes once I finish with the books,” Emily insisted, barely managing to swallow another yawn.
“And that is why I will go. The books will keep for another time, and I will lend myself wherever it is needed.” Oliver could see in her impossibly blue eyes how tempted she was by that, so, in an effort to clinch her decision, he added, “I will return and crawl into bed with you where we will sleep however late we desire tomorrow morning.”
Emily had narrowed her eyes at him. “Will you be nude?”
Oliver chuckled and shook his head at her incorrigibility. “Would you have me sleep with you any other way?”
“Never.” She slung her arms around his neck, stood on the tips of her toes, and pressed her lips to his. “Very well, I shall remain home this evening. I do not know why I am so exhausted—”
Oliver had dropped the garment he held and scooped Emily into his arms. Her little trill of surprised laughter unfurled a tendril of warmth low in his belly, like it always did. He carried her to bed in three quick strides.
“Because you work too hard,” he’d said flatly. “You know you needn’t do that.”
“I enjoy it, and I enjoy spending the time near to you,” Emily replied with a sigh as he tucked her beneath the coverlet.
“I have my savings and a small pension,” he groused as he fussed over the bedding until he was satisfied that she was comfortable enough. “It should keep us sufficiently comfortable.”
“You, of all people, should understand my desire for activity and mental stimulation.”
He emitted a toneless huff of laughter. “I may, but this is a slower pace from my previous life. You, Angel, have never slowed down.” She turned into the pillow, and he brushed a lock of her white-gold hair from her cheek.
“Perhaps we should go on holiday,” he suggested.
“Spend some time in the countryside; enjoy the clean air.”
“If you aren’t careful, you may fall in love with it and never return to London.” Emily’s voice was already thick with sleep.
“The worst parts of London are thick in my blood, love; there is no leaving it behind for me. For you, though, I would go anywhere.” His heart swelled at her dreamy smile. He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, knowing she was already asleep before he finished dressing himself.
Oliver mulled over that exchange as he continued his winding path through Covent Garden toward home. Dawn would break soon enough and burn away the fog swirling about Oliver’s legs, but there was still enough time for all manner of dangers to lurk in the night’s long shadows.
Parts of London never slept. Even in the latest hours of the night and smallest hours of the morning, the noises of life provided an undercurrent of sound to Oliver’s footsteps.
Were his senses not so attuned to his surroundings, he might have missed the pair of feet following in his wake.
Their owner was skilled, timing his steps to Oliver’s with near perfection, but Oliver was not most men.
From the echo of their sound, his pursuer was less than one block behind him.
Heartbeat slowing, senses sharpening, mind running, Oliver maintained the cadence of his steps and continued his circuitous route home.
Never had he been more pleased that he’d ignored Emily’s annoyance that they always took a different and indirect route back to their townhouse.
She’d believed him to be overcautious but had capitulated when she realized his habit had been born both from years of secret service to the Crown and his unimpeachable desire to see her safe.
Though he’d retired, following the mission that had brought him and Emily together, and had buried his most recent alias of shipping heir, Marcus Holden, some reflexes were never forgotten.
He took two carefully timed turns down side streets and alleys, effectively leading his pursuer away from his home and toward the Thames.
The continuation of the subtle sounds of someone behind him solidified his understanding of the situation.
This was no mere coincidence. His eyes scanned his surroundings, gained his bearings, and remembered how, just ahead, there would be a false alleyway on his left—an alcove of what had once been a Medieval passthrough between buildings, but had since been closed off.
The footsteps had advanced and whoever was there was now less than half a block behind him.
Muscles tense, Oliver turned left at the very last second and ducked into that alcove.
As he spun to face whoever followed him, he ripped his knives from their sheaths within the waist of his breeches and waited…
but there were no more footsteps. He listened carefully over the rush of his pounding pulse, but there was nothing.
Oliver sprang from the alcove and found only a deserted street cast in murky shadows.
The watery light of dawn was beginning to lighten the cloudy, soot-streaked sky, but it would take a while before any of it filtered down to that darkened part of London.
His eyes scanned the foggy street scattered with leavings and trash, but there was no indication that he wasn’t alone.
No sound. No movement. No hint of who had been following him almost since he left Lady Night’s doorstep.
Palming his blades and slipping the handles up into the cuffs of his coat sleeves, Oliver decided to spend as much time as it took wandering the mazelike streets of London until he could be certain he was no longer being followed. The last thing he wished to do was lead anyone to Emily.
Maybe leaving London for a spell was not a bad idea at all.