Chapter 11
A low sound of curiosity whispered through the darkness as the man standing in the shadows a few doors down from the Fox and Hound watched the tall man leave the pub. Coat collar raised and pressed to his cheeks, the man’s face was obscured by his garment, making identification impossible.
Oddly, the man’s height and stride reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t remember who.
Frowning with concentration the man rubbed his jaw.
When, after several moments of consideration, he still couldn’t connect the stranger to anyone he knew, the man pushed the notion into a small niche in the back of his head for use at a later date.
It wasn’t unusual for him to collect information that meant nothing at the time, but on occasion the information he tucked away in the back of his head had proved useful at a future date.
Perhaps the man was one of the Crown’s agents hunting for information.
He was well aware that the Crown was searching for him.
A feral emotion sped through him as he smiled.
The memory of slicing through the carotid artery of several agents in the foreign office was a delightful, heady sensation.
He’d always enjoyed the gurgle of sound that echoed out of the men dying in his deadly embrace.
There had been only one man whom he’d not killed. The Earl of Sommerville.
Despite being blind, the earl’s handicap had not hampered his lightness of foot or uncanny ability to avoid the switchblade that was his weapon of choice.
Sommerville had fought with far more skill than anyone he’d ever met, especially for a blind man.
It had been impossible not to respect the man’s ability, which is why he’d not killed Sommerville outright.
He’d wanted to see if the earl’s will was strong enough to survive a severe injury.
The earl had not disappointed. One hand brushed the wool of his coat where his blade was folded nice and neat in his pocket.
The razor-sharp knife was a tool he wielded with an expertise he knew few possessed.
It was a skill he’d learned in Prussia. His mother had arranged for his instruction when Bismarck had urged her to find a tutor to teach him how to use the weapon.
An old family friend of his mother’s, the retired politician had advised her on several matters, while never making her feel as if she were a burden.
When his mother had died with the name of her lover on her lips almost fifteen years ago, Bismarck had taken him under his wing .
A loud screeching noise ripped through the air, interrupting his musings.
The pub door swung open, and a woman strolled out into the dimly lit street.
When she passed through the glow of a nearby street lamp, he recognized Simpson’s latest dalliance.
She was a pretty thing. Would she be a good fuck?
Lust blistered its way through him for a brief instant before he grimaced with disgust. The idea of bedding the woman, no matter how lovely she was, repulsed him. A creature of the streets, she wasn’t worth his time. Oddly though, she reminded him of his mother with her long black tresses.
His gut twisted at the thought. How could he possibly think this whore even remotely looked like his mother? Memories of soft, loving arms wrapped around him when he was a child flooded his head, and his body relaxed.
Those hugs were memories of a happier time.
A world where his mother had been vibrant and full of life.
His gaze focused on the woman walking away from the pub once more.
He frowned. If the whore wasn’t with Simpson, where was the man?
Had his courier parted ways with his pretty bauble already?
But then Simpson had said the woman was proving quite elusive, which had seemed to whet the man’s interest.
A sudden flash of movement close to where the woman was walking made him narrow his eyes.
Features still indistinguishable, the tall man who’d left the tavern a short time ago stepped out of the shadows to grab the woman’s arm.
She tugged against his grip with obvious anger, but failed to free herself.
They were too far away from him to hear what they were saying, but it was clear the two were at odds with each other.
Still arguing with him, the woman released a loud oath that echoed down the lane loud and clear.
It was the only word of the couple’s heated exchange he’d heard before the stranger dragged the woman into the dark alleyway.
He had expected cries for help from the woman, but only silence filled the air.
With a negligible roll of his shoulders, he dismissed the small drama between the couple just as quickly as the two had vanished into the shadows.
It mattered little to him whether or not the whore was forced to satisfy the man’s sexual needs or meet an untimely demise.
What irritated him more than anything else at the moment was Simpson’s whereabouts. He was tired of waiting.
Almost as if he’d heard someone call his name, the pub door squeaked open, and his courier stepped out into the street.
The man stood just on the edge of the pool of light made by a nearby streetlamp.
Simpson turned his head first one way and then the other before heading in the direction his courier always took.
When he’d first secured Simpson’s services as an informant, he’d made it clear he wanted as little contact as possible.
It was why once a week on a rotating schedule of days, between the hours of nine-thirty and ten, he waited in the darkest shadows a short distance from the Fox and Hound.
As the informant left the pub, the man would walk past him, murmuring whether or not they needed to meet.
The arrangement made it appear as if Simpson was just walking home.
He’d always been a patient man, and he never left the darkness right away to follow the informant.
Instead, he was cautious, watching for any sign of activity on the street.
That strategy was how he’d come to realize the Crown’s Secret Intelligence Service was looking for him.
Like the cat-and-mouse game of old, he’d hunted the Crown’s mice without them realizing they were prey until he slit their throats. The last member of the Secret Intelligence Service he’d killed had made the same mistake other Crown agents had made. The agent had been impatient.
The instant the man had emerged from the shadows to follow Simpson, he’d signed his own death warrant.
Unlike the Secret Intelligence Service agent, he’d waited patiently like a predator stalking his latest kill.
The moment the agent was two steps past him, he’d stepped out of the shadows, and with one swift stroke, his blade had streaked across the man’s throat.
Now, as Simpson strode past him without slowing down or looking in his direction, the tall, lean man murmured for him to meet him at the Black Horse Inn.
He didn’t bother to answer, but watched Simpson continue on his way with no one realizing he’d been speaking with anyone.
For someone who was always polite, almost affable in a strange way, there was something snake-like about Simpson.
It emphasized the fact that anyone who thought the man harmless would regret their lapse in judgement.
There was no doubt in his mind that his informant would be dangerous to anyone who crossed him.
He smiled to himself. If Simpson were ever to make that mistake where he was concerned, the man would discover a new and final definition of the word dangerous.
His gaze never left Simpson’s tall figure as the man continued making his way down the street.
As the informant disappeared around the corner of the street, he frowned.
He’d sent Simpson to meet with members of the Prussian Secret Service in Konigsberg only a day and a half ago. When one of the sailors he routinely received information from had sent word Simpson had returned this morning, he’d been surprised.
Simpson often took a day or two whoring in Konigsberg before returning to London.
The man’s quick return to England this time and request to meet at the Black Horse Inn meant his information was important enough to risk meeting in person at the pub.
With a patience he’d acquired over the years, he waited for some time before he slid out of the shadows and headed toward the Black Horse Inn.
It was a short walk to the tavern, and he entered the pub in a manner that ensured he’d go unnoticed.
He’d been expecting a rowdier atmosphere, but tonight there was only a low hum of conversation filling the air.
Wary of seeking Simpson out first thing, he headed to the bar to order an ale.
The interior was dimly lit, but when he looked over his shoulder, his gaze settled on Simpson seated at a table in the deepest shadows of the tavern.
When he’d paid for his drink, he turned and headed toward the dark corner of the tavern where his courier sat. His movements unhurried to avoid drawing attention to himself, he reached the table and took a seat opposite his informant. His gaze narrowing, he studied the man for a long moment.
Almost immediately the man shifted in his seat.
It was the smallest of movements, but it pleased him that Simpson was unsettled by him.
It was always best to keep the upper hand when it came to others.
He took a drink of ale, his gaze dropping to where Simpson’s hand was wrapped tightly around the mug in front of him.
As he set his own beverage down on the table, he lifted his gaze to meet Simpson’s wary one.
“You have news.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” Simpson said in a voice that was soft with hesitation.
“Tell me.”
Abrupt and sharp, his demand made Simpson squirm in his seat once more. The man’s reaction aroused a feral satisfaction in him. He allowed a small smile to touch his lips and waited for Simpson to speak.
“You’ve been instructed to stop using your blade on those working for the Crown as of now.”
Simpson’s muted words made him stiffen. It was unusual for him to be caught off guard, but the informant’s reply had taken him aback.
Worse still was that the use of his blade not only ensured his identity to the British remained a mystery, but he enjoyed hearing the gurgling sound people released when his blade sliced through their throats.
He narrowed his gaze at the man across from him.
The question now was who and why his orders had changed.
“And the reason for this change?” he bit out in a harsh whisper.
“Your activities have begun to attract attention. People here and at home are beginning to express…concern about recent…casualties.”
“Who’s been talking?”
“Miller and his captain, as well as the captain’s cousin,” Simpson said in a low voice.
The disguised reference to his direct superior, Helmuth von Moltkem, the commander of the General Staff, who went by the name Miller in the field, wasn’t unexpected. But it was a troubling development that his work had captured the attention of the Kaiser and his cousin, the Prince of Wales.
The knowledge that the deaths of several Crown agents had been raised to such a high level of attention irritated him.
He took pride in his discretion and objectivity when removing potential threats.
But for the first time, he was forced to consider the possibility that he might have been overzealous in eliminating several members of the Crown’s Secret Intelligence Service.
“Melk believes your ability to move freely among the nobility will make you more effective in procuring the information needed.” Simpson’s voice penetrated his thoughts, and he bobbed his head in a sharp nod.
“Is there anything else I need to know?”
“We’ll need to find a new method of transferring information.”
“We can continue as we do now. I see no need to change the basics of our working relationship,” he said with a cavalier wave of his hand.
The moment Simpson’s expression darkened with displeasure, he arched an eyebrow at the man. For a brief moment, the informant’s lips parted as if he were about to speak before he shrugged. Whatever he’d been about to say went unsaid.
“Understood.”
“Then it’s settled. We’ll go on as before.”
He took a swig of his ale as he contemplated the changes in his assignment.
In truth, he welcomed the realignment of his mission.
His original goal had been to uncover any plans the English had for expanding and strengthening their military forces.
While he’d yet to uncover any specific threats to Prussia, he knew he’d not uncovered enough details to confirm it without doubt,
Sailors could provide insignificant details regarding fleet strength and ship routes, but their knowledge of any actual military expansion was limited.
The men who knew those sorts of detailed plans were found in Society’s ballrooms and clubs.
He chafed at the realization he’d not thought in the very beginning to suggest to Miller that his mission would be better served if he mingled with the nobility.
People he intended to extract every bit of vengeance he could. He would find those who’d scorned and shunned his mother, making her a pariah among the nobility of which she was a part.
The only thing he would miss was the pleasant task of decreasing the number of agents working for the Crown’s Secret Intelligence Service.
But his change in orders would allow him the opportunity to avenge his mother.
Simpson’s features gradually came into focus, and he remembered how the man’s pretty whore had left the pub without him.
“I noticed your current paramour left without you this evening.”
“Ginny isn’t a woman a man can bed as quickly as he might others.”
“So, you’ve not yet fucked her.” Amusement made his lips twist in a faint smile as Simpson glared at him.
“No, but it’s only a matter of time,” the man’s expression was one of confidence. “This evening tells me that.”
“And what happened this evening?” he asked, as something in the back of his mind tried to push its way to the surface.
“She was more excited to see me than usual.”
“And you’re certain she’s interested only in you?” The memory of the whore and the tall stranger who’d dragged her into a dark alleyway made him eye Simpson with amusement. The other man bristled.
“Ginny has a thing for me, and I’ll find myself fucking her soon enough.”
“I’m sure you will,” he murmured with a strong suspicion Simpson’s confidence would bring him nothing where the woman was concerned. Finishing his ale, he rose to his feet. “I shall be in my usual spot two nights from now. Until then…”
Simpson nodded his understanding, and satisfied the informant had nothing further to share, he turned and walked out of the Black Horse Inn.