As soon as Hastings left the cover of the alley, he disappeared from view. Simon knew he was somewhere out there making his way across the street and behind the gin shop, but couldn’t see him.

He really is good, he thought. But somewhere along the way something had gone wrong, and killing had become Hastings’ default method for solving problems—and missions, which wasn’t really the best option in their line of work as a general rule. They dealt in information more than death these days. Such was peace.

“He’s a good lad. He just needs a firm hand,” Manderley said, as if reading Simon’s mind.

“I think the hand has been too firm,” Simon said with a frown. “Maybe what he needs is a lighter touch.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Sir Barnabas isn’t the confiding or nurturing sort.”

Manderley suddenly pressed his back against the brick wall and stretched his arm out across Simon’s chest, pressing him alongside him. Simon almost laughed at the protective gesture, as if he needed anyone’s protection. Even with his back aching he could still scale this brick wall with nothing but his bare hands and feet in just a few seconds and race unnoticed across the rooftops to make his escape. He very much doubted, despite his obvious good health and physique, that Manderley could do the same. The gesture was touching nonetheless.

Simon reached up and held onto Manderley’s arm as he leaned forward just a bit and peeked around him at the street. The bodyguard had moved forward and was knocking quietly at the front door. A signal knock. Two short raps, followed by a pause, a knock, a pause and a final knock. The sound echoed on the street.

“Why is it so quiet here?” Simon wondered in a whisper. “I’ve never known a London street to be so quiet. It’s eerie.”

“It is.” Manderley looked at him. “Even the rats are avoiding that house.”

“For a bawdy house it’s not very bawdy.”

A candle appeared in a second floor window, and they watched its progress down a flight of stairs. It disappeared right before the door opened.

“It is I,” the little man said. His accent was Dutch. Simon had been right. He liked being right.

“Of course it is,” a woman answered, sounding irritated. “Get in ’ere then. Yer late.”

“I was detained at the dock by customs,” the man said, his educated voice faint as he moved inside. His bodyguard followed. The door closed and they couldn’t hear what he said next.

“Interesting,” Manderley said, “but not enlightening. Come on.” He grabbed Simon’s lapel with one hand and pulled him away from the wall.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Simon asked in a whisper as he watched Manderley peek around the corner, checking to see if anyone else was on the dark street.

“Yes,” the constable said, his voice agitated. “Normally I don’t go skulking about. It’s quite invigorating.”

“Yes, skulking is one of my favorite pastimes,” Simon agreed. He gently pushed in front of Manderley. “Why don’t you let me lead, seeing as I’ve a bit more experience with being underhanded?” He motioned Manderley to straighten up. “Don’t be obvious. At least, not more than can be helped. Act as if we have business here.”

He walked out of the alley, avoiding what little light there was, stepping carefully. Then he reached back and put his arm around Manderley’s shoulders and gave a quiet laugh. He pulled him along as they started walking away from the gin shop.

“Where are we going? What are you doing?” Manderley asked, looking over his shoulder.

“For God’s sake, I said don’t be obvious,” Simon hissed through his smile. “We are gentlemen slumming around this evening looking for entertainment. Now act jovial and randy, and walk with me as if we are sharing whiskey and confidences.”

“Why can’t we simply sneak around like Hastings?”

“Because you are not as good at it as Hastings, and frankly neither am I. I am better at second story work and subterfuge. This is the subterfuge because I don’t think you can do second story work.”

“What is that?” Manderley sounded confused but very intrigued.

“Climbing up on roofs, that sort of thing,” Simon told him.

He made an abrupt turn down a side street and Manderley stumbled into him. He tried to grab Simon’s jacket but missed, and his hand slipped inside and caught on Simon’s waistcoat. When he tried to pull away he’d somehow gotten entangled in the chain of Simon’s watch. They stood there barely six inches apart, and Simon could feel Manderley’s heat and his breath and he could smell the cologne he wore, and Simon’s heartbeat quickened and he felt his cheeks flush, and he was appalled. Utterly, completely appalled at his reaction. This was Manderley. The upstanding constable. Christy’s lawfully wedded husband. A paragon of virtue.

Once again Simon felt like dirt on the bottom of his own boot. Why did his damned libido rise like a demon phoenix from the ashes at the most inopportune times and with the most inappropriate people? What had he done to deserve such a curse? His inability to control his desires had caused him nothing but pain and trouble since his misspent youth and he had learned nothing—nothing—from the tragedy of his youthful marriage, apparently, because here he was wanting someone completely wrong in the worst possible place at the worst possible time again. Would he never be satisfied until he’d killed them all?

He took a moment to calm his clearly overexcited emotions. No one was going to kill Manderley or anyone else simply because Simon found him attractive. Honestly, Africa had scrambled his brains.

“Hold still,” he told Manderley, and he was very proud of how calm he sounded. “Don’t break my watch chain.”

Manderley dutifully held still, but instead of letting Simon untangle them, he reached for the chain with his free hand and expertly extricated himself.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, sounding every inch the proper gentleman with nothing on his mind but skulking and watch chains. “How clumsy of me.” Suddenly he laughed and threw his arm over Simon’s shoulder. “Come on then,” he said gaily, tugging Simon farther away from their mark.

After another block Simon cut to the right again and Manderley followed. Off the main street now, Simon kept to the shadows and doubled back to the gin shop, making an oblong sort of circle that brought them to the doorway of the empty building beside the shop. The carriage was so close they could have jumped on the rear for a ride.

Simon caught Manderley’s eye and motioned that they would stay close to the building, in the deep shadows, avoiding the coachman’s attention. He pointed to a window on the side, where the light of a candle or two could be seen flickering through a curtain. Manderley nodded.

Simon went first and crouched under the window. He didn’t look back to see if Manderley had followed him successfully. He knew he would. Robert Manderely wasn’t the sort to fail, even if he was new at this.

As he’d expected, the constable slid down beside him. “I can’t hear anything,” he whispered.

“We’ve got to try to open the window,” Simon said. They were very close, whispering, trying not to be heard by the coachman, who couldn’t see them in their position, but there was a slim possibility he had excellent hearing. Worse coincidences had led to dire situations, and Simon had learned to be cautious.

He counted off three on his fingers, and then he and Manderley stood up and tried to push the window up. Breaking the seal caused a nice creak, and the two immediately ducked back down.

Almost immediately the curtain swung aside and someone was peering out the window. “Anyone there?” the woman asked sharply.

“Naw.” It was the bodyguard. He didn’t even check the window, which couldn’t have been open more than a mere slit if that. They’d only broken the seal. But if he’d pushed on it, it would have given and they’d have known someone was out here.

When the bodyguard let the curtain drop and moved away, Simon let out the breath he was holding. He looked over at Manderley, who was grinning madly and he just shook his head.

This time it was Manderely who counted three off on his fingers. They stood again, and when they pushed the window it moved silently. They opened it just enough to hear what was being said. Too much would have caused a rush of cool air to stir the curtains or be felt in the room.

Once it was open enough, they crouched again. They were so close their thighs were touching. Simon forced himself to ignore Manderely’s proximity and focus on the task at hand. Skulking was much easier when done alone, or at least with someone you were not overly attracted to. He and Daniel made the best skulking partners.

“Where are the messages now?” the Dutchman was asking, clearly agitated but trying to hide it.

“I told you, they’re safe,” the woman—Simon assumed Alice Gaines—said, her tone gloating. “You’ll get them when I gets my money.”

“How did you learn of the network?” he asked her. “The boys are overlooked by British authorities, who suspect nothing. Yet I am to believe a whoremonger discovered the truth? This is not possible. Which one of them revealed himself to you?”

“You’d be surprised what I know,” she said smugly. “You and all the rest of them gentlemen spies around here. The docks are crawling with the likes of you. And sooner or later everyone makes their way into a bed ’ere, ain’t that the truth?” She laughed throatily. “Everybody needs a tumble now and then, and Fat Linnie’s is the best place to find it around ’ere, everyone’ll tell you that. And there’s some what can’t shut their mouths when they’re fucking. Lord, the way they talk!” She laughed again. “So I began to deal in more than the flesh, if you take my meaning. It’s been very lucrative.”

“You could simply have blackmailed me to keep the information secret, rather than dismantle my network and highjack my messages,” the Dutchman said. “You have gone to a great deal of trouble. Are the boys working for you now?”

“Naw,” she said dismissively. “They couldn’t be trusted, could they? Turn on one employer, they’d turn on another. I’ve got girls what likes to take care of that business for me. Got no love for the male of the species. Fuck ’em for money, kill ’em for fun.” She laughed, and Simon cut a quick glance over to Manderley, who, even in the dim light, looked pale at that revelation.

“You have killed the boys?” The Dutchman sounded as horrified as Manderley looked. “They were innocent couriers. Most had no idea what they were delivering.”

“No, but I do,” the woman said. “Kill me, and that information goes straight to the Home Office. I’m sure they’d be very interested in knowing about a good old-fashioned assassination plot. You don’t run into that very often, do you?”

There was a pause, and Simon heard some footsteps, the woman. “That’s right, I can read,” she said. “I know exactly what you’ve got planned. So here’s my proposition. I want in. I went to a lot of trouble to cover our tracks. Even went to the morgue and picked up one of them boys to throw ’em off the scent. There’s money to be made here, and I’ve got my own network, see? Girls what no one suspects. That’s how I took care of them boys. I figure you can get them some papers, and we can slip into places where you need eyes and ears, and maybe a blade. Am I right?”

Another pause. “Go on,” the Dutchman finally said.

Suddenly there was a commotion upstairs. A woman screamed angrily, and a crashing sound indicated a door being slammed. Then a man yelled and pandemonium broke loose.

“What the bleeding ’ell?” Mrs. Gaines cried out. Simon heard her steps run across the room and she yanked open a door.

“There’s a man up here,” a woman yelled from upstairs. “He was creeping down the stairs, spying on ya. He locked himself in a room with Dilly, and it sounds like they’re tearing it apart.”

“You brought someone else!” Mrs. Gaines yelled accusingly.

“No,” the Dutchman said. “We must go. I cannot be found here.”

“Hastings,” Manderely whispered, looking about frantically. “What do we do?”

Simon grabbed his arm and put a finger to his lips. Hastings could handle one woman, no matter how deadly she was. He was an assassin for Sir Barnabas. He knew his way around a fight.

“I’ll contact you again,” the woman said, her voice muffled by the sound of footsteps.

“The same method,” the Dutchman said, his voice fading. The front door opened, and Simon pushed Manderley down on the ground. He followed suit.

“We need to follow them,” Manderley whispered furiously. The sound of a carriage whip could be heard and then the thunder of horses’ hooves.

“With what?” Simon asked.

Just then there was the thud of feet behind them, and Simon rolled over, ready to defend himself. Hastings crouched at their feet, looking battered, his hat gone and his jacket torn. Thom wasn’t far behind, grinning like a fool, though he didn’t look like he’d climbed into the boxing ring with an alley cat.

“Run,” Hastings said. “The whole house is coming after us. A house of she devils.” He slapped Simon’s boot and then took off, jumping agilely over the fence. Simon heard the sound of women yelling and footsteps pounding. He rolled to his feet and gave Manderley a hand, yanking him up.

“Run,” he said, and they did just that, Thom close behind them.