CHAPTER 1
East End, London
February 1815
A sudden, cruel death was inevitable in this business.
Michael stepped out of the Black Cat Tavern and into the dark labyrinth alley, the smell of sewage bombarding him. The chilly breeze felt rather good on his face. When the tavern door jerked open behind him, Geoffrey Kenton, his friend since Eton, stepped out and the scent of boiled cabbage, mutton, and cut-rate gin spilled out into the alley.
Geoffrey frowned. “I still can’t get used to that monstrous beard.”
Glancing at the perimeter, Michael rubbed his itchy beard. “Anonymity, my friend. I can’t afford to be recognized,” Michael said. “Where’s the man you are to meet?” He slid his arms through the sleeves of his greatcoat.
Geoffrey frowned, looking deep into the alley for several seconds. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps he’s delayed?” Michael said. Geoffrey never mentioned who this man was, or the nature of their dealing. It’d been long since they’d both accepted the fact that certain aspects of their lives were to remain discreet in their respective occupation as spies.
“Perhaps….” Looking around the outer limits, he frowned. “Let’s change the subject, shall we? I have good news.”
“Oh?” Michael said.
“Emma and I have agreed on a date for our wedding.”
Michael tensed—damn her. There were three incidences he’d like to strip from his mind with regard to Emma Willoughby. The first time he laid his eyes on her in a shop at Bond Street a year ago. The second time when the viper failed to show the night he’d planned to propose to her (a mistake he intended to never repeat) and third when she resurfaced nearly a year later from bloody nowhere as Geoffrey’s betrothed. She had regarded him with such cool indifference and he’d thought for a second he’d mistaken Emma for someone else. With the sobering slap to his face, he vowed he’d never let that deceitful bitch vex him again.
Not that it mattered now.
His friend had been so damned happy to introduce Emma to him when he returned from Spain that he didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth about what had transpired between them. She was like a spiky thorn on a beautiful rose pricking him deep with her beguiling presence in his life. He’d be smart to stay away from them for a while now that it seemed the wedding was inevitable.
“In a fortnight, my friend,” Geoffrey said with a wide grin. “She’ll be my wife.”
“That soon, huh?” Frankly, he didn’t want to talk about the wedding but what kind of a friend would he be if he wasn’t happy for Geoffrey? By God, the woman whose lips he’d tasted would soon be his friend’s wife. A sense of twisted guilt pumped through him. He felt Geoffrey watching him so he forced a grin.
“If I didn’t know you any better, I’d be quite offended by your tone.”
The alley opened to a street and they walked toward the carriage. The street lit up from the dim lights that spilled out from the second-floor windows above the shops. “You’ve wanted a wife since you were yea high.” Michael gestured to the height that reached his waist. “Are you certain she is the one?”
Geoffrey chuckled. “Just you wait. One of these days she’ll come along and wipe that look of indifference off your face, my friend.” His smile grew wide. “I fear I will wake one morning and find all this a dream.”
Still, didn’t he owe it to tell him the truth about her? Leave it be.
“She makes me very happy, Michael.”
“You really do love her, don’t you?”
His friend nodded. “I do.”
Despite his feelings about her, his friend was in love and who was he to stop them? In truth, Geoffrey’s happiness was all that really mattered in the end. “So you’ve said on multiple occasions. I wish you—”
A sudden whistle alerted them. Both men looked on and saw the lanky man standing several yards away at the end of the tavern building.
“Is he the one?” Michael questioned. He was wearing a large brim hat, so it was difficult to make out his face.
“Yes. Give me a moment.” Geoffrey gaped at the lanky cull before he walked over to join him in the alley about ten yards away.
Michael moved to get a little closer, but kept his distance. Leaning against the cold brick wall, he kept his eyes on them for a bit. They were conversing now. He looked on for several more seconds. A sudden shout punctuated the air and no sooner an argument commenced.
“This was not part of the agreement,” Geoffrey said.
“It is now,” the stranger said.
Michael felt uneasy so he slowly inched closer. When the cull saw him approach, he took no time and took off in the opposite direction where the alley ran deep and dangerous. Geoffrey sprinted after him and Michael quickly followed.
Damn they were fast.
Michael turned the corner and leapt over a fallen barrel. With a sharp, quick breath he sucked in a lungful of putrid air and sprinted faster through the dark passage. His shoulder grazed the weathered brick wall with another quick turn. The recent rain layered the cobble like ice, but he didn’t slow down.
Where the hell are you, Geoffrey?
The narrow passage opened to an empty street. Michael came to a dead stop when he spied the lanky cull standing in front of Geoffrey with a flintlock pointed at his friend. He heard the drop of a hammer, then the acrid smell of gun powder. A cloud of smoke thickened around them and he saw his friend topple to his side. Quick footsteps faded in the distance as the shadowy figure ran off and disappeared into the desolate alley. Michael made to run after the killer, but halted when Geoffrey called out to him. Michael dropped on his knees beside his wounded friend.
“Curse it, Geoffrey. Who the devil was that?” Michael questioned. His friend’s arms were spread out, blood soaking through his white shirt. Eyes wide open, his friend struggled to speak but nothing came out except the hissing of his ragged breath.
Michael’s gut turned to lead. He recognized that sound. Damn it. No. “Never mind. Don’t talk,” Michael said. He had to get help. Looking around, he spotted a prostitute across the street nearby. “I’ll pay you a quid if you can fetch a doctor within five minutes.”
She nodded and scrambled away.
Geoffrey clung to Michael’s hand. “Didn’t mean…for this.” He paused for a shallow breath, “Meadow…tree—”
A meadow? “Don’t worry about that now,” Michael said, puzzled at Geoffrey’s nonsense. “Hang on. A doctor will be here soon.”
The long forgotten images of their youth flooded Michael. Confound it. They hadn’t survived Eton and the bloody battles to have it end like this. Years ago, his friend had nearly taken a bullet for him at Vimeiro. Michael would have died if Geoffrey hadn’t pushed him aside. Now he was bleeding to death because of some worthless vermin.
“Find Hanss…,” he said, struggling to speak.
Michael nodded, impending fate immobilizing him. Another slow, tattered breath escaped and then it ceased.
Dead.
Michael slumped and his world stilled around him.
He fisted his hands; rage and uncertainty throbbed in his veins. He looked at the lifeless body again, the rain pelting down on him. Then he recalled the words: Didn’t mean for this….
“What the bloody hell have you done?”