He trailed the group, exiting a moment after them. From now on, he'd protect Lady Charlotte. Whether she accepted it or not. Her knowledge was too valuable to be left vulnerable.
Ever ready, George, his driver, perched atop the carriage.
"Follow that coach. Not close enough they'll notice, but enough so we can get to them if anything happens," Derek ordered before vaulting into the chaise.
The carriage jerked forward as the horses maneuvered around parked vehicles. Derek didn't watch her conveyance through his window. He couldn't risk exposing himself. His driver was well trained and knew what the stakes were if he failed to follow them. They all did.
Turning down a side street, George slowed the horses, allowing Derek to jump out. The shadows hid him as he turned the corner, blending with the building. Skulking down the sidewalk, he leaned into an alcove deep in the darkness and watched Lady Charlotte and her family descend the coach and make their way into the brightly lit house in Mayfair.
It was quiet this time of night. Rain had watered the streets recently, and the fresh scent lingered. The streets glistened from lights reflecting from the row of townhomes before him. Every window blazed, warding away the dark. Or more aptly, the miscreants who roamed the night.
He wasn't a vagrant, but neither was he only a peer of the realm. He had seen too much, done too much, to ever go back. His callused knuckles attested to the backstreet brawls he engaged in. Scars marred his body-a testament to failed attempts on his life. A bullet had grazed his shoulder, but the knife to his abdomen had almost killed him during his first year with the War Office. He'd made the mistake of trusting the wrong person only once. Trust was now a liability.
Life filled Charlotte's house, but it resembled other homes in this part of town. Clean, expensive, classy.
Movement in one of the second-floor windows drew his eye. He couldn't make out who it was, but he didn't need to see them to know. He felt her.
Her body stilled as she gazed out into the night. For a second, he thought she must have seen him, but she didn't call for help. Surely if she saw a stranger staring at her through the window, she would alert someone.
Her body leaned closer to the glass. Yearning.
He relaxed against the stone, unable to look away. What did she yearn for?
In the eyes of society, she was perfect. Perfect manners, perfect physique, perfect station, wealth, temperament. She held the ton in her palm. His eyes traveled over her silhouette as pleasant warmth settled in his gut.
Intriguing.
Why was she unmarried?
He had seen Lady Charlotte more times than he could count over the years, but he'd never had such a reaction to her.
He frowned. He'd never had that reaction to anyone in society, now that he thought about it. Bollocks. Of course I have. But as he tried to recall someone, anyone he'd desired, he came up empty.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Not that he'd been a monk, but the women he'd been with were in the lower class. Just a moment of mutual pleasure where both walked away satisfied. That's how he'd always managed his affairs.
Affairs. That's all his life had been up until this point. That's all he'd ever been able to manage with his responsibilities to queen and country. A string of useless affairs.
But now life evolved. He could change. His future held endless possibilities. Those possibilities included attachments to women in his own class.
Familiar footsteps echoed toward him and he shut his thoughts of Charlotte and the future away. "Was the note delivered?"
Henry stepped beside him. "Yes. I placed it in the War Secretary's hand myself."
"Good."
The wiry man beside him waited, his limbs loose, relaxed, but Derek knew what lurked beneath the calm. The man could kill with an arc of a blade.
"I want you to watch the woman in that house," Derek said. "Do not lose her. Blond, petite, early twenties. I'll send someone to relieve you in the morning."
He didn't wait for Henry's confirmation before leaving. Almost out of view, he turned for a last look, wondering if she remained in the window.
She was gone.
But even with her absence, she remained in his mind.
Chapter 5
Rats scurried by Derek's boot, rustling into the trash pile next to him. His gaze never strayed to the rodents. He hadn't seen Charlotte in twenty hours, and he'd only wait for his informant ten more minutes before leaving.
He peered down the dim alleyway he occupied. If not for the perpetually wet cobblestones, the lights from the main road wouldn't have a chance to reflect down this hellhole. But with moisture came mildew and all its corresponding odors.
Derek finally heard what he'd been waiting for. "You're late," Derek said in the still night.
"Oy. Now. You couldn't 'ave 'eard me," the man said, his cockney accent as thick as his stench.
Benny Lark was a thief and a snitch, and while he was relatively good at his profession, he wasn't a match for Derek. "Of course. Now, what's happening tonight? Which items have the biggest tags?"
"Oh. This an' that." He coughed weakly. "But I'm so thirsty. Might be easier to speak if I 'ad a bit o' drink in me."
It was always the same, this song and dance they played. Derek dealt with it because it was expected, but tonight, he didn't have the patience for it. The Morrisons' ball had started ten minutes ago, and he needed all the time he could get to corner Lady Charlotte and convince her to trust him. He had every confidence that once she was comfortable with him, she'd divulge details of the Black Dahlia. She couldn't do that if he was stuck in a decaying alley with his informant. "You'll get your due as soon as you tell me what I want to know."
Benny licked his split, dirty lips and grinned. "Word is the Black Dahlia is looking for something special this time."
Derek's ears perked, but he forced his voice to stay uninterested. "How so?"
Benny leaned forward, glancing over his shoulder. "She's lookin' for a woman."
A ball of lead hardened in Derek's stomach as he thought of golden tresses. "What woman?"
Benny spit in the gutter. "A fine lady. Young. Apparently she over'eard something they didn't want her to 'ear. Left her glove. Poor chit. I can only imagine what they'll do to-"
Derek slammed his informant against the wall. Fetid air wheezed from Benny's lungs as he kicked against the wall for a hold. "Who told you this?" Derek jolted him again when he didn't immediately answer. "Who?"
"Everyone," Benny gasped. "Everyone." He clawed at Derek's arms. "There's a price so big for information leading to 'er that she is the catch. The only catch."
Blood drained from Derek's face. "What do they know? Her name?"
"No."
Derek glared.
"No! I swear. Only where she was and that she lost a glove. That's all anyone knows. The call went out two 'ours ago."
Damn. Derek pushed the man away.
Two hours. Someone could have found her by now.
But how the hell had they known about her missing glove? If they'd seen it, they wouldn't have left it behind the couch. They would have taken it with them. Only a handful of people knew about the glove. He hadn't mishandled the information. His lips thinned.
The War Office must have a leak. A traitor explained it all, and it wasn't the first time. Greed was a powerful motivator.
Someone on the inside spied for the Black Dahlia.
Benny jerked his coat down. "Now see 'ere! You can't push me around this way."
Derek dropped a hefty bag of coins into the man's hands.
Benny's grin returned at the heavy clunk of metal. "It's been a pleasure, m'lord."
"Inform me immediately when something is uncovered."
Benny tossed the bag in the air, catching it in a grimy fist. "You're the boss."
Derek didn't respond. He didn't say a word to his driver on the way to the Morrisons' ball, the footman who opened the carriage door, or the guests who waited in line to greet the host and hostess.
Lady Morrison was the third wife of the Earl of Clarence, and by the looks of her low décolletage, she hunted for a lover.
"Viscount Lawrence, what a pleasure to see you this evening," she purred.
He bowed over her hand politely. "The pleasure is all mine. Thank you for inviting me."
She flirted with him through her lashes, and Derek barely held back his temper when she brushed her bosom against him. He was sick of the games, sick of the deceit.
Lord, if society knew how he truly felt, about his faintly veiled boredom, his masked repugnance for indulgent rakes who wasted both fortunes and time, and his loathing for those of his own station who used their position to crush others for their own gain, he wouldn't be received anywhere.