LATYMER
9:27 p.m.
Somerton House, 35 Charles Street
London, England
“Press your back against the building, Giles, and stay out of sight.”
Once his son complied, William Townsend—Lord Latymer—tightened his grip on the knife he held and peered around the corner of the building. The front of the large Mayfair town house came into view. Deep shadows surrounded Somerton House, transforming its redbrick facade into every shade of gray.
But Latymer didn’t need daylight to scent out a spy—each had their own special aroma. His years of overseeing the Alien Office, a little-known division of the Foreign Office, had given him the necessary tools to smell the Nexus agent long before he spotted him.
Near Lord Somerton’s town house, soft lamplight fell upon a young, blond-haired man slumped against a tree. Everything about him—frayed breeches, overlarge coat, and askew hat—foretold of desperate times, of countless defeats, of lost dreams.
Everything except his eyes. His eyes searched, scanned, and assessed the area with a keenness that belied his low circumstances. Although Latymer couldn’t be certain from this distance, he guessed the spy served the Nexus, a secret service division of the Alien Office. Doubtless he had been sent to watch over Somerton, the powerful under-superintendent of the Alien Office. Somerton. Latymer’s former friend and colleague.
Even with the recent attempts on Somerton’s life, Latymer was somewhat shocked to find an agent guarding the spymaster. His old friend knew a hundred different ways to kill a person and would chafe at the idea of using Nexus resources for his own benefit.
Perhaps the Ashcroft woman and her little girl had something to do with Somerton’s change of heart. Somerton would not normally bother with such protective measures for himself, but for the woman he loved…
But what the spy was doing and whom he worked for mattered little. Both the French and British authorities wanted Latymer dead. He had failed each government in very different ways, and now they sought retribution. His sins would not go unpunished.
Eyeing the spy, he scraped the pad of his thumb over his knife, testing its sharpness. Not perfect, but it would do. The wonderful thing about human flesh was its pliability. Even the dullest steel could cut deep enough into a man’s throat to reach the killing artery, though it wouldn’t be swift or painless.
He glanced down and took in his nine-year-old son’s wary stance and the restless shift of his big green eyes. Lydia’s eyes. So much about Giles reminded Latymer of the boy’s mother—his shy smile, his mahogany-tinted hair, his intelligence. Latymer’s jaw clenched against the pain wrought by the reminders of his lover’s beautiful image. If only he’d found Giles earlier, he could have saved Lydia from a French assassin’s blade, and the three of them would have been well on their way to a new future by now.
But he hadn’t, and now the strength of two nations bore down on him.
Bending his knees, Latymer slid down the rough stone wall until he was at eye level with Giles. His son clutched a cup and ball to his chest—a toy he’d refused to leave behind at Abbingale when Latymer had rescued him from the hellish boys’ home not but an hour ago. The subtle signs of his son’s distress caused his heart to constrict to the point of pain. He shoved emotion aside. He had to focus. He had to keep Giles safe and ignore all else.
Latymer lowered his voice. “This is Charles Street. A few houses from where we’re standing is a four-story redbrick home with a white door and the number thirty-five. Now repeat.” From the moment Giles could speak in complete sentences, Latymer had played the “repeat” game with his son. Knowing the dangers of life in London, Latymer wanted to ensure his son was always keenly aware of his surroundings. Better to prepare than not. Now he was glad the game was proving its worth.
Shivering
9:27 p.m.
Somerton House, 35 Charles Street
London, England
“Press your back against the building, Giles, and stay out of sight.”
Once his son complied, William Townsend—Lord Latymer—tightened his grip on the knife he held and peered around the corner of the building. The front of the large Mayfair town house came into view. Deep shadows surrounded Somerton House, transforming its redbrick facade into every shade of gray.
But Latymer didn’t need daylight to scent out a spy—each had their own special aroma. His years of overseeing the Alien Office, a little-known division of the Foreign Office, had given him the necessary tools to smell the Nexus agent long before he spotted him.
Near Lord Somerton’s town house, soft lamplight fell upon a young, blond-haired man slumped against a tree. Everything about him—frayed breeches, overlarge coat, and askew hat—foretold of desperate times, of countless defeats, of lost dreams.
Everything except his eyes. His eyes searched, scanned, and assessed the area with a keenness that belied his low circumstances. Although Latymer couldn’t be certain from this distance, he guessed the spy served the Nexus, a secret service division of the Alien Office. Doubtless he had been sent to watch over Somerton, the powerful under-superintendent of the Alien Office. Somerton. Latymer’s former friend and colleague.
Even with the recent attempts on Somerton’s life, Latymer was somewhat shocked to find an agent guarding the spymaster. His old friend knew a hundred different ways to kill a person and would chafe at the idea of using Nexus resources for his own benefit.
Perhaps the Ashcroft woman and her little girl had something to do with Somerton’s change of heart. Somerton would not normally bother with such protective measures for himself, but for the woman he loved…
But what the spy was doing and whom he worked for mattered little. Both the French and British authorities wanted Latymer dead. He had failed each government in very different ways, and now they sought retribution. His sins would not go unpunished.
Eyeing the spy, he scraped the pad of his thumb over his knife, testing its sharpness. Not perfect, but it would do. The wonderful thing about human flesh was its pliability. Even the dullest steel could cut deep enough into a man’s throat to reach the killing artery, though it wouldn’t be swift or painless.
He glanced down and took in his nine-year-old son’s wary stance and the restless shift of his big green eyes. Lydia’s eyes. So much about Giles reminded Latymer of the boy’s mother—his shy smile, his mahogany-tinted hair, his intelligence. Latymer’s jaw clenched against the pain wrought by the reminders of his lover’s beautiful image. If only he’d found Giles earlier, he could have saved Lydia from a French assassin’s blade, and the three of them would have been well on their way to a new future by now.
But he hadn’t, and now the strength of two nations bore down on him.
Bending his knees, Latymer slid down the rough stone wall until he was at eye level with Giles. His son clutched a cup and ball to his chest—a toy he’d refused to leave behind at Abbingale when Latymer had rescued him from the hellish boys’ home not but an hour ago. The subtle signs of his son’s distress caused his heart to constrict to the point of pain. He shoved emotion aside. He had to focus. He had to keep Giles safe and ignore all else.
Latymer lowered his voice. “This is Charles Street. A few houses from where we’re standing is a four-story redbrick home with a white door and the number thirty-five. Now repeat.” From the moment Giles could speak in complete sentences, Latymer had played the “repeat” game with his son. Knowing the dangers of life in London, Latymer wanted to ensure his son was always keenly aware of his surroundings. Better to prepare than not. Now he was glad the game was proving its worth.
Shivering
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