Page 1 of A Dangerous Lord (Regency Spies & Secrets 3)

Chapter One

England, 1814

Lord Evan Corbynhad a dangerous job; one that meant life or death, and not just for himself. He was responsible for all the agents of the Crown. It was a position that he took very seriously, and it consumed nearly every moment of his waking hours. To him, nothing else mattered but ensuring England remained safe from domestic and foreign threats.

The sun had set hours before, but he was still sitting in his small, poorly decorated office, reading through all his correspondence. It was no small feat. All the agents were required to provide an update on their assignments every few days. Some would appear in person, while others who wished to remain undercover would drop off missives at their convenience. Most of the correspondence required no action on his part, but he was always prepared to offer his assistance, if the situation warranted it.

Corbyn dropped the paper in his hand and started rifling through the remaining missives. He had yet to see an update from Hannity, and he was starting to worry. It wasn’t like Hannity to miss a deadline.

“Sanders!” Corbyn shouted.

The door promptly opened, and a tall man with a broad, crooked nose stepped into the room. “Yes, Corbyn.”

“Have you seen or heard from Hannity lately?”

Sanders shook his head. “No, sir.”

Corbyn frowned. “That is concerning. It has been nearly five days since I have last heard from him.”

“He is undercover,” Sanders attempted. “Perhaps he couldn’t get away.”

“That shouldn’t matter,” Corbyn replied. “Last time, he had a street urchin deliver the note, and he is usually prompt with his missives.”

“Would you care for me to investigate?”

Corbyn shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I shall go myself.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“His rented room isn’t far from here, and I can be back within the hour.” Corbyn rose, then waved his hand over his desk. “I still have hours of reading before I am finished with all these missives.”

“I would be happy to accompany you.”

Corbyn came around his desk. “I appreciate your concern, but I am well acquainted with the rookeries.”

Sanders tipped his head. “I shall wait for your return, then.”

“Will you inform Hobbs and Bond that I will be returning?” he asked. “I refuse to make a ridiculous bird call to alert them of my presence.”

Sanders chuckled. “That was put into place by your predecessor.”

“He was an idiot.”

“You could always change it, sir.”

“I could, but I must admit that it is rather effective,” Corbyn remarked as he plucked his top hat off a hook on the wall. “You don’t hear too many bird calls in this part of Town.”

Sanders backed out of the office. “That’s true.”

Corbyn stepped into the long, dark passageway and headed towards the main door. He exited the dilapidated brick building and started down the narrow streets. He was acutely aware of the men loitering in the alleyways as they tracked his every movement. He was not foolish enough to dismiss them altogether, despite having multiple weapons on his person. He had two overcoat pistols tucked into the waistband of his trousers, a muff pistol in his right boot, and a dagger in his left boot.

He was accustomed to fighting, but that didn’t mean he ever sought it out. No. He preferred to keep the peace, if at all possible. It hadn’t always been that way, but he had grown since he became the leader of the agency. An agency that didn’t technically exist. It was under the Alien Office, but it was rarely spoken of. They were given ample freedom to ensure their assignments were completed skillfully and tactfully.

The streets narrowed and the buildings grew darker as he headed deeper into the rookeries. There were no gas lights in this section of Town, making it appear even more destitute in the evening. Even the air felt heavier, sticking to the back of his throat.

He passed by a woman with a dirty face and sunken cheeks, holding hands with a young girl who was dressed in a shapeless frock.

“I’m hungry, Mother,” the girl complained softly.

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