Page 2 of A Dangerous Lord (Regency Spies & Secrets 3)

A pained look crossed the woman’s face. “We already ate today.”

“But I didn’t get enough.”

“You shall have to wait until tomorrow.”

The girl lowered her head dejectedly in response.

Feeling compassion swell in his heart for their situation, Corbyn reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out two coins.

“Excuse me,” he said as he turned on his heel.

The woman stopped and cautiously turned to face him.

Corbyn stepped closer to her and extended the coins. “I couldn’t help but overhear your plight, and I would like to help.”

“We don’t take charity, Mister,” the woman said with a frown on her lips.

“Your daughter is hungry, and this money will go a long way to fill your bellies.”

The woman glanced down at her daughter with uncertainty. “May I ask what you want in return?” she asked hesitantly.

“Nothing,” he replied.

The woman’s eyes widened. “Truly?”

The young girl looked up at her mother with a hopeful expression. “Does this mean we can get bread?”

Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes as she reached her hand out to accept his generosity. “It does, Sally.”

Corbyn dropped the coins into her hand and tipped his hat at the woman. “I wish you luck, Ma’am.”

The woman clutched the money in her hand as she murmured, “Bless you, Mister.”

With a parting glance at the girl, Corbyn turned around and continued walking down the street. He was pleased his simple contribution would help the woman and her child, but he knew it would never atone for the sins he had committed in the past. He had done some terrible things in the name of the Crown. However, he knew that he would do them again, without the slightest hesitation, if it meant keeping England safe. He would always be first, and foremost, an agent.

As he turned the corner, he saw a crowd forming in front of a three-level brick building. He approached the group and was shocked to see a familiar man sprawled out in the center of the crowd.

Hannity.

Corbyn pushed his way through the people and saw a pool of blood under Hannity’s head. He crouched down next to Hannity to look for any signs of life, but he saw none. Hannity was dead, his ivory waistcoat saturated with blood, a hole in it where a bullet had entered.

“What happened?” Corbyn asked, turning his attention towards the crowd.

The men and women stared back at him with blank expressions.

“Someone must have seen something!” he exclaimed.

A man stepped forward and pointed towards a window on the third level of the building. “He jumped out of the window.”

“I think not,” Corbyn declared with a shake of his head. “This man did not jump to his death.”

“Perhaps he fell?” the man suggested, shrugging.

“This man has been shot,” Corbyn revealed as he stood up.

The men and women all turned towards each other with shocked looks on their faces, but no one came forward with additional information. It became clear that no one saw anything relevant, and they were just there to gawk at the dead body.

With quick steps, Corbyn hurried into the building and raced up the stairs to the third level. He knew it was only a matter of time before a constable arrived to investigate the death, and he didn’t want to be here when that happened. Frankly, he didn’t have the time or energy to answer questions from a lowly constable.

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