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

Corbyn arrived at Hannity’s room and saw the door was slightly ajar. He removed his pistol and pushed the door open with his shoulder. Stepping inside, he saw that it was in complete and utter shambles. The chair and bedframe were overturned, the mattress had been sliced open, and feathers covered the cluttered floor. A bloody handprint marred the worn blue-papered walls near the window.

It was evident that a struggle had occurred, resulting in Hannity being killed. As his eyes scanned the room, they landed on a note resting on the window frame with Corbyn’s name scribbled on the front. It was completely out of place in the chaos of the room. He stepped forward and unfolded the piece of paper.

He deserved to die, just as you do.

Corbyn calmly turned the paper over, but there was no indication as to who it was from.

He tucked the note into the pocket of his waistcoat and stepped closer to the open window. He glanced down at the growing crowd around Hannity’s body, wondering who had killed one of his top agents. That was no small feat. Hannity was brawny, and he would have fought until his last breath. He was sure of that.

He surveyed the room again, looking for any clues that would aid in the investigation. He walked over to the desk and saw an unfinished letter that was addressed to him. The inkpot had turned on its side and the contents had spilled over the bottom half of the paper. His eyes quickly scanned the letter, hoping it revealed something of importance, but it was just an update on his assignment.

Hannity had joined a radical group but had surmised that they posed no real threat to the Crown. At least, that is what the top half of the letter stated.

Corbyn wondered if one of the people from the radical group found out that he was a spy and silenced him because of it. But hadn’t Hannity said they posed no threat? So why would anyone seek revenge? And that still didn’t explain why someone would write Corbyn a threatening note. There were too many questions at this point, and he didn’t have the luxury of time to sort them out.

He ripped off the top portion of the letter and left the ink-soaked bottom half behind. He tucked it into his jacket and pulled out a desk drawer, revealing a small handful of crumpled up two-pound notes. Why did Hannity have his money out in the open for someone to steal? That didn’t sound at all like him.

Hearing a commotion outside, he glanced out the window. A dark-haired man was kneeling next to the body and shouting orders. It appeared that the constable had arrived, and Corbyn knew his time was up. He exited the room, leaving the door ajar.

He hurried down the steps and slipped out a back door into the alleyway. He saw a weathered man sitting on the ground, resting his back against the wall with a threadbare blanket hung over his thin shoulders.

Corbyn came to a stop next to him and waited for the man to look up at him. “Did you see someone leaving the building a short time ago?”

“Aye,” the man replied.

“Can you tell me anything about him?”

The man held his hand out. “Information don’t come cheap, Mister,” he replied in a thin, raspy voice.

Corbyn reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. He dropped them into the man’s waiting hand. “Now will you tell me what you saw?”

Clutching the coins, the man replied, “He smelled real good.”

“He smelled good?” Corbyn repeated back in surprise.

“Like oranges.”

“Can you tell me anything else about him?”

The man gave him an apologetic look as he tugged on the sides of his blanket. “I was asleep when he ran into the alley. I woke up to the noise of the door slamming against the wall. I’m afraid I only got a passing look at him.”

“Did you at least notice what color his hair was?” Corbyn asked hopefully.

“It was dark.” He paused. “Yes, I am pretty sure it was dark.”

Corbyn took a step back as he attempted to hide his disappointment. He had learned over the years that most people were oblivious to their surroundings unless it directly pertained to them. It baffled him how few people had a keen sense of observation.

He exited the slime-coated alley, keeping his head low, and passed by the crowd that still surrounded Hannity’s body. Young children had joined their parents and were staring at the corpse as if it were something to entertain them. The morbid curiosity of some people always surprised him, although it shouldn’t after so many years of observing them.

As he headed down the street towards his office, Corbyn knew it was going to be a long night. There were too many questions that needed to be answered before he could retire for the evening.

Lady Jane Radcliffducked as her sister-in-law, Lady Hawthorne, swung her gloved hand at her, barely missing her head by a few inches.

“Very good,” Lady Hawthorne praised as she stepped back. “You are progressing nicely.”

Jane rose and kept her own hands, also encased in mufflers, in front of her in preparation for another well-timed blow. “Why wouldn’t I?” she questioned, her breathing labored. “After all, I have the best teacher.”

“Flattery?” her sister-in-law joked.

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