Page 51 of A Dangerous Lord (Regency Spies & Secrets 3)

Rising, Jane remained silent, unsure of what to say. Which was unusual, since she used her sharp tongue quite frequently.

Oliver watched her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. “Emmeline trusts me,” he revealed. “Why won’t you, Jane?”

“I suppose you have never given me a reason to trust you.”

“That is most unfortunate,” he replied, the hurt evident in his voice. “You used to take me at my word.”

“That was long ago.”

“Too long ago, if you ask me.” He turned to leave but stopped. “Stay away from my friends. They will never be good enough for you.”

“Thank you for that, Oliver.”

“Will you at least promise me that you won’t follow me through the rookeries again?” he asked with a pointed look.

“I promise.”

He gave her a weak smile. “Thank you.”

“You will find that I can be reasonable when the situation warrants it,” she said, returning his smile.

Oliver walked over to the door and opened it. “If you will excuse me, I wish to spend some time with my wife before I go out this evening.” He departed without another word.

Jane truly did not know what to think about her brother. The way he spoke, with such conviction, she wondered if she was wrong for thinking poorly of him. But how could that be? He was the one who was gone for days on end, not her.

But the doubt began to creep in. Perhaps she should stop being so cynical of her brother and accept him for who he truly was, knowing he made Emmeline very happy.

Corbyn walked downthe street as he racked his brain. Who could possibly be behind these murders? They couldn’t have been more different. One was chaotic and the other pristine. If he didn’t know better, he would assume they were looking for two murderers.

Up ahead, he saw Baldwin’s emblazoned coach moving at a sedate pace along the street due to the traffic. He hurried over to the coach and caught the driver’s attention. The driver pulled back on the reins as Corbyn opened the door and ducked inside the coach.

As he sat across from Baldwin, his friend commented, “You look awful.”

“I feel awful,” he admitted as he felt the coach jerk forward.

“What’s wrong?”

Corbyn tugged at his cravat until it loosened around his neck. “Someone killed one of my informants.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“I believe it is the same person who killed Hannity, but I have some reservations.”

Baldwin grew alert. “Why do you say that?”

“Hannity’s room was in shambles, but Miss Polly’s room hadn’t been touched. The only sign of the perpetrator was the blood that he left when he exited through the window.”

“Perhaps it has something to do with Hannity not accepting his fate quietly,” Baldwin suggested.

“You make a valid point.” Corbyn grew solemn, then admitted, “We had to enact the Greenwich Protocol.”

Baldwin’s brow shot up. “The building has been compromised?”

“It has,” he replied. “A note was delivered to me there informing me of Miss Polly’s death.”

“Who delivered the note?”

“A street urchin.”

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