“Isn’t this rather beneath you?” the shadow murmured drolly, its voice as silken and deadly low as if Satan, himself, had deigned to walk amongst the mortals.
“I count locking up a rapist and abuser in Newgate a worthy cause beneath no one,” Sterling replied without turning his head. “Though London would likely have been better served if he’d been killed.”
“You know what I mean.” Sterling only grunted in response to that. “Imagine my surprise when I was informed you’d stopped by the offices requesting an assignment—any assignment as long as it was quick. The last time we spoke, you informed me in no uncertain terms that you were finally returning to your wife and that I should put my head in a rather creative place.”
Sterling’s fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles blanched. He didn’t need a reminder of how hopeful, how pathetically optimistic he’d been when his years-long assignment had been completed. He’d naively believed there had been something to come home to.
But he saw now that the tabloids and the persona he’d been forced to adopt had deprived him of any chance at genuine reconciliation with Alaina. He’d spent years as an agent infiltrating foreign circles, and he’d put his life on the line for king and country for nearly a decade, but he understood now that none of it meant a damn if he couldn’t have the one thing—the one woman—he desired above all else.
Especially not if she hated him because of it.
He learned too late that all the achievements and accolades meant nothing if she was not there to share his peace.
“Someone else could have handled it, you know,” added Adrian Ramsay, Sterling’s one-time boss, and leader of the secret spy society to which he’d once dedicated his life. The man was terrifying in every sense of the word. Bred and born to the underworld, he’d clawed his way out through sheer cunning and a penchant for violence to be drafted by an intelligence agency so secretive that it acted as its own entity and operated without any oversight outside of its self-contained hierarchy.
“They were dragging their feet,” Sterling growled. “You shouldn’t have left unseasoned agents to track down a man like this. He continued to hurt women while they spun in circles.” Potential recruits to the society were often given lesser assignments to hone their skills; these tasks were ones Scotland Yard and the local police force were unable to resolve on their own for one reason or another. The file Sterling had procured focused on a slew of violent attacks on prostitutes. Those survivors who weren’t downright hostile to police involvement described their attacker as rough, brown-haired, somewhat heavy-set with beady black eyes, and a reddish pear-shaped birthmark running from his left ear to curve under his non-existent jawline. The offender paid the women upfront for their services but quickly became enraged when all their…professional efforts produced no results from his limp and ineffectual body. He’d beaten them to within an inch of their life, done unspeakable things to their bodies, and then left them for dead after retrieving his money from their pockets.
The attacks had taken place over the past five weeks, but it had taken Sterling no more than an hour to map and triangulate the attacks, uncover a pattern, and narrow his options down to three public rooms where he believed he’d be most likely to find the villain. Sure enough, at the second, he’d spotted a hulking man bending an elbow at the far end of a poorly lit bar. Sterling supposed the atmosphere was for the best because he’d rather not have seen what caused the soles of his boots to stick to the floor.
Claiming a seat in the opposite corner, Sterling smoothly assumed a rough accent, ordered ale he had no intention of drinking, and ingratiated himself with a boisterous group of drunken men…one of whom he’d seen speaking with the suspect when he’d walked in.
Some time into a game of cards, Sterling had tipped his chin toward the man at the bar, feigning inebriation with a slight slur to his speech. “That man’s name John?”Always use a common name; it would either be correct or it would not draw attention to the inquiry.
The grizzled, gray-haired man beside Sterling looked where he was gesturing and shook his head. “Nay,” he hiccupped. “That be Angus Smith. Why? Ye lookin’ fer a John?”
“Aye. A John that owes me coin for a job. Same build as that’un.”
“Well I pity John,” the man had chuckled drunkenly and clapped Sterling on the shoulder. “Ye got the Devil in yer eye.”
That he did.
Shortly thereafter, Sterling watched from the corner of his eye as the man he now knew as Angus Smith snatched one of the milling doxies and hauled her into his lap. This particular establishment allowed prostitutes to procure business within its walls for a fee.
Sterling’s keen eyes were just able to make out a port wine birthmark beneath the shadows of the man’s patchy beard…and Sterling knew Angus was his man. He held himself still as Angus settled his tab and all but dragged the girl toward the exit.
Sterling counted to five before tossing a few coins on the table and excusing himself for a piss. Once outside, he doubled back to head Angus and the doxy off before they could reach the closest alleyway first, and…it did not end well for Mr. Smith.
“That is regrettable.” Ramsay’s voice was flat regarding his failed trainees. “And they’ll be handled appropriately.”
Sterling nodded. Not every man had the skills or training to become a member of Ramsay’s spy society. It took considerable abilities to be considered, and even those select few would fail further testing. Whoever had been assigned to this case would be dropped from Ramsay’s list of potentials, but they’d likely continue on with their lives and careers none the wiser that they’d once been in the running to be a part of the most exclusive, highly trained secret society beneath the Crown.
When he was younger, Sterling had liked to think he’d been selected because of his wit, knack for languages, and uncanny physical stamina. In truth, his title and innate charm had been the biggest draw. Few members of the spy society were peers, and none so high-ranked as he. A duke with blood as blue as Sterling’s could enter even the most impenetrable social circles without suspicion.
“Am I to take tonight’s adventure as a sign that you are ready to return to the fold? Is domestic life not suiting your tastes? Too tame?”
“No,” snapped Sterling, finality deadening the single harsh word.
Ramsay’s shrug was nonchalant.
“I will watch for any interesting developments I believe might suit you and keep you apprised.”
“Don’t bother. I’m finished with that.”
“Ah, but we are not necessarily finished with a man of your talents. And tonight’s performance indicates you may not be done either.”
Sterling’s jaw clenched; his fists itched to deal more blows. Ramsay was a master manipulator and the best interrogator the society had ever seen. He’d also been watching Sterling for more than a decade at that point; he was keenly familiar with Sterling’s ingrained sense of duty to one’s country. This was precisely how Sterling had become wrapped up in the society in the first place, and Ramsay knew tugging at that string would give him pause. What Ramsay didn’t count on was the intensity of Sterling’s desire to begin a life with Alaina—most likely because Ramsay did not possess a heart of his own. That argument had kept Sterling in the society far, far longer than his initial agreement had stipulated, but no more.
Hadn’t he given enough of himself already? Hadn’t he sacrificed enough?
