*
From a doorwayacross the road from Silver and Grey’s discreet office, Carl Darrow saw the couple emerge, looking smug and content. He didn’t much care if they saw him. In fact, he was more than happy to harass them the way they had been harassing him. Still, good sense made him crouch down, face mostly averted, while he pretended to be retying his shoelace.
The couple walked arm in arm for a couple of yards to a waiting carriage, and Grey handed her in, the perfect gentleman with his lady wife.
Which was laughable. Carl knew perfectly well that Constance Silver, for all her beauty and manners, was a whore. And Grey, by the look of him, had slave in his ancestry. Who did they think they were, poking their grubby noses into other, more talented people’s business?
Darrow squashed the surge of resentment. The carriage drove off without either of them looking in his direction.
Hardly the most observant of detectives, he thought, smirking.
He waited until their carriage was out of sight, then crossed the road to their office. It was tempting to cause a little sabotage—smash a window, or push a burning handkerchief through the letter box. Just as a little payback.
Apart from anything else, they had no right to walk around like the perfect, loving couple, when he had lost his Caterina…
But the street was too busy, and he could not wait until darkness fell. He had an engagement at a private house this evening. He needed to go home and change and collect his violin. But if they came near him again, if they were still asking questions… Well, he had Montague’s handkerchief in his pocket, not to burn but to leave at the scene of the sabotage.
If it came to that. And he almost hoped it would. Revenge on Montague and on Silver and Grey at the same time was an appealing proposition.
He walked on past the office. For now.
