A Dangerous Lord Read online

  A Dangerous Lord

  Regency Spies & Secrets #3

  Laura Beers

  © Copyright 2021 by Laura Beers

  Text by Laura Beers

  Cover by Dar Albert

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition April 2021

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

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  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Laura Beers

  The Regency Spies & Secrets Series

  A Dangerous Pursuit (Book 1)

  A Dangerous Game (Book 2)

  A Dangerous Lord (Book 3)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Laura Beers

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  England, 1814

  Lord Evan Corbyn had a dangerous job; one that meant life or death, and not just for himself. He was responsible for all the agents of the Crown. It was a position that he took very seriously, and it consumed nearly every moment of his waking hours. To him, nothing else mattered but ensuring England remained safe from domestic and foreign threats.

  The sun had set hours before, but he was still sitting in his small, poorly decorated office, reading through all his correspondence. It was no small feat. All the agents were required to provide an update on their assignments every few days. Some would appear in person, while others who wished to remain undercover would drop off missives at their convenience. Most of the correspondence required no action on his part, but he was always prepared to offer his assistance, if the situation warranted it.

  Corbyn dropped the paper in his hand and started rifling through the remaining missives. He had yet to see an update from Hannity, and he was starting to worry. It wasn’t like Hannity to miss a deadline.

  “Sanders!” Corbyn shouted.

  The door promptly opened, and a tall man with a broad, crooked nose stepped into the room. “Yes, Corbyn.”

  “Have you seen or heard from Hannity lately?”

  Sanders shook his head. “No, sir.”

  Corbyn frowned. “That is concerning. It has been nearly five days since I have last heard from him.”

  “He is undercover,” Sanders attempted. “Perhaps he couldn’t get away.”

  “That shouldn’t matter,” Corbyn replied. “Last time, he had a street urchin deliver the note, and he is usually prompt with his missives.”

  “Would you care for me to investigate?”

  Corbyn shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I shall go myself.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “His rented room isn’t far from here, and I can be back within the hour.” Corbyn rose, then waved his hand over his desk. “I still have hours of reading before I am finished with all these missives.”

  “I would be happy to accompany you.”

  Corbyn came around his desk. “I appreciate your concern, but I am well acquainted with the rookeries.”

  Sanders tipped his head. “I shall wait for your return, then.”

  “Will you inform Hobbs and Bond that I will be returning?” he asked. “I refuse to make a ridiculous bird call to alert them of my presence.”

  Sanders chuckled. “That was put into place by your predecessor.”

  “He was an idiot.”

  “You could always change it, sir.”

  “I could, but I must admit that it is rather effective,” Corbyn remarked as he plucked his top hat off a hook on the wall. “You don’t hear too many bird calls in this part of Town.”

  Sanders backed out of the office. “That’s true.”

  Corbyn stepped into the long, dark passageway and headed towards the main door. He exited the dilapidated brick building and started down the narrow streets. He was acutely aware of the men loitering in the alleyways as they tracked his every movement. He was not foolish enough to dismiss them altogether, despite having multiple weapons on his person. He had two overcoat pistols tucked into the waistband of his trousers, a muff pistol in his right boot, and a dagger in his left boot.

  He was accustomed to fighting, but that didn’t mean he ever sought it out. No. He preferred to keep the peace, if at all possible. It hadn’t always been that way, but he had grown since he became the leader of the agency. An agency that didn’t technically exist. It was under the Alien Office, but it was rarely spoken of. They were given ample freedom to ensure their assignments were completed skillfully and tactfully.

  The streets narrowed and the buildings grew darker as he headed deeper into the rookeries. There were no gas lights in this section of Town, making it appear even more destitute in the evening. Even the air felt heavier, sticking to the back of his throat.

  He passed by a woman with a dirty face and sunken cheeks, holding hands with a young girl who was dressed in a shapeless frock.

  “I’m hungry, Mother,” the girl complained softly.

  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.

  F
eeling 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.

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

  “Very g
ood,” 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.

  Jane moved to jab Madalene in the jaw, but was startled when her sister-in-law hit her first, causing her to stagger back.

  “You left yourself open,” Madalene explained.

  Ignoring the pain radiating from her right cheek, Jane approached Madalene with her gloves up. “I won’t be making that mistake again.”

  Madalene gave her a reassuring smile. “You always say that.”

  “One day, it will come true.”

  Jane tried to punch Madalene, but she easily side-stepped the blow.

  Madalene eyed her with concern. “You are tired.”

  “I am,” Jane admitted as she felt the sweat on her brow. “Boxing is exhausting.”

  “It will keep you nimble and healthy,” Madalene remarked. “Perhaps we should stop for today and resume tomorrow with my boxing instructor, Mr. Payne.”

  Jane nodded in agreement. “I think that sounds like a brilliant idea.”

  Madalene motioned to a footman, who promptly came over to untie her mufflers. “Do you still intend to join me at the orphanage today?” she asked.

  “I do.”

  “I think it is wonderful that you are volunteering as a French teacher until we fill that position.”

  Since he had finished with Madalene’s gloves, Jane extended her mufflers to the footman. “And I think it is admirable what you are doing at the orphanage.”

  “I suppose we both will just have to admire one another,” Madalene joked.

  “Frankly, I was surprised that my mother agreed to it.”

  “I think Baldwin had something to do with that.”

  Jane smiled ruefully. “Baldwin is most definitely her favorite child.”

  “I don’t think your mother has a favorite.”