Chapter One London, England
December 1817 She was going to die.
It was only a question of when.
He sat calmly at a far corner table of the London coffeehouse, sipping his tea and gazing out the window as he contemplated the busy cobblestone streets. London looked the same as always. It was chillier than when he'd left, with winter closing in. The fog had transformed from a clammy blanket to a raw mist -- a mist that thickened as it mingled with the puffs of cold air emerging from the mouths of scurrying patrons and plodding horses. Everyone seemed in a hurry, including the shopkeepers who stepped outside in rapid succession, glancing about for any last-minute customers, then locking up for the day. One by one, they turned up their collars and hurried home to their waiting families.
How touching.
How convenient.
The throngs of people, while providing an interesting scene for an early evening diversion, made it easy to remain unnoticed. He'd intentionally picked this coffeehouse -- one whose customers were primarily artists and authors, none of whom would have the slightest idea who he was. So he remained, a solitary gentleman enjoying his solitary late-day tea.
And if, by chance, one of his colleagues happened to wander in, spot him at his corner table, that colleague would doubtless offer his greetings, inquire where his lordship had been, and learn about his prolonged business trip abroad.
Given his status and position, his explanation would be accepted without question or doubt.
Ah, anonymity. It came in many forms, each one of them satisfying indeed.
He set down his cup, tugging his gloves more snugly into place and studying his cloaked hands -- his right one, in particular. The German physician had been remarkably skilled, he mused, turning his palms up, then back down again. Same size. Same shape. Right down to the tapered fingers. With his gloves in place, it was impossible to tell that his right forefinger was a mere replica of what it had been. Oh, it couldn't bend at the knuckle, of course -- wood never did -- but he had no cause to bend that forefinger anyway. Not anymore. Now he had a substitute: his middle finger -- a trigger finger impeccably trained, ready to perform on command. He also had a new weapon, one fashioned especially for him, made by the same craftsman who'd designed and constructed the original. Both weapons were unique. But this new version was a stunning, one-of-a-kind achievement. Mastering it had taken every ounce of his skill and concentration, given his physical impediment. But master it he had -- as brilliantly as he'd mastered its predecessor -- and almost as quickly.
Yes, the weapon -- and the proficiency to use it -- had been acquired within a month of leaving England. But conquering the pain -- that had taken every day of the three long months he'd been away.
Still, it would surge to life, sometimes so acutely he nearly screamed aloud. It would never truly leave him. That he knew. Not even for a day.
But it also wouldn't stop him.
Nothing would.
As if to taunt him, the front door of the coffeehouse opened, admitting a cold blast of December air. He winced as the chilling wind shot through the room, found him in his corner, and set off the throbbing in his hand. Gritting his teeth, he waited for the worst of the pain to subside, bitterly acknowledging that the winter months were going to be excruciating. Cold intensified the dull ache that gnawed relentlessly at him, sharpening his agony with a piercing stab.
He had no choice but to endure it.
Damn the winter.
Damn the pain.
And damn Breanna Colby.
He finished his tea, cursing silently as the hot beverage did nothing to warm away his agony. A drink. That's what he needed. A good, stiff drink to dull the throb.
Tossing some coins on the table, he left the establishment, shoving his hands in his pockets as he made his way through the tangle of people to the nearest tavern.
Inside, it was dark and smoky, but he paid little attention to his surroundings as he ordered a brandy. He tossed it down in three gulps.
The liquor worked wonders, burning through his system and making its way to the raw nerve endings at his knuckle.
When all this was over, he vowed, he'd spend winters somewhere warm, somewhere where the pain was bearable. There he could live in seclusion. There he could savor his victories.
Especially the one hovering just ahead -- his ultimate triumph and long-awaited revenge. Doing away with that miserable bitch who'd done this to him, condemned him to three months of agony and a lifetime of physical torment.
She'd pay for each and every day he suffered, each and every night he'd awakened, drenched in sweat, pain spearing through his hand, shooting up his arm. Oh, yes, she'd pay. First, by watching her precious cousin die at her feet, then by waiting, wondering, when the bullet meant for her would find its mark.
It wouldn't be immediate. Oh, no, it would be prolonged. Torturing her had to be savored. He had to terrorize her to the point where she'd be crazed with fear.
Until she realized, with a final surge of panic, that she couldn't escape him.
Until she understood he never failed, never missed his mark.
Until she knew it would take one bullet, and one bullet alone, because he never needed a second.
And until she knew that he was watching her, toying with her, deciding when and where to end her wretched life.
Oh, Lady Breanna Colby, by the time I kill you, you'll beg to die.
And die you will.
Copyright © 1999 by Andrea Kane
