She began to struggle immediately, arching her back, bucking her torso, twisting and turning her body sharply in a vain effort to free herself. After only a few minutes, he could tell she was beginning to tire, but she fought on, the sharp edge of her elbow digging into his side.
He gloried in her fear. He felt his body harden and his groin grow thick and heavy with desire as a muffled groan slipped through the gag. He allowed her to struggle a few more moments, savoring each sharp twist of her body. Then he increased the pressure around her neck until her eyes bulged and her complexion took on a faint purplish hue. Finally she slipped into unconsciousness, her eyes fluttering closed.
Once she stilled, the fierceness left him. He squeezed her neck only until he felt the breath leave her body. Then he calmly allowed her inert form to slump to the ground.
He took a moment to enjoy the surge of emotion, the sense of completion that filled him. A deep primal instinct invaded his being. He wanted to throw back his head and howl, but he controlled that impulse, fearing discovery.
Breathing hard, he dragged the body to the far corner of the alley. After untying her wrists and removing the gag from her mouth, he hid the corpse beneath a pile of rubbish. With luck she wouldn’t be discovered for many days, until the flesh on her bones began to rot.
He felt bubbles of saliva that had gathered at the corners of his mouth ooz onto his face. With a grimace, he removed the neatly pressed linen handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and carefully wiped the moisture away.
Ever fastidious, the man straightened his spine and began to right the rest of his appearance. He shook out his rumpled greatcoat, adjusted his misaligned cravat. His hat had been knocked off in the ruckus. Bending low, he retrieved it, then ran trembling fingers through his hair before placing it neatly upon his head.
He walked to the edge of the alley and peered first to the left, then to the right. After assuring himself no one was about, the man slipped from the shadows, proceeding quickly down the street. When he judged he had gone far enough from the crime scene, he hailed a hackney.
Tucked safely inside the darkness of the cab, he allowed himself a moment to relive each delicious nuance of the kill, savoring the details with gruesome joy. The coach stopped abruptly, and with a start the man realized he had reached his destination. Grosvenor Square.
He paid the driver, then entered the quiet, darkened house by a little used servants’ entrance. Thanks to deliberate caution and the lateness of the hour, he encountered no one.
He felt tired and drained, but performed his usual, lengthy preparations before retiring to his bed. The instant his head rested upon the pillow, sleep claimed him. It was deep, peaceful, and dreamless.
Evil, in its purest form, had returned to London.
The pounding in his head kept perfect cadence with the steady knocking upon his bedchamber door. Trevor turned onto his side, winced, then growled, “Go away.”
The noise did not stop. If anything, it became louder. Trevor groaned and buried his head under the pillow. The knocking became muffled but was still audible.
He opened a bloodshot eye and groaned again, realizing his tormentor wasn’t going anywhere. It took far to much effort to yell again, so Trevor sat up and waited. He was trying unsuccessfully to hold his aching head together when his valet, Everett, entered the darkened room.
“I do beg your pardon for disturbing you, my lord,” the servant said as he approached the massive bed, “but it could not be avoided. The duke is here.”
“The duke? What duke?” Trevor attempted to lift his head, and the thumping in his brain increased.
“The Duke of Warwick,” the valet hissed, adding for good measure, “your father.”
The mention of his father’s title jarred a vague memory of last night’s ball, a moonlit kiss, a scandalous scene, and a fascinating carriage ride, all the components that accounted for the perfect excuse to get falling-down drunk the moment Lady Meredith had been safely deposited at her home. An idiotic, yet perfectly understandable way to end the evening.
The stabbing pains behind Trevor’s eyes increased tenfold as his energetic servant began bustling about the bedchamber, retrieving the haphazardly strewn articles of clothing that littered the carpet. The marquess heard a distincttskof disapproval the moment before his valet pulled back the heavy tapestry curtains and flooded the room with light.
Trevor slumped back in his bed, using one hand to shield his eyes from the sudden sunshine. “My head is pounding far too much to be amused by your little jokes, Everett. The Duke of Warwick would sooner eat nails than step foot inside my humble rooms. Now, close those draperies at once. Then go fetch me some coffee. A large pot, if you please.”
“I would never joke about such a serious matter, my lord,” Everett insisted with his usual display of haughty dignity. He poured hot water into a bowl and began to methodically sharpen the marquess’s razor. “I informed the duke you would attend him the moment you completed dressing.”
Trevor barely managed to resist barring his teeth in an angry snarl as the servant hovered expectantly beside the bed, ready to render assistance.
“My father is truly here?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I am not receiving visitors this morning,” Trevor declared. “Tell the duke to call back another time. Preferably next week.”
Trevor rolled lazily onto his side and buried his aching head into his pillow. He could almost hear his valet working himself into a snit. In Everett’s rather stuffy, proper mind, one did not eject a duke from the premises.
“I could not possibly tell his grace you refused to see him.” The valet sputtered with astonishment. “It would not be polite. Or proper.”
“’Tis most improper to call on people without warning at such an ungodly hour of the morning,” Trevor groused.
“It is three o’clock in the afternoon, my lord.”
