Chapter
Two
Cordell made sure to keep to the shadows as he followed Aislynn home. He did not know why he felt compelled to act as her personal protector when she had made it perfectly clear she did not need him, but he was there regardless of her protests.
He waited until he saw the light flicker in her small window before he finally turned away. Now that he knew where she lived, he would make sure that the area was watched closely for suspicious activity. He did not necessarily have people who worked for him, but rather some who were loyal and willing to assist for the right price. Luckily, Cordell had been successful in every venture he had set upon, so he had secured a tidy livelihood for himself. If he wished, he might not have to tackle such tough or dangerous cases and could be selective with his clients. However, there was something about the violent and methodical murder of these two actresses that his curiosity had been piqued. When his father had been found guilty of similar, heinous crimes and been sent to Bedlam to live out the rest of his days, Cordell had always wondered if there was some sort of imbalance that caused men like him to act in such a manner, or if it had more to do with power and control of their victims.
Upon his death, doctors had asked for Cordell’s permission to study his father’s brain. He had agreed, of course, because he’d long wondered what had caused him to commit all those terrible murders. Unfortunately, nothing of import had been discovered, and since then, Cordell had been intent on finding the truth behind such behavior. Perhaps if he discovered the man responsible for these murders, he could finally try to understand what had led to his father’s abrupt downfall.
Thankfully, his lodgings in Soho weren’t a great distance from Covent Garden. Should Miss Sims have need of his assistance, he could be there in short order. He intended to call on her the following day and offer his help. If she wasn’t aware that she needed it now, something told him that she might change her mind.
He hadn’t wanted to frighten her this evening after the death of her fellow actress, but he had already found two similarities between Miss Adams and Miss Flynn, both of which Miss Sims also shared. It was still early to determine whether or not they had anything else in common, but Cordell was intent on discovering everything he could to ensure Miss Sims’ safety. He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so protective of the bold actress except, after meeting her, she had become more real, a living breathing person rather than just a corpse lying on the ground. He’d had the opportunity to speak with her this evening, to hear her voice and watch the way her green eyes flashed with sorrow and a spark of outrage.
Cordell’s mother had been real too. He had been seventeen years old when his father had changed and gone on a fever haze of brutal killings that had taken the life of six people, Cordell’s mother included. At first, he wondered if it was his father’s lineage. He had descended from much strife in the Ottoman Empire, so perhaps that turmoil had been bred in him and it had finally reached a breaking point. But since there was nothing to indicate such an anomaly after his father’s death, Cordell had pushed that long held theory aside and struggled for years to come up with a truth that made sense. Thus far, he had found no logical conclusions.
However, with the opportunity to ensnare another criminal with the same propensity, he might finally gain the answers that had long evaded him.
He hailed a hackney and gave the driver his direction. He had plans that needed to be put in place before he could retire for the evening.
When he arrived at the Coach and Horses in Mayfair, he walked inside the raucous establishment. He’d strode inside this pub perhaps a hundred times, yet it never failed to stir him with a sense of nostalgia. It was one of the first places he’d visited when he’d first arrived in London and it had become a particularly favorite haunt—as well as a meeting place for various acquaintances.
He slid into a chair near the edge of the room, one which held a single occupant who was drinking from a pint of ale. The right arm hung listlessly to the side, tucked beneath a snug fitting man’s jacket. He never really knew the true identity of the woman who dressed in men’s trousers and wore her dark hair shorn close to her scalp. She had always just gone by Mary Spade. However, she was a loyal confidante. Since the night Cordell saved her from a brutal assault, she had been a faithful informant. Unfortunately, she hadn’t come out of the attack completely unscathed. Her arm suffered from the brunt of her injuries, a constant reminder of what she’d lost—and yet, what she still retained. Her life.
However, that didn’t stop her from running a successful brothel and likely many other lucrative side ventures that he decided he’d rather not know about.
“You must have started late this evening,” Cordell murmured dryly. “You can still sit upright.”
She drained her mug and set it down firmly on the table. “Perhaps I’m close to holding my liquor as well as ye, Steele.”
He grinned, because he expected no less than sarcasm from Mary.
“Was the woman dead?”
She’d known that Cordell had gone to the theatre to investigate the latest murder.
“She was.” He frowned down at the scarred wooden table. “I was too late.”
“Ye’ll get the bastard. Ye always figure out a way to solve any mystery that comes yer way.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Perhaps. But this one strikes a bit too close to home.”
Of course, Mary was one of the few people who knew all of his secrets. But there wasn’t anyone he trusted more to keep them. It was another reason he’d gained the torrid reputation of a libertine. Not only did he put some of that reputation into action, but Mary’s house also was where he conducted much of his business affairs as well. Witnesses were more comfortable attending a brothel than meeting in a public location where they could be noticed. Whereas at a bawdy house no one suspected much of anything.
“Then you already know what to do. Fuck ’em.”
Cordell laughed because it was such a typical response from her. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I knew I could count on you to put things in a familiar light.” Turning serious, he said, “I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
They were interrupted by the waitress, who brought over two drinks and while they imbibed from their respective pints, Cordell said, “I need you to look after a possible victim. She was a roommate to the woman who was murdered this evening.”
“Whot’s ’er name?”
“Miss Aislynn Sims.”
“The Covent Garden actress.”
“You know her?”
