Spencer spat.
After discovering this man was in fact in London, Spencer had begun to track his movements, watching him as a hunter studies his prey. He’d done the same with all of the officers he was targeting.
Spending two weeks in this sweet-smelling garden, watching and waiting, had seriously tried Spencer’s patience. But tonight was the night. Tonight, the target was alone. His wife and two daughters had gone out to the theater, followed by a late-night ball, and would be gone for hours yet. Inside the house, the older man sat, unaware of his part in a much bigger plan.
There were far more officers available than Spencer needed, so he’d carefully chosen his targets. Seven lives to signify the seven rings of Atlantis. They would fall by his hand or join him and fall from grace. Either way, they would begin the prophecy, leading his army. He looked down at the ring on his right hand, the one that led him directly to the elixir. This was his destiny, and it mattered not who got hurt in the process. A prophecy older than anything here in London, this was bigger than even he.
A clock somewhere in the distance chimed the eleventh hour. It was time.
He made his way to the French doors that led from the garden into a parlor. With considerable force, he was able to break the lock and open the door. The room was dark and uninhabited, but enough light from the hall scattered onto the floor, preventing him from walking into any of the furniture. The ripe scent of furniture polish tickled his nose.
He knew that General Lancer’s study occupied the first floor, so he crept out of the parlor and down the hall. A scullery maid stepped into the hall, and her eyes widened as she saw him. She opened her mouth to scream just as he grabbed her by the throat. He pulled her close to him. Her large brown eyes teared up as she stared at him.
“Do not scream,” he said. “If you scream, I’ll be forced to kill you. Understand?”
She nodded fervently.
Of course, he would kill her regardless. However, he preferred to do so quietly as to not alert his true target to his presence. Quickly, he withdrew the knife he kept secured to his boot and shoved the blade into her throat. Her scream was caught as the knife went through, and the hissing sound of air oozed from the wound. She fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, her brown gaze frozen with fear.
She’d given him no option. It was better for him to make his way through the house undetected.
Step by step, he crept through the hallway, peering into the rooms flanking the corridor. He nearly walked in on a couple of servants pressed up against a large buffet in a darkened dining room, but their muted sounds of passion covered the slight squeak of the door.
Finally, he found the correct room. A soft glow filtered beneath the doorjamb, and as he pushed the door open, he came face to face with the man he sought.
The older man sat behind his desk, white shirt open, no cravat, with books and journals piled on the desktop.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked. He came to his feet.
“It matters not who I am,” Spencer said evenly. “Sit down.”
“I will do no such thing.” His hair, though white, was still full and wavy, and his eyes still sparked with intelligence. “Wait a moment”—those eyes narrowed—“I do know you. What do you want?”
Spencer could not deny the slight thrill that shot through him. He reveled in being recognized. But that was not his purpose tonight. He deliberately slowed his breathing.
“I have a proposition for you,” he said evenly.
The man’s nostrils flared. “Did she send you?”
“A great war is coming,” Spencer said, ignoring the man’s question. “England is not prepared.”
“We have the greatest military in the world,” the man sputtered. Deep lines creased his already wrinkled forehead. “You have some nerve.”
He wouldn’t be one of the select, Spencer could see that, but he had a duty to fulfill. Slowly, he withdrew the tiny vial. “I have the solution here. One tiny drop and you would become cleverer, stronger, more alert. The best general you could be.” Spencer nearly rolled his eyes. Were it up to him, he would simply dispose of all of them and start fresh with men of his own choosing. But his specific instructions were to invite them to join his cause first, and should they decline, only then could he kill them.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but I can assure you, I take great offense. I am already the best general I can be or most any other man could be.” He braced both arms on his desk. “I think it is time you should leave. Tomorrow I shall send up a report of this event. Intruding into my home, insulting me, and then offering me some sort of magical potion that is probably nothing more than opium. I won’t have it,” he growled.
Spencer allowed the man to rant; in truth he found the whole display rather entertaining. Especially in light of what was shortly to come.
“If that is the case, then I’m afraid your skills are no longer needed,” he told him. With one swift movement, he withdrew the pistol from his waistband. “I believe I told you to sit down.”
Resignation showed clearly in the target’s face, and he slowly lowered himself into his chair. Despite the years the general had spent in the upper reaches of the military, his battle instincts had not dulled. He had the sense to know when he faced a superior opponent.
“I have plenty of money,” Lancer said. “And I can have my wife’s jewels brought down to you. Whatever you want, I can provide.” He held out his hand. “Here, I accept your offer. I’ll take the vial.”
Briefly, Spencer considered the general’s offer. His military skills could prove useful, but it was too late now. The man’s loyalty would always be in question. Pity.
“If only it were that simple,” Spencer told the man. “I’m certain I could use a man of your stature and skills. But you should have accepted my offer when you had the chance.” He swiped a decorative cushion from the chair behind him, then walked to the desk and aimed the gun directly at the man. “But it was not to be.”
