Chapter 1

SATURDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 18II, ON THE ROAD BETWEEN MERTON ABBEY AND LONDON

Fear twisted Dominic Stanton's stomach, compressed his chest until his breath came shallow and quick.

He told himself he was being a fool. A fool and a coward. He was a Stanton, for Christ's sake. In less then two months, he would be nineteen years old. Men his age—younger, much younger—went off to war. Yet here he was just a few miles outside London and he was acting like some silly girl from the village, about to pee his pants with fear every time the thunder rumbled or the rising wind rustled the oak leaves overhead.

A copse of mingled oak and chestnut closed around him. Dominic kneed his mare into a canter. Dusk was only just beginning to fall, but the heavy cloud cover and the thickness of the grove created their own eerie air of twilight. Over the keening of the wind, he could hear the faint clip-clop of a horse's hooves coming from somewhere behind him. He wasn't imagining it again, was he? He glanced over his shoulder at the empty road curving away out of sight. "Jesus," he whispered.

It was his mother's fault, he decided. She was the one who'd insisted he make it home in time for her stupid dinner party. If it weren't for her, he'd still be back at the pub with Charlie and Burlington and the rest, calling for another round and talking over each blow and rally of the prizefight they'd all ridden down to Merton Abbey to watch. Instead, here he was riding back to London alone at dusk with a storm about to break.

Telling himself he was hurrying because he was going to be late, Dominic urged his mare on faster…and felt his saddle begin to slip.

Shit. Stupid ostler, forgetting to tighten the girth. Dominic reined in, his face slick with cold sweat. Casting another quick glance around, he hopped down from the saddle. His fingers were shaky, clumsy. Throwing the stirrup leather out of the way, he fumbled for the buckle and heard the rattle of harness, the clatter of wheels coming up behind.

He whirled around, his mare tossing her head and sidestepping nervously away from him. A horse and carriage loomed out of the darkness. "Oh my God," whispered Dominic as the driver drew up.

SUNDAY, 6:45 A.M., 15 SEPTEMBER 18II, WESTMINSTER

Sir Henry Lovejoy, chief magistrate at Queen Square, Westminster, stood at the edge of the Old Palace Yard. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, he forced himself to look at the mutilated body sprawled before him.

Dominic Stanton lay on his back, his arms flung wide, his eyes open to the misty sky above. Beads of moisture had collected on the boy's light, softly curling hair, while the dampness left from last night's rain had seeped into the fine cloth of his blue coat to darken it until it looked almost black. From the hips up, the body appeared unmarked except for the traces of blood on his cravat and the strange object shoved in his mouth.

What had been done to his legs was unspeakable.

"For God's sake, cover him up again," said Lovejoy, his stomach heaving.

The constable reached to flip the sheet of canvas back over the body. "Yes, sir."

The early-morning fog rolling in from the nearby river felt cold and damp against Lovejoy's face. Lifting his gaze, he stared up at the ancient soot-stained walls of the House of Lords beside them.

"Think it's the same killer, sir?"

It had been just three months since they'd found another young man, a banker's son named Barclay Carmichael, in St. James's Park. His body had been mutilated in virtually the same horrid way. Lovejoy glanced over at his stocky, ruddy-faced constable. "You can't seriously be suggesting London has two such killers at work, now, can you?"

Constable Higgins shifted uncomfortably. "No, sir. Of course not."

Henry Lovejoy let his gaze wander around the Yard. They'd roped off the area to keep back the crowds of curious onlookers already beginning to gather. Some half a dozen constables were walking the Yard in a slowly advancing line, their heads bowed as they searched the ground. Lovejoy didn't expect them to find anything. They hadn't found anything before, with Carmichael's son.

Copyright © The Two Talers, LLC, 2007.