De Grave wound his way through the London streets as he did most nights, from one privileged diversion to the next. He rounded a corner, his thoughts and smile dancing in the flickering street light. A stealthy pair of boot-clad feet traced his steps with quick agility.

Checking his pocket watch de Grave shrugged and turned left, only half sure of his destination, yet entirely unaware of his traveling companion. Darting eyes marked his movements from within the shadows of a riding cloak. For every step he took, his pursuer took three, aware of everything the night might hold.

As the infamous London fog began to roll in off the Thames, the trail ran into a dead end. The Swank and Tower, a popular locale for brandy and cards, opened its doors and concealing arms to de Grave. As those doors shut, so ended the night’s chase.

Her amber eyes flaring, Betty Hughley pulled back her hood and in very unladylike fashion swore under her breath. Her quarry had retreated where she could not follow…a men’s club.