For the Love of a Soldier Read Online Free

snow white cravat, and silk gloves outlined in the darkness. He turned to pace the patio, anger etched into his impatient strides.
    The second man, a footman, was shorter and wore the maroon-and-gold jacket of Hammond’s livery. His lighter jacket and the white stockings beneath his formal knee breeches carved his stout silhouette into the dark backdrop.
    “What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in? It’s invitation only, and I know damn well you don’t work here.” The tall man broke stride, his voice, low and nasal, hissed with barely restrained fury. “Need I remind you that we shouldn’t be seen together? I’m not paying for idiocy. I’m—”
    “I know wot yer be payin’ me for,” interrupted the shorter man, unruffled. “A few quid greasin’ the right ’ands opens most doors.” He glanced around. “Least those downstairs.” His coarse speech was of the East End or Seven Dials. “An’ thot’s why I’m ’ere,” he added.
    The tall man went deathly still. After a prolonged silence he sputtered, “What? Why?”
    “I’ve reconsidered me fee.” The would-be footman thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels.
    “What?” his companion breathed. Alex could almost hear the man swallow before continuing, his next sentence forced out between clenched teeth. “Christ. What the hell are you talking about? I’ve paid you. My terms are nonnegotiable.”
    The shorter man grunted. “Murder’s always negotiable. ’Less yer be takin’ me ter the magistrate o’er the terms of our agreement.”
    Silence met the brazen words.
    Alex dared not breathe. Her fingers dug into the bark.
    “Not likely, eh? Magistrate’s not partial to gents ’irin’ killers, particularly when their target’s a wounded war ’ero, survivor of Balaclava and all.” His words became more heated. “Yer ferget to mention thot, guv’nor? Didn’t yer be thinkin’ it might increase ’is value? After all, ain’t no ordinary bloke we be dealin’ with.”
    Pinned to the tree, Alex’s eyes widened, her heart thundering. They discussed murder. Murdering a soldier. A Crimean War hero! She bit back the protest that sprang to her lips.
    Another lengthy silence ensued. Only the distant sounds of the music dared interrupt it. A light nocturne drifted to them until the taller man sliced into it with his curt response. “Forget it. There’s no more money.”
    The stout man stormed over to his companion, crowding him. “Then get yer bleedin’ wounded war ’ero to sell ’is commission. There’s money to be ’ad there, and the poor sod won’t be needin’ it no more. My price went up ’nother five ’undred quid. Find it. Thot’s if yer wantin’ the bloody job completed.” The man spun away.
    A wounded soldier. Alex’s heart squeezed. To survive the carnage in the Crimea only to be killed through this sordid arrangement. She closed her eyes. Faces of the men for whom she had cared loomed before her.
    This man, this nameless man they planned to kill, was one of them. A survivor when but a third of the soldiers had walked away from the suicidal charge that marked that tragic battle at Balaclava.
    Her throat constricted. She couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t.
    But who? Whom did they wish dead?
    The maroon-coated footman had reached the French doors when the taller man’s words halted him. “Wait.” He fumbled with something. A flash of gold streaked across the black night before the footman’s hand snatched it from the air. “Once pawned, that should cover the fee.”
    The footman examined the item, flicking something open and closed.
    A snuffbox? Watch? Card case? Alex squinted into the darkness, struggling to identify the object before the man’s jacket pocket swallowed it.
    “Good ’nough.”
    “What about the job?”
    The footman gave a curt nod. “Kendall be taken—”
    “Christ, keep your mouth shut!” the gentleman swore, his head pivoting, scanning the area.
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