The Emperor's Assassin Read Online Free Page A

as he did. “I will tell you this, Morton—you are beyond the realm of common crime now. Torture is imposed for reasons either of religion or of state. The Spanish Inquisition is a thing of the past. You have entered the world of politics, I would say.”
    Morton nodded slowly, trying to take it in. He respected Townsend immeasurably. The little man's mannerisms were impossibly eccentric, and some of their younger colleagues snickered behind his back. But Morton knew his worth and knew just how discreetly successful this odd old dandy had been. Townsend was an intimate of the highest circles in London, a friend and servant of the Prince Regent himself, and he had been quietly putting away his ample reward monies for more than five decades. He could probably buy up Sir Nathaniel and the whole lot of them, if he so chose. When he spoke in serious tones, as he did now, Morton listened.
    “The world of politics is a different and more dangerous world altogether.” Townsend paused and nodded, as if to himself. “Your common London malefactor will not give his life for a cause. No, he will preserve his life at all costs, and we Runners have come to depend on that. Knowing this tells us a great deal about what a criminal will do and what he will not. The world you enter now has different rules. Men who have been afflicted with the madness of politics might choose to take your life at the cost of their own, just to preserve their cause.” He met Morton's eye. “Be wary, sir. I know I have cautioned you before in different circumstances, but mark what I say: none of those situations were as dangerous as this.”

M orton arrived at Portman House, Lord Arthur Darley's elegant West End home, at the hour of ten o'clock in the evening. It was a house that Morton could never dream of possessing, and one that he admired more than he cared to admit. In truth, Lord Arthur was a man Morton envied, and envy, he well knew, was not the healthiest of human emotions. It was fortunate that Morton's envy was leavened by a strong liking and respect. Darley was a man of such enormous charm that Morton could hardly waste a moment resenting him. Even their peculiar understanding about the lovely and broad-minded Mrs. Arabella Malibrant did not spoil his liking of Darley.
    A liveried servant let him in and took his top hat. It was a warm, humid July night, and the coolness of the house was welcome. A smiling Darley appeared before Morton had been led across the entry. He was a pleasant, greying gentleman, impeccably dressed but somehow as relaxed as a man out for a country walk with his gun and hounds.
    “Morton! It is so good of you to come. Please”—he gestured toward a door—“Mrs. Malibrant awaits. She tells me that she is an acting Bow Street Runner and has all manner of news for you.”
    “I said no such thing,” Arabella protested as they entered the small withdrawing room that looked out on the garden.
    “Well, perhaps you can explain better than I,” Darley said.
    Morton kissed Arabella's hand, took an offered glass of port, and sank into one of Darley's comfortable chairs.
    Darley raised his glass in silent salute. “We were, to be fair to Mrs. M., discussing the bit of history we witnessed whilst delivering Lucy to her new school.”
    Arabella's face, slightly flushed, lit like a candle. “You will not believe it, Henry,” she said.
    “You saw Bonaparte,” Morton offered.
    Arabella sat back in her chair, a bit deflated.
    “It's in all the papers,” Morton apologised.
    “Surely even the London papers have not begun reporting
all
my activities,” Arabella said. It was one of the charms of her particular humour that she could say anything without a hint of a smile. People who did not know her often couldn't decide if they were to laugh.
    Morton smiled. “You really saw the scoundrel?”
    “Indeed we did,” Darley said. “Large as life, or small as life in the Corsican's case. He appeared on the deck of