“When I didn’t hear from you, I grew concerned,” Morris said. He had two men with him and both were dressed in similar fashion to him, Whitehall chic. They looked about them with barely concealed distaste, as if there were nowhere they’d rather be less than where they were.
The trio had been waiting somewhere along the Embankment when St. Cyprian and Gallowglass had arrived back at No. 427, and the knock at the door had come not two minutes after they’d managed to bundle the feverish and...