If You Deceive

Chapter One
London
Summer 1856
Ethan had long grown used to the sinking expressions people cast him when they realized it was he who darkened their doorsteps -- but in the East End rookeries this tendency seemed even more pronounced.
Many saw Ethan and ran.
The sound of his boots booming across wet cobblestones was all Ethan heard as he chased a drunken cockney -- one among many of his sources of information.
Lunging forward, Ethan clamped the cockney's shoulders, tossing him headfirst into the side of a tenement building. The man collapsed into a stunned heap.
Hauling him to his feet, Ethan drew his pistol, pressing the muzzle against the man's temple. "Where's Davis Grey?"
"I 'aven't seen 'im." He hissed in a breath between the copious gaps in his teeth. "I swear to ye, MacCarrick!"
Ethan casually cocked his gun. The drunk knew of his reputation, knew Ethan would just as easily shoot him as not back in this dark alley. "Then why did you run?"
"B-because ye scare the piss out o' me."
Understandable.
"I 'eard Grey was in Portugal, with an 'unger for opium. And that 'e might be returnin'. That's all. I swear it!"
After a hesitation, Ethan released him, deciding to believe him. The information meshed with his own, and this man likely wouldn't court Ethan's wrath by lying. "You know what to do if you see Grey. And you know what I'll do if you doona notify me."
The cockney muttered thanks for his mercy, then scurried off into the night.
For the last several hours, Ethan had combed the slums, using all his resources to track Davis Grey, a onetime compatriot and family friend -- and now Ethan's target.
Though all his reports indicated that Grey wasn't in England, Ethan had wanted to make certain. Tonight he'd chased every lead he'd been able to think of in London. Tomorrow he would leave the city to hunt for Grey elsewhere.
As Ethan strode down the winding, narrow streets back to his mount, a surprisingly comely whore smiled and dropped her shawl, revealing her heavy breasts to him.
And he felt nothing.
When he passed under a flickering gaslight, he showed the woman the other side of his face. She turned away in disgust, yanking her shawl to her neck. It was because of women like her that he'd stopped seeking sex entirely.
At twenty-three, he'd still been in bandages when he'd fully comprehended he wouldn't be having any woman he didn't have to pay. He'd already vowed never to drink again after that night in Buxton. And for a young man suddenly deprived of drinking and women -- two of his routine follies -- a profession in the Network, one of the Crown's clandestine organizations, had held definite appeal. Along with his brother Hugh, Ethan had signed on, but only after he'd delivered a subtle, but absolute, revenge against his enemies.
Whereas Hugh was an assassin in the Network, cleanly completing his assignments, Ethan would kill, spy, and extort to get a job done. Ethan was skilled at what he did, successful doing the jobs no one else wanted to do. His brothers called him a jack of all lethal trades.
Once he'd returned to his horse -- a fine gelding with a strong and unwavering dislike for him -- Ethan mounted up and decided to ride by the London town house of Edward Weyland, Ethan and Hugh's superior. More news might have come in. Besides, what else did he have to do?
When he arrived, he caught Quin Weyland just climbing into his saddle. "Is your uncle in?" Ethan asked. Quin also worked in the Network and was being groomed to eventually take over his uncle's role.
"No, he's out of town. But I saw Hugh just a few minutes ago."
"Just Hugh? No' Court?"
Quin absently shook his head.
Damn it, Hugh was supposed to be with Court, their younger brother, making sure he returned to London from the Continent.
In an irritated tone, Quin said, "I thought you told us Hugh was going to be able to handle this situation with Davis Grey."