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The man had entered this establishment two nights prior, in search of a pretty barmaid. He had found precisely the type of woman he was looking for—buxom, fresh-faced, and young enough to be missing the tired eyes and downtrodden spirits shared by so many others in her profession.

He had given her a handsome tip and a friendly smile, knowing she would remember him.

He had hoped to see her later that evening, but the tavernkeeper, a barrel-chested man with large hands and a cynical attitude, had taken notice of him.

Knowing it was foolish to tempt fate, the man had left, frustrated and angry.

For two long days he had thought of little else but this woman, and tonight he had been driven to return. To finish his task.

In the distance he heard the toll of the watchman’s bell. Two clangs. Good. The tavern would be closing soon. Another ten minutes passed, and then the lights were gradually extinguished inside the building. A few moments later the front door opened and a woman emerged. His woman.

The man blew out his breath. His luck was holding. The young barmaid was alone. Head down, she jumped across a large puddle, then hurried across the street.

The man stepped out of the shadows, directly into her path. The young woman gasped with fright and held her arm up in a protective gesture. Then slowly her expression changed from one of fear to relief.

“Oh, ’tis only you, sir. You gave me a grand fright, that’s for sure.”

“I apologize.” He bowed gracefully, and she tittered with delight. Women of the lower classes, he had discovered, were easily led to ruin by displaying simple manners and common courtesies toward them. “May I see you home?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I live with me Mum and brothers and sisters,” she answered. “I’m sure at least one of ’um is waiting up for me to get home.”

“I only wish to walk with you,” he said gently. “If you have no objections.”

He could see the indecision clearly in her face, so he gave her a brief smile. It had the desired effect. She smiled back, then nodded in agreement.

“Thank you, sir, for your kind offer. ’Tis nearly twenty blocks to our flat. I shall be glad of the com-pansy.”

They walked for several blocks in silence.

He did not offer her his arm, fearing to touch her too soon.

It was the right decision, for of her own initiative she left a respectable distance between them as she walked.

He knew she was shy of him, for she spoke only briefly when answering his many questions and initiated no conversation.

He found her reticent nature charming, her natural shyness exhilarating. Forward, aggressive women had always angered him.

As they walked, he became dimly aware of the passage of time. Soon, it must happen soon. Eagerly, his eyes scanned ahead, watching for the perfect spot, the perfect moment. When it came, he was ready.

He stumbled on a piece of uneven cobblestone, pretending to lose his balance. The young woman stopped immediately and offered her arm to him in assistance. With a wicked smile of satisfaction, he grasped her arm, righted himself, and then yanked her into the small alley between two tall buildings.

“No, please,” she cried, as he jammed her against the wall with his body. She pushed against his chest with the heels of her hands, struggling to get away from him. But he was too strong.

He caught her flaying arms, swiftly tying the wrists together with a silken cord he had brought specifically for this purpose. She gave a choked cry as he shoved a scarf in her mouth, muffling her screams.

Slowly, almost reverently, he placed his hands around her neck. He leaned his full weight against her, waiting for the fright to fill her eyes, followed quickly by dread and fear. She did not disappoint him.

She began to struggle immediately, arching her back, bucking her torso, twisting and turning her body sharply in a vain effort to free herself. After only a few minutes, he could tell she was beginning to tire, but she fought on, the sharp edge of her elbow digging into his side.

He gloried in her fear. He felt his body harden and his groin grow thick and heavy with desire as a muffled groan slipped through the gag.

He allowed her to struggle a few more moments, savoring each sharp twist of her body.

Then he increased the pressure around her neck until her eyes bulged and her complexion took on a faint purplish hue.

Finally she slipped into unconsciousness, her eyes fluttering closed.

Once she stilled, the fierceness left him. He squeezed her neck only until he felt the breath leave her body. Then he calmly allowed her inert form to slump to the ground.

He took a moment to enjoy the surge of emotion, the sense of completion that filled him. A deep primal instinct invaded his being. He wanted to throw back his head and howl, but he controlled that impulse, fearing discovery.

Breathing hard, he dragged the body to the far corner of the alley. After untying her wrists and removing the gag from her mouth, he hid the corpse beneath a pile of rubbish. With luck she wouldn’t be discovered for many days, until the flesh on her bones began to rot.

He felt bubbles of saliva that had gathered at the corners of his mouth ooz onto his face. With a grimace, he removed the neatly pressed linen handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and carefully wiped the moisture away.

Ever fastidious, the man straightened his spine and began to right the rest of his appearance.

He shook out his rumpled greatcoat, adjusted his misaligned cravat.

His hat had been knocked off in the ruckus.

Bending low, he retrieved it, then ran trembling fingers through his hair before placing it neatly upon his head.

He walked to the edge of the alley and peered first to the left, then to the right. After assuring himself no one was about, the man slipped from the shadows, proceeding quickly down the street. When he judged he had gone far enough from the crime scene, he hailed a hackney.

Tucked safely inside the darkness of the cab, he allowed himself a moment to relive each delicious nuance of the kill, savoring the details with gruesome joy. The coach stopped abruptly, and with a start the man realized he had reached his destination. Grosvenor Square.

He paid the driver, then entered the quiet, darkened house by a little used servants’ entrance. Thanks to deliberate caution and the lateness of the hour, he encountered no one.

He felt tired and drained, but performed his usual, lengthy preparations before retiring to his bed. The instant his head rested upon the pillow, sleep claimed him. It was deep, peaceful, and dreamless.

Evil, in its purest form, had returned to London.

The pounding in his head kept perfect cadence with the steady knocking upon his bedchamber door. Trevor turned onto his side, winced, then growled, “Go away.”

The noise did not stop. If anything, it became louder. Trevor groaned and buried his head under the pillow. The knocking became muffled but was still audible.

He opened a bloodshot eye and groaned again, realizing his tormentor wasn’t going anywhere. It took far to much effort to yell again, so Trevor sat up and waited. He was trying unsuccessfully to hold his aching head together when his valet, Everett, entered the darkened room.

“I do beg your pardon for disturbing you, my lord,” the servant said as he approached the massive bed, “but it could not be avoided. The duke is here.”

“The duke? What duke?” Trevor attempted to lift his head, and the thumping in his brain increased.

“The Duke of Warwick,” the valet hissed, adding for good measure, “your father.”

The mention of his father’s title jarred a vague memory of last night’s ball, a moonlit kiss, a scandalous scene, and a fascinating carriage ride, all the components that accounted for the perfect excuse to get falling-down drunk the moment Lady Meredith had been safely deposited at her home.

An idiotic, yet perfectly understandable way to end the evening.

The stabbing pains behind Trevor’s eyes increased tenfold as his energetic servant began bustling about the bedchamber, retrieving the haphazardly strewn articles of clothing that littered the carpet.

The marquess heard a distinct tsk of disapproval the moment before his valet pulled back the heavy tapestry curtains and flooded the room with light.

Trevor slumped back in his bed, using one hand to shield his eyes from the sudden sunshine.

“My head is pounding far too much to be amused by your little jokes, Everett. The Duke of Warwick would sooner eat nails than step foot inside my humble rooms. Now, close those draperies at once. Then go fetch me some coffee. A large pot, if you please.”

“I would never joke about such a serious matter, my lord,” Everett insisted with his usual display of haughty dignity. He poured hot water into a bowl and began to methodically sharpen the marquess’s razor. “I informed the duke you would attend him the moment you completed dressing.”

Trevor barely managed to resist barring his teeth in an angry snarl as the servant hovered expectantly beside the bed, ready to render assistance.

“My father is truly here?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I am not receiving visitors this morning,” Trevor declared. “Tell the duke to call back another time. Preferably next week.”

Trevor rolled lazily onto his side and buried his aching head into his pillow. He could almost hear his valet working himself into a snit. In Everett’s rather stuffy, proper mind, one did not eject a duke from the premises.

“I could not possibly tell his grace you refused to see him.” The valet sputtered with astonishment. “It would not be polite. Or proper.”

“’Tis most improper to call on people without warning at such an ungodly hour of the morning,” Trevor groused.

“It is three o’clock in the afternoon, my lord.”