Slitting the throat had never been the tough part.
Watching the blood ooze out and trickle down along the gold edge of her dagger had never been the tough part. Sensing the life curtail under her impact, the breath diminish under her touch was never the tough part.
Gazing into those dying eyes, telling them of their transgressions had never, ever been the tough part.
Those were the easy fractions.
The fractions that required an ice-filled heart and fizzed up blood pumping through the veins_ things, she could modestly provide. Without a beat of her lashes.
The tough part had been to know_ there was a next man awaiting the same fate. A next man_ darning her next kill.
A next man_ committing the same crime.
There was always a next man. That was the tough part.
It was like this one question, which haunted her day and night_
If you do something extremely wicked to assist a cause exceptionally sacred, are you good or are you evil?
She didn’t care anymore.
She had stopped heeding it.
Good or Evil. Wicked or not. Chaste or un, She was content sacrificing her heaven to dig out a few little girls from the earthy hell they had been abandoned into.
By God. The world.
By men…..those like this one. .
Lord Benedict Ainsworth, whom she had just slaughtered.
And like this Mysterious Man, about whom she had just been hinted.
She was going to find him. She was going to kill him.
****
She was woman of unconventional means.
A creature of silent anonymity.
Young. Pale. Slender. Tall.
A killer by instinct as much as by purpose.
Delilah Eves.
She was sitting in the old, dark library of Heathway’s abode, London, gazing out in that ethereal morning glow across the window, looking supple. Divine.
Not someone who went about slitting throats in midnights.
Beautiful was a word too ill used. She was like winter mist. They mistook her as summer cloud.
She was haze and coldth. Not fire and warmth.
Not your usual woman to dance across the ballroom in the arms of demanding, scheming men. She was a woman to chop those arms. Condemn those men.
She was the woman who watched balls with the contempt of a bird watching its cage.
A new entry in the room did not disturb her silent ministration.
“Delilah.” The voice called from behind and Delilah’s eyes flickered, her attention no more beyond the window.
It was her cousin.
“Charlotte.” She acknowledged without facing her.
Charlotte was a blonde of twenty five, a viscountess and Delilah’s first cousin. She was older than the later by three years but the ruthless maneuver that Delilah ministrated was not her own alone.
Charlotte too knew this secret of hers.
Infact, she was the one who provided all the documental information for the operation that Delilah pursued.
A clatter of glasses followed and Charlotte was by her side, with a glass of whiskey in her hand.
“Here. You look lost.” The girl offered. “Some whiskey will do you good.”
Delilah dragged in a deep breath and shook her head. “Tea would suffice for me.”
Charlotte seated herself near Delilah, sipping her whiskey, once she had rung for tea.
“It is in the papers, you know.” She huffed. “This… Lord Ainsworth’s murder.”
Delilah shrugged wordlessly.
“They even attained a two-minute quiet in his homage at the assembly.” Charlotte snorted. “They said it was quite a shame for Great Britain to lose a peer in such malicious mean. They think it was political rivalry that cost him his precious life.”
“Quite a shame, indeed.” Delilah muttered austerely. “The girls were rescued from his dungeon, I suppose.”
“Oh yes!” Charlotte straightened, leaning into her lap. “They were, as hinted by our men. And sent to a reliable orphanage, most of them. But can you believe this? The news has been kept entirely unconnected of poor Lord’s death. His reputation has not been sullied in the least.”
“I do not care what they do of his reputation Charlotte.” Delilah deadpanned frowning at her companion. “That’s politics. What I care for is_ that this should be warning enough for rest of his likes out there.”
“Or you will kill each one of them?”
“Without a doubt.” Delilah fizzed, her brown eyes glazing. “But first, I would rather account that mysterious man who_”
A knock at the door interrupted her.
The tea arrived and with it arrived the young viscount, Lord Christopher Heathway, Charlotte’s husband, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief and holding a pile of papers.
He appeared tense.
As soon as the servant exited, Charlotte approached her husband, kissing him on his cheek. She sensed that something was wrong.
“I think we should not do this.” The man sighed, eyeing both the ladies in the dim morning library.
Delilah stood up, with a frown.
“Do what?” Charlotte demanded, holding his hand.
“Risk Delilah into this.” He answered his wife, turning away. “This mysterious man_ about whom you inquired, Delilah_ I don’t think…no, wait. I am quite decided. You are going nowhere near him.”
It was about the unknown man whom Lord Ainsworth had sold the bodies of the girls.
Delilah peaked instantly.
Rage brimmed her like potholes in monsoon.
“What do you mean?” She growled. “Who is he?”
“He is… too dangerous, Delilah.” Christopher hissed darkly. “You do not know what he is, who he is. If something happens, even I won’t be able to save you this time. So let’s be sure…”
“Let’s not, Lord Heathway.” Delilah spat, impatiently. “Let’s not manipulate me by talking of safe things and unsafe ones. Just tell me who this man is and what did he do with the bodies of those poor girls.”
The man threw his hand up in exasperation, clearly not ready to reveal the identity of this man. Instead, quite to Delilah’s disappointment, he turned to his wife and whispered something inexplicable making Charlotte’s eyes go saucers.
“Are you…”
“I am serious Charlotte.” He grumbled. “He is not just any man to be charged upon like she cudgeled Ainsworth. He is_”
“Enough!” Delilah snapped eyeing the man and his wife lethally. “He might as well be Prince of Russia, it doesn’t matter. Just tell me his name.”
Charlotte reached out for her arm but Delilah backed away in frustration.
“Don’t.” She whispered, putting her hands up. “Don’t think you can convince me otherwise.”
“Del, it’s unsafe.” Charlotte beseeched softly.
“Had it ever been about safety, Charlotte?” Delilah bit back, silencing her sister. “Hand me those paper, my lord.”
Lord Heathway, totally enervated against her obstinate single-mindedness whacked those sheets on the desk. Delilah wasted no time in picking it up and imperatively going through it once, whole. And then again. For the second time.
“Richard Winter.” She read the name and glanced up at her brother in law.
He appeared as if he had winced at the mention of that name.
“Duke of Yorkshire.” She continued warily. “And the rest of his establishment and records are extremely upright. He is a perfect gentleman infact.”
“Indeed.” Christopher jeered.
“Is this what terrifies you of him?” She posed with an extremely scornful smile. “The fact that he has a rank? That he is a duke?”
Christopher let out a bitter laughter, turning to face her.
“Oh no, dear sister.” He sneered darkly making her go still. “What terrifies me is the fact that confidentially, he is having a couple of dozens cadavers down the basement of his mansion.”
And there, the game of cloak-and-dagger began.