Page 20 of Duke of Bronze
Roderick turned to him. "I'll send word when you can return."
Colin studied the room one last time, his instincts prickling. Something was being kept from him. He nodded, then left, his disappointment raw.
He had just stepped out of the house when he caught the most shocking and curious sight.
Anna?
There was no mistaking her. She might be attired in the plainest clothes he'd ever seen—so much so that one could easily mistake her for a commoner, or even a scullery maid—but her bright green eyes and freckled cheeks made her instantly recognizable.
His real curiosity, however, was what in the world she was doing in such an unsavory neighborhood. Certainly not a place for a gently bred lady of her stature.
She was yet to see him, and he took a step to approach her, only to be paused when someone pushing a cart nearly ran him over. "Watch it, man!"
"Beg your pardon," Colin called after him.
By the time he looked back to where he’d seen Anna, she was gone. Almost as though she'd never been there.
Had he just imagined it all then? Was he that plagued by thoughts of her now?
Colin strode into Copperton Hall and found Fisher pacing the front hall, his hands clasped behind him and the sound of his boots echoing through the grand foyer. At the sight of him, Fisher's shoulders relaxed somewhat.
"Thank God, Your Grace. I was beginning to think you'd—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "You've been gone a long while."
"Come with me," Colin ordered, already moving toward his study. Fisher fell into step beside him without hesitation. Once inside, Colin shut the door and turned to his valet. "How well do you know Whitechapel?"
Fisher's brows furrowed. "Not very much. I was born there, but you know I was raised in your stables."
Colin nodded. "Do you still have friends there?"
"Yes, I have a few friends there," Fisher confirmed. "What is it you wish to know?"
Colin removed the pistol he had traveled with and placed it in a drawer of his desk before sitting behind the massive oak table. "Do you know a man by the name of Roderick Millard?"
Fisher's eyes widened. "The Mighty Stone?"
"Ah, so youdoknow him."
Fisher let out a low whistle. "Everyone in Whitechapel knows Stone. Reigning champion and undefeated for five years. A bruiser through and through!"
"Interesting… what else?"
"He has a wife and three children. Why do you ask, Your Grace?"
"He's been writing to me," Colin said. "There is something he and a woman named Lydia wish to tell me about my late father. But Lydia is too unwell to speak."
"Lydia? Never heard of her. But if she lives with Roderick, I can find out."
Colin inclined his head. "Do that, but be discreet. I don't wish for this matter to gain any unnecessary attention."
Fisher nodded. "I'll see what I can learn."
As he moved toward the door, Colin added, "Oh, and compensate Robinson for the clothes. I'll not be returning them. It would seem I have more business in the East End."
Fisher smirked. "I daresay he'll be pleased to know his wardrobe is now of noble distinction."
Colin merely waved him off, waiting until the door closed behind him before exhaling slowly. His mind drifted back to Whitechapel; to the dim room, the sick woman beyond the door, the wary glances exchanged in that tiny home. And then—Anna. Or had it been her? He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tired, that was all, and his mind was playing tricks on him.
Still, the thought of her lingered.
