Jim Tanner lingered in the alley just off Curzon Street, and bided his time. A blade lay in his palm, which he kept in the pocket of his long black coat, ready to sink it into the flesh of those pompous lords across the street if they interfered with his mission.
Soon, he promised himself.
His employer had urged him to wait, to snatch the girl without a fight. The order had been issued not out of any need to prevent violence, but to give Tanner time to get away before the alarm was raised. Bloodshed would shorten his exit strategy.
Blankenship was a fool to want nothing more than the little chit. The house he stared at now was probably filled with expensive items he could fetch a fair price for on Shoe Lane or Saffron Hill. The nouveau riche were only too happy to buy aristocratic items
