Chapter Eleven
Damn it. How had he lost Giles Abbishaw yet again? Perry retraced the route for a third time—alleyway, alleyway, mews . . . and then where? Had Giles turned left or right? And did it even matter at this point? He wasn’t going to find the man tonight. He’d be tucked up in his mistress’s bed by now.
Damn it all to perdition.
A pins-and-needles sensation crawled across his scalp. It wasn’t the first time Perry had felt it this evening, but he’d not caught sight of anyone following him.
He glanced around, saw nothing, and headed back towards Grosvenor Square. The prickling sensation grew more intense with each step that he took, more urgent. Perry halted and raised his fists, scanning the shadows, alert for ambush.
“Psst,” someone hissed above him. “Wintersmith.”
Two night
