That afternoon, Stephen boarded his carriage, intending to discover the meaning of the tattoo on his neck. He’d instructed his driver to take him deeper into London, toward the Chinese merchant shops. He had armed himself with a revolver as a precaution.

He was so caught up in his thoughts regarding the tattoo, that he nearly missed seeing an Indian man, striding down the street—Anant Paltu. Now what was he doing here?

Stephen tensed and narrowed his gaze upon the man. Though Anant walked with a quiet deference, he didn’t believe for a moment that the man was here by coincidence.

“Follow him,” Stephen ordered the coachman.

Anant had been here on the night Daniel was killed. He was convinced of it, and as they moved further into London, the overpowering smells evoked images of that night. Smoke and the exotic tang of spices ripped through his mind, sending him back.

Cold. It had been so cold that February night, his breath sending clouds into the frosty air. He’d tracked Hollingford, tracing the man’s path back toward the Thames. Toward the ships.

Four men were arguing with Hollingford, and one pulled him back, confining his arms. His lungs burning, Stephen had raced forward to free the man. A long blade had flashed in the moonlight, and he’d stared in horror as Hollingford fell to the ground.

He’d been too late to save him.

A noise had sounded behind him and Stephen had turned, just as a knife cut him across his ribs, blinding him with pain.

The vision abruptly ended. His breathing was shaky, and his palms were damp.

“My lord?”

He gripped the edge of his seat and forced himself to inhale a full breath. “Yes?”

“My lord, I’m afraid he’s gone,” the coachman apologized. “He went toward those shops over there.”

Damn. He hadn’t expected to lose himself in the memory, but it had come upon him so suddenly, he’d lost track of his quarry.

“Await me here,” he ordered.

Though every instinct warned him not to pursue Anant, he sensed that the answers were close now. He would not let fear dictate his moves.

Stephen felt for the revolver within his coat. “If I don’t return in ten minutes, I’ll need your help.” Though he didn’t know where Anant had gone, he intended to question the shopkeepers.

The heavy scent of incense assailed him when Stephen entered the merchant’s shop. An oak table displayed bolts of colorful silk and bags of tea leaves. A woman lowered her head in respect before whispering to an elderly man. The man wore a grey beard so long, it nearly reached his middle. The merchant greeted him. “My lord.”

Stephen did not waste time in responding but instead held out a small pouch containing ten shillings. “I’ll add twenty more pounds to this, if you answer my questions truthfully.”