The carriage moved steadily through the wet streets of London, its wheels rolling over the slick cobblestones as the horses carried Anthony farther from Bow Street.
He sat back against the leather upholstery, one arm resting along the side of the seat, his gaze fixed upon the window. Yes, he did intend to spend the evening elsewhere—a glass of wine, perhaps. A familiar face or two. Something sufficiently distracting to put the day's frustrations behind him.
Instead, he had spent the better part of an hour arguing with Penelope Anderson.
And, as though that had not been enough, she had managed to leave him with a question he could not seem to answer.
Ravensmere.
The name had escaped her lips with such casual certainty that, for a moment, he had almost forgotten to conceal his surprise. Or perhaps he did.
Anthony's fingers drummed once against the armrest. How did she learn about Ravensmere? He had been careful.
