Free Roses in Moonlight by Lynn Kurland

down the street to catch a taxi on the busier cross street, not looking up as the bus passed him. The next train south left in an hour, which was enough time to make a few alterations to his appearance, have breakfast, then get a seat near his quarry.
    It was possible, he supposed, that she might go another direction besides south. It had been all he could do earlier that morning not to hack into Lydia Cooke’s bank account as well as paw through her emails to see what sort of travel arrangements she’d booked for Gavin’s sister, but that would have made things feel too easy.
    The very sad truth was, he was slightly bored.
    He wasn’t proud of it, but there it was. He wasn’t so bored that he’d become sloppy, not truly, but enough that he had left things unknown that he normally would have investigated without hesitation. Perhaps he had spent too many years rubbing shoulders with villains and the criminal class had ceased to hold any fascination for him. Their methods were different, true, but in the end they were all nothing more than a lot of punters with no respect for the law or anyone else’s property.
    He supposed there were those who might say the same about him for reading their private correspondence, but he supposed he wasn’t the only one, so perhaps that made it less unpalatable than it might have been otherwise.
    He crawled into the back of the taxi that pulled to a stop in front of him, gave the cabbie his destination, then sat back against the seat with a weary sigh. He was getting old, perhaps. He would be thirty-two in the fall, old enough to have settled down by now. Perhaps he was getting broody, though he couldn’t imagine any woman wanting to settle down with him. Instead of nights down at the pub with the lads, he spent his weekends—and some weeks, truth be told—with James MacLeod. Not exactly anything to write home about.
    Perhaps he simply had too many irons in the fire. He could give up something, perhaps, and have a bit more peace in his life. Cameron Antiquities, though, was his business and his source of not only pride but funds to keep petrol in his cars and food on his table. The other, well, he wasn’t sure he was willing to give up the exhilaration that was traveling to exotic locales with the madman from the castle down the way. It was no wonder Jamie was addicted to it. It was a damned good time.
    And what would he give it up for? If he’d heard one more London socialite coo, “Ooh, you’re Robert Cameron’s cousin, aren’t you?” whilst attempting to look discreetly around him for a Ferrari hiding behind his back, he would have likely cracked his teeth from grinding them in frustration. If he’d had one more Scottish lass from the village he’d been a part of for the better part of his life do the same, well, he would have moved to London permanently.
    He paid the cabbie and walked into the station, choosing a fairly large group to become a part of. He already had the train times committed to memory, so he kept a casual eye on Samantha Drummond, then noted the track she subsequently walked toward. He purchased a ticket, then followed her with equal casualness, passing and ignoring Oliver on his way. He waited until the train arrived, waited until the others disembarked, then followed Miss Drummond on board. He slid into a seat across the aisle and a row or two behind her where he could keep an eye on her without being overly obvious.
    He supposed to be fair he would have to admit that she was really quite lovely in a New-England-prep-school sort of way. He wouldn’t have been surprised to have watched her break out a mystery novel and read it whilst dressed in bobby socks and saddle shoes. If he’d been going on first impressions, he would have said she was nothing more than a very sheltered though well-educated youngest daughter of two academics with sterling reputations who had sent her across the Pond to associate with other sterling-reputationed academics who