A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Royston’s first cases had been a baby farm run by a pair of widows. One of the women who'd paid a few shillings for them to ‘find the baby a good home’ had been too naïve to understand that she’d been paying to have the child discreetly done away with. She’d called the police when she read a description of a tiny, newspaper-wrapped corpse found discarded in an alleyway and recognized the unusual birthmark.
      But the nature of Doctor Death’s crimes, the strength involved, the serial preying on young women, all these pointed toward a man.
    So far, his investigation had only managed to narrow the field of possible suspects to roughly half the population of London.
    It was a pleasant enough day to be out driving. The April sun was just warm enough, and the air was sweeter outside the closeness of inner London. Birds were singing, and verdant hedgerows lined the roads. Despite the darkness of the case on his mind, Royston enjoyed the drive.  
    And then the road took him past Beechwood, the Royston family estate where his mother had once been a governess.
    Royston had never passed through that tall iron gate, but he imagined beyond the twisting, hedge-lined path a fairytale house of white marble hidden behind venerable, moss-draped oaks and willows weeping greenery down to a verdant lawn, the house itself glowing in the sunlight like a dream. If the family’s eldest son, the man who sired Royston, had not been killed before he could fulfill his promise to wed Royston’s mother, Royston would have grown up on that estate, playing merry games of hide-and-seek with other lords’ children in the garden, doted on by father and mother and spoiled by servants. Denied the right to give her son his father’s surname, his mother had made Royston his given name instead, over the objection of the ancient and titled family.
    He clucked to the pony, wanting to get past those ivy-draped stone walls more quickly. Still the shadows of that estate seemed to chase him as he drove down the sunlit road to his destination.
    Everything about the Fairchild estate spoke eloquently of old money preserved into modern times. Two wings had been built off the central house—the white stone of the original had been carefully matched, so only the graying that came with weathering and age told that the center portion was older, probably by a century or more. Both wings had been added at about the same time.
    The manor could probably shelter the entirety of the London police force, from the Commissioner down to the lowliest clerk, without anyone feeling crowded. What did one family, even a family with servants, do with that much space? It looked like entirely too respectable a house to harbor any secrets, but Royston’s time with the Yard had taught him to see beyond such illusions.
    A pair of liveried servants came out to take the pony and to inquire whether sir was expected. Royston admitted that he was not, gave his full name and title, and stated with confidence learned with practice that he wished to speak to the lady of the house on a matter of police business.  
    The servant’s expression clearly showed what he thought of a mere detective impertinent enough to disturb his mistress’s leisure, but he took his card all the same and left him to wait on the wide marble porch while he inquired if his mistress was disposed to speak to a detective. The marble, he noted, was worn near the doorstep where centuries of Fairchilds and their well-bred guests had crossed the threshold. It was a monument to ages of wealth.
    The two marble planters on either side of the door appeared to be more recent additions and lacked the patina of age. Each held well-tended rose bushes with abundant yellow roses, although the perfection of the bush on the left was marred by a black cat that nestled in near the bottom, bending stems and scattering petals. The cat considered him through slitted green eyes, as though it, too, questioned his right to disturb the