The other had been blown from his face in the mountains of Afghanistan over a dozen years ago, and the empty socket sat beneath a black leather half-mask that lent his formerly handsome features a distinctly piratical flavor.The remaining eye, however, was keen and blue and missed nothing. He raised his head and said, “The handwriting bears certain characteristics of the German Gothic script, don’t you think?”Hatherfield nodded. “My thought exactly. Do you recognize the hand?”“No.” The duke looked back down at the letters and adjusted one to a more perfect longitude against its fellows. Adjusted it with his left hand, for his right—like its corresponding eye—no longer existed, another casualty of clandestine warfare. “But I’m no expert in this damned organization. I do have my suspicions.”“Who?”“There’s a fellow who keeps watch over the house in Park Lane. Hans, the old Prince’s valet. Emilie swears to his fidelity—so does Dingleby—but I take nothing for granted.”“I’ll investigate, then.”Ashland drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk.
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