He frowned, as if the possible relevance of his sister s scholarship to her death escaped him. Of course; if you wish. I ll be leaving for Enfield at first light, but I ll direct the servants to provide you with any assistance you may require. You can box it all up and simply take it, if that would help.
It would, yes. Thank you.
Tennyson set aside his glass and rose to his feet with a bow.
You have both been most kind. Please don t bother ringing; I can see myself out.
I ll walk down with you, said Sebastian, aware of Hero s narrowed gaze following them as they left the room.
It occurs to me there may be something else you felt reluctant to mention in front of Lady Devlin, Sebastian said as they descended the stairs.
Tennyson looked vaguely confused. No, nothing.
Any possibility someone could be seeking to hurt you by striking at those you love?
I can t think of anyone, he said slowly as they reached the ground hall. Although in my profession one never He broke off, his eyes widening. Merciful heavens. Emily.
Emily? said Sebastian.
A faint suggestion of color touched the barrister s pale cheeks. Miss Emily Goodwin the daughter of one of my colleagues. She has recently done me the honor of agreeing to become my wife, although the death of her paternal grandmother has perforce delayed the formal announcement of our betrothal.
You may count on my discretion.
Yes, but do you think she could be in danger?
I see no reason to alarm her unnecessarily, especially given that the particulars of your betrothal are not known. Sebastian nodded to Morey, who opened the front door. But it might be a good idea to suggest that she take care.
I will, yes; thank you.
Sebastian stood in the open doorway and watched the man hurry away into the hot night. Then he went back upstairs to his wife.
And what precisely was that about? she asked, one eyebrow raised, as he walked into the room.
Sebastian found himself smiling. I thought there might be something he was reluctant to discuss in front of such a delicate lady as yourself.
Really. And was there?
No. Only that it seems he s formed an attachment to some Miss Goodwin, the daughter of one of his colleagues, and now he s hysterical with the fear that his sister s killer might strike against her next. I suspect it s a fear shared by virtually every father, husband, and brother out there.
You think it s possible Gabrielle s death could have something to do with her brother s legal affairs?
At this point, almost anything seems possible.
Tom squinted down at Hero s map, his lips pursing as he traced the dotted line of London s old Roman walls, which she had superimposed on her sketch of the city s modern streets.
Can you follow it? asked Sebastian, watching him. He knew that someone at some point had taught Tom to read, before the death of the boy s father had driven the family into desperation.
Aye. I think maybe I even know the place yer lookin for. There s a tavern called the Black Devil about ere He tapped one slightly grubby finger just off Bishopsgate. It s owned by a fellow named Jamie Knox.
Sebastian looked at his tiger in surprise. You know him?
Tom shook his head. Never seen the fellow meself. But I ve eard tales o him. E s a weery rum customer. A weery rum customer indeed. They say e dresses all in black, like the devil.
A somewhat dramatic affectation. It wasn t unusual for gentlemen in formal evening dress to wear a black coat and black knee breeches. But the severity of the attire was always leavened by a white waistcoat, white silk stockings, and of course a white cravat.
Not sure what that means, said Tom, but I do know folks say e musta sold is soul to the devil, for e s got the devil s own luck. They say e as the reflexes of a cat. And the eyes and ears of
What? prodded Sebastian when the boy broke off.
Tom swallowed. They say e as the eyes and ears of a cat, too. Yellow eyes.
Chapter 15
The Black Devil lay in a narrow cobbled lane just off Bishopsgate.
Sebastian walked down gloomy streets lit haphazardly by an occasional sputtering oil lamp or flaring torch thrust into a sconce high on an ancient wall. The houses here dated back to the time of the Tudors and the Stuarts, for this was a part of London that had escaped the ravages of the Great Fire. Once home to courtiers attached to the court of James I, the area had been in a long downward slide for the past century. The elaborately carved fronts overhanging the paving were sagging and worn; the great twisting chimneys leaned precariously as they poked up into the murky night sky.
By day, this was a district of small tradesmen: leather workers and chandlers, clock makers and tailors. But now the shops were all shuttered for the night, the streets given over to the patrons of the grog shops and taverns that spilled golden rectangles of light and boisterous laughter into the night.
He paused across the street from the Black Devil, in the shadows cast by the deep doorway of a calico printer s shop. He let his gaze rove over the public house s gable-ended facade and old-fashioned, diamond-paned windows. Suspended from a beam over the door hung a cracked wooden sign painted with the image of a horned black devil, his yellow-eyed head and barbed tail silhouetted against a roaring orange and red fire. As Sebastian watched, the sign creaked softly on its chains, touched by an unexpected gust of hot wind.
Crossing the narrow lane, he pushed through the door into a noisy, low-ceilinged public room with a sunken stone-flagged floor and oak-paneled walls turned black by centuries of smoke. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and ale and unwashed, hardworking male bodies. The men crowded up to the bar and clustered around the tables glanced over at him, then went back to their pints and their bonesticks and their draughts.
Help ye, there? called a young woman from behind the bar, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing with shrewd appraisal. She looked to be somewhere in her early twenties, dark haired and winsome, with a wide red mouth and soft white breasts that swelled voluptuously above the low-cut bodice of her crimson satin gown.
Sebastian pushed his way through the crowd to stand half turned so that he still faced the room. In this gathering of tradesmen and laborers, costermongers and petty thieves, his doeskin breeches, clean white cravat, and exquisitely tailored coat of Bath superfine all marked him as a creature from another world. The other men at the bar shifted subtly, clearing a space around him.
A go of Cork, he said, then waited until she set the measure of gin on the boards in front of him to add, I m looking for Jamie Knox; is he here?
The woman behind the bar wiped her hands on the apron tied high around her waist, but her gaze never left his face. And who might ye be, then?
Devlin. Viscount Devlin.
She stood for a moment with her hands still wrapped in the cloth of her apron. Then she jerked her head toward the rear. He s out the back, unloading a delivery. There s an alley runs along the side of the tavern. The court opens off that.
Sebastian laid a coin on the scarred surface of the bar. Thank you.
The alley was dark and ripe with the stench of rotting offal and fish heads and urine. The ancient walls looming high above him on either side bulged out ominously, so that someone had put in stout timber braces to keep the masonry from collapsing. As he drew nearer, he realized the tavern backed onto the churchyard of St. Helen s Bishopsgate, a relic of a now-vanished priory of Benedictine nuns. He could see the church s ancient wooden tower rising over a swelling burial ground where great elms moaned softly with the growing wind.
He paused just outside the entrance to the tavern yard. The courtyard looked to be even older than the tavern itself, its cobbles undulating and sunken, with one unexpectedly high wall of coursed flint blocks bonded with rows of red tile. Sebastian could understand why a woman with Gabrielle Tennyson s interests would find the site fascinating.