Kane laughed, his attention all for his sketch. Sebastian said, “And was Rose willing to be released to this O’Brian?”
Kane kept his gaze on his sketch. “Actually, no.”
“Why not?”
“She didn’t say.”
“She didn’t say, or you’re not saying?”
They were both aware of a heavy tread on the stairs. A moment later, Kane’s pet prizefighter came back into the chamber, the thug’s eyes narrowing when he saw Sebastian. “Trouble here, Mr. Kane?”
“No trouble,” said Sebastian, one hand slipping, significantly, to the small flintlock he kept in his coat pocket. “I was just leaving.”
The henchman’s gaze flicked to Sebastian’s hand. He set his jaw, but stayed where he was.
Sebastian smiled. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He bowed to the silent woman on the divan. “Madame.”
Cherry was waiting for Sebastian on the footpath outside the Black Dragon.
“You didn’t get hurt, did you?” he said, dropping a crown into her outstretched palm.
“Me? Nah. It was fun. Did yer little trick get ye what ye wanted?”
Sebastian glanced toward the tavern in time to see a bulky shadow jerk back away from the lamplight. “I’m not sure.”
Chapter 13
George, Prince Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, gripped a vial of smelling salts in one plump white hand and held it to his own nostrils.
“Perceval tells us there was another attack in Yorkshire,” said the Prince. “Luddites!” He inhaled deeply and shuddered, although whether it was in reaction to the smelling salts or the thought of the Luddites, Jarvis couldn’t be certain. “Carrying on like savages,” continued the Prince. “Hiding their faces. Smashing machines. Something must be done about this!”
“A number of arrests have already been made,” said Jarvis, privately consigning the Prime Minister to the devil. Whatever had possessed Perceval to regale the Regent with this tale? “Unfortunately, the lower orders are still infected by the events in France. They think they can remold society. Become uppity with their betters. But the more progress our armies make on the Continent, the sooner these Luddites and their ilk will see the error of their ways.”
“Yes, but are we making progress on the Continent?”
“We will,” said Jarvis resolutely.
The Regent shifted against his pillows, restless. A giant platter of buttered crab and four bottles of port after dinner last night had brought on the most alarming of the Prince’s symptoms—the bowel distress, the tingling in his hands and feet, the mental confusion. That episode—combined with a heavy bleeding by Dr. Heberden—had left George too exhausted to do more than totter between his bed and his dressing room couch. But not, unfortunately, too exhausted to receive his Prime Minister.
George said, “Perceval brought me a copy of his newest pamphlet. He seems to have discovered an alarming prophesy in the Bible. Something about a new satanic power rising in the west. The pamphlet is there, near the window.” The Prince waved one fat, beringed hand in a vague gesture toward a small table.
Jarvis generally tried to ignore the Prime Minister’s periodic attempts at elucidating godly intent. Religion had its place in society, reconciling the masses to their fate and assuring their docile acceptance of the rule of their betters. But this was taking things too far. “Don’t tell me Perceval has equated our former American colonies with this new satanic threat?”
The Regent took another sniff of his salts. “He fears it may be so.”
“Well, I’ll be certain to read this new pamphlet with interest,” said Jarvis. Tucking the offending publication beneath one arm, he bowed himself out of the royal presence.
A tall, muscular man had been leaning against the far wall of the Prince’s antechamber. As Jarvis crossed the room toward the corridor, the man fell into step beside him.
“About the matter we discussed earlier,” said Colonel Epson-Smith.
“Walk with me,” said Jarvis, turning into the corridor.
The two men’s footsteps echoed up and down the cavernous space. Epson-Smith kept his voice low. “It seems someone else has an interest in the event.”
“Who?” said Jarvis without breaking stride.
“Devlin.”
“Devlin? What is his interest in this?”
“He refuses to say. There’s a woman making inquiries, as well.”
“A woman?” Jarvis swung to face the man beside him, and whatever Epson-Smith saw in Jarvis’s face caused the Colonel to take a step back.
“I’m not certain yet who she is, my lord. But word on the streets is that a gentlewoman has been asking questions at some of the lodging houses in Covent Garden and—”
“Forget about the woman,” Jarvis snapped and continued walking.
Epson-Smith inclined his head and fell into step beside him. “As you wish, my lord. And Devlin?”
Jarvis paused at the entrance to his own chambers. A thin, nervous clerk leapt to attention. “My lord!”
Jarvis thrust the Prime Minister’s pamphlet at the clerk and said curtly, “Burn this.”
The clerk bobbed a frightened bow. “Yes, my lord.”
To Epson-Smith, Jarvis said simply, “I’ll deal with Devlin.”
Chapter 14
Paul Gibson kept his surgery in an ancient sandstone building at the base of Tower Hill. Beside it stood his house, also of stone, but small and ill-kept, for Gibson house, also of stone, but small and ill-kept, for Gibson was a bachelor with a housekeeper named Mrs. Federico who refused to set foot in any room containing human parts in glass jars—a prejudice that effectively limited her to the kitchen, dining room, and hallway.
“It’s a pig’s fetus,” said Gibson, identifying the small purplish-pink curl floating in liquid in a jar on the parlor mantelpiece that had caught Sebastian’s attention. “I was using it for comparative purposes in my anatomy class at St. Thomas’s.”
“Ah,” said Sebastian, going to splash brandy into two glasses and carrying one to his friend.
“I told Mrs. Federico it was a pig,” said Gibson, taking the glass with thanks. “But she still refused to clean in here.”
Sebastian moved a pile of papers and books from the worn leather sofa to the floor and sat down. “One would think she’d be used to it by now.”
“Some people never get used to it.”
Sebastian wasn’t sure he himself would ever get used to the body parts Gibson scattered so carelessly around his house, but he kept that observation to himself.
Gibson said, “Sir William turned all of the women’s bodies over to the Friends for burial. The service is set for tomorrow evening. Unfortunately, the Friends refused to grant me permission to perform any postmortems. But they did allow me to examine the bodies more thoroughly.”
“And?”
“I don’t think any of those women died from the fire.” Gibson propped the stump of his left leg up on a stool, his head bowed to hide the grimace of pain that contorted his features. There were times, Sebastian knew, when the pain grew so fierce that Gibson could abandon himself for days to the sweet relief of opium-induced oblivion. “They were all dead—or close to it—when the fire was set. At least,” the doctor added, “I assume it was set. I have no evidence of that.”