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. Shehas 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 knewthat 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
T he 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
“Emily?” said Sebastian.
A faint suggestion of color touched the barrister’s pale cheeks. “Miss Emily Goodwin—the daughter of one of my colleagues. Shehas 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 knewthat 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
T he 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
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