Sebastian kept his gaze on the stage below.
Resplendent in the red velvet robes of Portia in The Merchant of Venice, Kat was as beautiful as ever, her cheekbones exquisitely high and flaring, her dark hair touched with fire by the gleam of candlelight, her blue St. Cyr eyes flashing. He watched, his heart aching with need and want, late into the final act. Then he quietly left his seat and headed for the private dressing room he knew so well.
He was waiting for her when she swept in after the final curtain call, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed with triumph. Then she saw him and froze.
“I’m sorry for coming here,” he said, his shoulders braced against the far wall, his arms crossed at his chest. “But I couldn’t see presenting myself at your new husband’s house, and I need to talk to you.”
She had full, sensuous lips, a child’s nose, and slanting cat’s eyes she’d inherited from the woman who’d once stolen Hendon’s heart. Eyes she half hid with a downward sweep of her lashes as she closed the door quietly behind her. “You are always welcome there.”
Nine months before, she had married an ex-privateer named Russell Yates, a dashing nobleman’s son with long dark hair, a pirate’s gold hoop earring, and a flair for making himself the darling of the ton. But theirs was a marriage of convenience only, for Kat had made herself Jarvis’s enemy, and Yates had in his possession proof of a dirty little secret from the powerful man’s past. In exchange for protecting Kat from Jarvis, Yates received the cachet of being married to the most beautiful, desirable woman on the London stage. Which was important, given that Yardley’s sexual interests did not run to women.
When Sebastian returned no answer, Kat went to settle before her dressing table and began removing pins from her hair. “It must be important. You’ve been avoiding me for months now.”
“You know why.”
“Yes. I know why.”
He drew a deep breath, but it did nothing to ease the ache in his chest. He shouldn’t have come. He pushed away from the wall. “Last night, someone bashed in the head of the Bishop of London.”
Her hands stilled at their task. “And you’ve been drawn into the investigation of his murder?” Sebastian’s involvement in cases of murder had always troubled Kat. Of all the people in his life, she knew better than any—better even than Gibson—how much it cost him. “Oh, Sebastian.”
He gave a negligent shrug. “My aunt asked it of me.”
Her gaze met his in the mirror, her head tipping sideways. “You don’t seriously think I was in any way acquainted with the good Bishop, of all people?”
“No. But there is some suggestion he was vulnerable to blackmail. I thought you might know why.”
Once, she had labored to aid the country of her mother’s birth—Ireland—by passing sensitive information to the agents of England’s enemy, France. Ferreting out the secrets of the powerful and influential was an established technique in espionage. Which meant that if Bishop Prescott had indeed guarded a dangerous secret, then the representatives of Napoléon in London would have made it their business to know about it. Blackmail could be a powerful tool.
She understood at once the implication of his question. “I ended those associations months ago. You know that, Sebastian.”
“Still?”
Her gaze held his in the mirror. “Still.”
“But you would know whom to ask.”
She took the last pin from her hair, letting it cascade in glorious waves around her shoulders. He had to tighten his fists to keep from reaching out and touching it. She said, “I could find out, yes.”
He turned toward the door. “Thank you.”
He had his hand on the knob when she said, “Sebastian—”
He glanced back at her. The flames of the candles at each end of her dressing table fluttered in the draft, dancing poignant shadows across the planes of her face. She said, “Sebastian, how are you? Really?”
He found he had to swallow before answering. “I’m well, thank you.”
Her brows drew together in a frown. “You look thinner . . . wilder.”
He gave a sudden laugh. “At least I’ve given up trying to drink myself to death.”
No answering smile touched her lips. “That is an improvement.”
“And you?” he said, his voice gruff. “How is your marriage?”
“As I would wish it,” she said. Which could mean anything, or nothing.
He closed the door quietly behind him. He stood for a moment in the narrow corridor, breathed in the achingly familiar scents of oranges and greasepaint and dust.
Then he walked away, his footsteps echoing in the stillness.
He arrived back at Brook Street some hours later to find Tom awaiting him in the library.
“You shouldn’t have stayed up for me,” said Sebastian, holding himself painfully still.
Tom’s eyes widened, taking in the slightly disordered cravat, the dangerous glitter that told of too many brandies downed too quickly. But all he said was, “I found yer Jack Slade. ’E ’as a shop in Monkwell Street, jist off Falcon Square, near St. Paul’s.”
Sebastian turned toward the stairs. “Good. We’ll pay him a visit first thing in the morning. Best get some sleep.”
“I asked around the neighborhood a bit, to see what manner o’ man ’e is. From what I can tell, ’e’s what ye might call an unsavory character. ’Im and ’is son, Obadiah, both.”
Sebastian paused with one foot on the bottom step. “He has a son named Obadiah Slade?”
“That’s right. Giant o’ a man, with a lantern jaw and yellow ’air ’e wears cut short enough to show an ugly scar running across the side o’ ’is ’ead.” Tom tipped his own head sideways, studying Sebastian’s face. “Why? Ye know ’im?”
“He was a corporal in my regiment, in Portugal. If it had been up to me, he’d have been hanged. As it was, he earned a hundred lashes and was cashiered from the Army.”
Tom’s face went suddenly solemn.
“What?” prompted Sebastian.
“They say ’e ain’t been back in town long. But ’e’s been talking big ever since ’e got back. About some officer ’e knew in the Army, some lord’s son. Says if ’e ever sees ’im again, ’e’s gonna kill ’im.”
Chapter 13
THURSDAY, 9 JULY 1812
Early the next morning, Sebastian donned a rough brown corduroy coat and greasy breeches gleaned from the secondhand clothing stalls of Rosemary Lane. Wrapping a coarse black cravat around his neck, he rubbed ashes into his uncombed hair and unshaven cheeks. Under Jules Calhoun’s amused eye, he settled an unfashionable round hat low on his head. Then he set out in search of Mr. Jack Slade.
Lying to the northeast of St. Paul’s Cathedral, Monkwell Street proved to be a narrow lane of small shops that wound uphill toward the noisome churchyard of St. Giles Cripplegate and the vast burial ground beyond it. “There,” said Tom, as Sebastian reined in the curricle at the base of the hill. “That’s Jack Slade’s place. Next to the knackery.”
“Convenient.”
“Maybe. If yer customers ain’t bothered by bein’ reminded o’ where their vitals come from.”
Sebastian eyed his young tiger with astonishment. “I’d no notion you harbored such exquisite sensibilities.”
Tom grunted and took the reins.
Jumping down, Sebastian continued up the lane on foot. With each step he sank deeper into the role he intended to play. The grace of the horseman and the swordsman faded away, along with the easy assurance that came unthinkingly to an earl’s son. His movements grew heavier, his demeanor pugnacious, argumentative. It was an acting trick Kat Boleyn had taught him years ago, when they’d been young and in love and blissfully, dangerously ignorant of the shared blood that flowed through their veins.