As if from a long distance, he heard McCain clear his throat. “The idea was for Mrs. McCain to go away for a few months to visit a sister in Bath when the appropriate time came, and return with the child.”
Sebastian thrust to his feet and reached for his hat and gloves. “I understand. Please accept my apologies for intruding on your privacy.”
Mrs. McCain rose quickly beside him. “Won’t you stay for tea, Mr. Taylor?”
“What? Oh, no, thank you.” Sebastian’s fingers tightened on the brim of his hat. Then, because he knew the occasion required it, he added stiffly, “My congratulations on the coming adoption of the child.”
“But that’s just it,” said Mrs. McCain, looking stricken. “We don’t actually know the gentlewoman involved. We were never meant to know her. Bishop Prescott was the only link between us. Now that he is dead . . .” She lifted one hand, only to let it flutter helplessly back to her side.
“That is unfortunate,” said Sebastian. Although in truth, he found the thought of a child of his being raised by this stout, stuffy physician revolting. He knew an overwhelming urge to storm back to London, hunt down Miss Jarvis, and shake the truth out of her. “I’ve no doubt another such opportunity will arise in the future. Thank you for your help.”
“I was just on my way back to the hospital,” said Dr. McCain, following Sebastian out into the hall. “Walk with me for a ways, Mr. Taylor?”
“Of course,” said Sebastian, chafing at the delay while he waited for the physician to outfit himself with greatcoat, hat, gloves, and umbrella. “Please accept my apologies for any distress I may have caused Mrs. McCain.”
“It’s been a severe disappointment to her. I’ll not deny it.”
“I would imagine that as a physician you must come into contact with many such cases.”
McCain sighed. “No doubt that’s true of most physicians. Unfortunately, I work with old men.” The housemaid opened the door to a solid rain, and McCain paused to put up his umbrella. “Charlotte—Mrs. McCain—is so desperate for a child she’d be more than happy to pick up a foundling from the gutter, but . . .”
“But?” prompted Sebastian as they stepped off the shallow porch into the downpour.
McCain turned their steps toward the hospital. “Well, let’s just say I’ve bred enough horses and dogs in my day to know that characteristics such as temperament and intelligence are as likely as blue eyes and brown hair to be passed down from sire and dam. If I’m to adopt a child, I want to know something about the stable. The Bishop was able to vouch for the character of this babe’s mother and father. Reassured me both were young and healthy, and of good moral fiber. Superior in every way.”
Sebastian stared off through the rain, to where a wherryman in an oil slicker and a slouch hat was unloading his fare at the base of a set of wooden steps leading down to the wind-whipped river. “Prescott never said anything to give you some clue as to the identity of the child’s mother—or its father?”
McCain glanced at him in surprise. “Surely you don’t think the unborn child could have something to do with the Bishop’s death?”
“I don’t see how. But I honestly don’t know.”
The physician shook his head. “I’m sorry, but he was very careful not to give us any particulars.”
“I understand.” They had reached the edge of the hospital’s courtyard by now, the redbrick walls and white columns of the facade half obscured by the driving rain. Sebastian drew up. “Thank you again for your help.”
The physician frowned, stopping beside him. “You know, I’d swear I’ve met you before. It’s something about the eyes . . .”
Sebastian swiped the forearm of his rough coat across his wet face. “You don’t see many men with yellow eyes, I’ll admit.”
“True, true,” said McCain. “Although I met a highwayman with yellow eyes, once. Held me up and robbed me on Hounslow Heath, not three years ago.”
“I trust you’re not suggesting I might be a highwayman?”
The physician laughed. “Hardly. The man who robbed me was younger than you. Dark haired, and lean.”
“I was dark haired and young once myself. And lean.”
McCain laughed again. “Weren’t we all? It’s odd, though, because I was thinking about that highwayman just the other day. Someone else must have recently reminded me of him . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “It will come to me.”
“Perhaps it will.” Sebastian took a step back, boots splashing in the puddling water. “Thank you again for your time.”
“I wish I could have been of more assistance. He was a good man, Bishop Prescott.”
“Yes, he was.”
Head bent against the downpour, Sebastian turned to walk rapidly toward the road. But when he reached the footpath and glanced back, he saw McCain still standing beneath the portico of the east pensioner’s ward, his umbrella held aloft as he stared thoughtfully into the rain.
A hackney loomed out of the mist, harness jingling, the rawboned bay between the poles snorting as the jarvey pulled up in response to Sebastian’s raised hand.
“Where to, gov’nor?” shouted the jarvey, a big, broad-shouldered Cockney with a slouch hat pulled low over a beard-grizzled face.
“London. Brook Street.”
“Aye, gov’nor.” The hackney rolled forward as Sebastian leapt up and slammed the door behind him.
The inside of the carriage was damp, the straw on the floor old and foul, the ancient leather seats cracked. Sebastian settled gingerly into a corner, his arms crossed, his chin sinking to his chest as he listened to the rain drumming on the roof of the old carriage, the splash of the horse’s hooves as the hackney swung away from the curb.
Lost in a swirl of troubled thoughts, he was only dimly aware of the hackney lurching and bumping over the rutted road, of the air growing heavy with the stench of burning coal. He heard the hiss of steam, the roar of engines, and looked up suddenly.
Two tall, narrow towers loomed out of the rain, some four or five stories high and linked by a heavy timber scaffolding. Built of brick, the engine houses crowned a nearby small rise. He could see the sullen gleam of a series of ponds, the rain-pocked expanse of a channel that stretched back toward the river. And suddenly, he knew where he was: the Chelsea Water Works.
He was reaching up to signal the jarvey when the hackney came to a plunging halt and a heavy hand jerked open the door.
“Welcome, Captain Viscount,” said Obadiah Slade, his fist tightening around a stout cudgel.
Chapter 33
Surging forward, Sebastian gripped the scarred wood framing the ancient carriage door and levered up off the tattered seat to swing both feet through the open doorway.
Driven hard by the momentum of the swing and packing Sebastian’s full weight, his boots caught Obadiah square in the chest. He staggered back with a grunt, his scarred, shaven head jerking, his powerful arms flailing as he fought to keep his balance in the mud.
Rain pounded on the old wooden roof of the hackney carriage, slapped into the dull, muddy surface of the ponds that stretched out into the mist. Sebastian jerked the knife from his boot and leapt from the carriage.
He landed in the wet, grassy verge, knife held low, body crouched in a street fighter’s stance. He could hear the roar of the engines from the nearby waterworks, the hiss of steam, and the splat of a pair of rough boots landing in the muddy lane as the hackney driver dropped off the box behind him.
Sebastian tightened his grip on his knife, his breath coming hard and fast. He now had one man before him, one man at his back. He heard the whistle of a whip cutting through the air and threw himself sideways, the tip of the driver’s horsewhip flicking across his temple.