When Gods Die

He took off for the eddy of noise and movement that was Giltspur Street, his feet slipping and sliding in the slimy mud of the alleyway. Bursting out the mouth of the passage, he nearly collided with a dogcart. He heard the blond man’s voice behind him, raised in anger. “Stop him! Stop, thief!”

Oh, Jesus, thought Tom, his heart beating so hard in his chest it hurt. Oh, Jesus, no. He darted down a narrow street, heard a whistle blowing shrill and insistent behind him. His breath soughing in his throat, Tom leapt over the smoldering barrow in his path and kept running.

It was nearly dark now. He could see the looming, shadowy stalls of the marketplace up ahead. If he could make it to the open ground, lose himself amongst the deserted stalls, maybe hide beneath one…

The whistle blew again. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and ran straight into the outstretched arms of a market beadle who stepped from behind the nearest stall.

The beadle’s big, strong hands closed over Tom’s shoulders, holding him fast. “Gotcha, lad.”

Tom reared back, his blood pounding in his ears, his breath coming hard and fast. The beadle’s face was broad and fleshy, his nose bulbous. In the last light of the dying day, the brass buttons on his coat gleamed like gold.

“Whadjah do then, lad? Hmmm?”

“Nothing,” said Tom with a gasp. “I didn’t do nothing.”

The blond man crossed the open ground, his greatcoat flaring with each step. “The little bugger stole my friend’s watch.”

Tom squirmed in the beadle’s grasp. “I didn’t!” He was so scared, his legs were trembling. It was only by concentrating very, very hard that he kept from wetting himself.

“No?” said the blond man, reaching out. “Then what’s this?”

It was an old trick. Tom saw the gold watch hidden in the man’s palm and tried to flinch away, but the market beadle held him firm. Held him there, while the gentleman slipped his hand into Tom’s pocket and seemingly drew the watch out by its chain.

“See. Here it is.”

Tom lunged against the beadle’s hard grip. “He palmed it. You saw it, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“There, there, lad,” said the beadle. “You’ve been caught red-handed. Best you can do now is take the consequences like a true Englishman.”

“I tell you, I didn’t steal anybody’s bloody watch. I’m Viscount Devlin’s tiger and these men—”

The beadle roared with laughter. “Ho. Of course you are. And I’m Henry the Eighth.” He looked over at the blond man. “You’ll be laying charges?”

The blond man had a queer look on his face, sort of thoughtful and calculating. Tom suddenly regretted having mentioned Lord Devlin’s name in his presence.

“My friend will,” said the blond man, giving Tom a cold, hard smile. “We aim to see the little bugger hanged.”

Chapter 42

Sebastian awakened early the next morning to the alarming intelligence that his tiger had not yet returned.

“Send Giles to have the carriage brought around immediately,” Sebastian told his valet.

“The carriage, my lord? For Smithfield?”

“That’s right.” This time, Sebastian decided, there would be no subterfuge. He intended to use the full weight of his wealth and position, stopping at nothing to find out what had happened to the boy.

Sedlow stared straight ahead, his countenance wooden. “And will you be wearing one of your Rosemary Lane coats this morning, my lord?”

Sebastian paused in the act of tying his cravat and glanced over at his valet. “I think not.”

Sedlow sniffed, his normally placid features drawn. “Yes, my lord. It’s just that…if you were by any chance expecting events of a nature such as you have already encountered twice this week, I wouldn’t want to think that you were exposing your wardrobe to destruction merely out of consideration for my sensibilities.”

“Rest assured, my consideration of your sensibilities was in no way responsible for the destruction of my coat and waistcoat in Covent Garden the other night.”

“And your doeskin breeches,” added Sedlow. “I fear they are beyond repair.”

“Do what you can, Sedlow,” said Sebastian, turning at his majordomo’s knock. “Yes? Has he returned?”

“I fear not, my lord. But there is a person here to see you.” Morey’s inflection of the word person precisely conveyed his opinion of the visitor. “She says she was Lady Anglessey’s abigail.”

Sebastian swore softly to himself. He was half tempted to have Morey tell the woman his lordship had already gone out. Except that whatever had brought Tess Bishop here to see him had to be important. And it would take time to have the horses put to. He shrugged into his coat. “Show her into the morning room and tell her I’ll be down in a moment. Oh and, Morey,” he added as the man turned to leave, “have some tea and biscuits sent in to her.”

Morey kept his face wooden. “Yes, my lord.”

Sebastian found Tess Bishop sitting straight-backed in one of the morning room’s silk-covered chairs, her hands in her lap, the tea service and plate of biscuits on the table beside her untouched. At the sight of Sebastian, she