the ceaseless rattle of the dice box.
Gibson lifted a glass from one of the waiters who circled the rooms bearing trays of claret and brandy. A woman wearing a scarlet gown with a shockingly low decolletage cast him a speculative glance, then brushed past him. Gibson thought the diamonds in her ears looked real, but then, what did a poor Irish doctor know? He fortified himself with a sip of brandy and pushed on.
Scanning the gaming tables and the crowd around the whirling roulette wheel, he followed the gently curving staircase up to the next floor. The lights here were dimmer, but not dim enough to hide the bare flesh and unmistakable postures of the men and women who cavorted in groups of two, three, or more on low sofas and scattered cushions. Gibson felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment, and looked pointedly away.
He found Viscount Devlin sprawled on the velvet cushion of an embrasure overlooking the darkened street below, one fist wrapped around the neck of a bottle of good French brandy. As Gibson watched, a half-naked woman stroked one hand over his chest and down his stomach, but Devlin shook his head and brought his hand down on hers to stop its slow descent. The woman mewed softly in disappointment, then moved away. The Viscount raised the brandy to his lips and drank deep. Gibson had been afraid he might find his friend in one of those knots of groping, naked flesh. But Devlin seemed more interested in drinking himself to death than in drowning his pain in sex.
“There you are, me lad,” said Gibson heartily, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “Sorry I took so long. You haven’t forgotten you promised to meet my sister tonight, have you?”
Devlin swung his head to stare directly at him. The feral yellow eyes were glittering and dangerous. “Your sister?”
“Ah. See, you have forgotten. I’ve a hackney waiting outside. I know the Beau has dictated that no gentleman should condescend to ride in a hackney, but my carriage is being repaired, so I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about it.”
“You don’t own a carriage,” said Sebastian. “Nor do you have a sister.”
“Now that’s where you’re out, my friend. I do indeed have a sister. But seeing as how she’s taken the veil in a nunnery near Killarney, I don’t think you’d want to meet her. Especially not in your present condition.”
Devlin laughed and pushed to his feet. His cravat was rumpled and his hair more disheveled than normal, but his gait was steady enough as they walked down the stairs. It was only when they reached the narrow lane outside the gaming hell’s discreet door that the Viscount paused to lean against the rough brick wall and squeeze his eyes shut.
“Bloody hell,” he said after a moment.
Gibson studied his friend’s pale face and tightly clenched jaw. “I haven’t seen you this foxed since that night in San Domingo.”
“I haven’t been this foxed since that night in San Domingo. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been this foxed.” Devlin opened his eyes and stared at him. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Tom was worried about you.”
The dangerous glitter was back in the Viscount’s eyes. “The devil you say.”
“That’s right.” Gibson clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder, then laughed softly when Devlin winced. “And tomorrow, when you sober up, you can thank him.”
The doctor waited until they were in the hackney headed toward Tower Hill before saying, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard the news.”
Devlin had been gazing silently out the window, but at that he swung his head to stare at Gibson. “What news?”
“They’ve arrested the Butcher of the West End. A country gentleman from Hertfordshire.”
Devlin was suddenly, almost frighteningly sober. “Brandon Forbes?”
“That’s it.”
“But he didn’t do it.”
Gibson raised one eyebrow. “Can you prove it?”
“No.”
“Then he’ll hang for it, for sure. Either that, or some mob will pull him out of his cell and tear him to pieces. People are afraid. They want someone’s blood, and quick.”
“Stop the carriage,” said Devlin.
Gibson sprang to signal the driver. “Why? What is it?”
Devlin shoved open the door. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
SUNDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER 1811
Charles, Lord Jarvis spent as little time as possible in his house in Berkeley Square. But he always attended Sunday-morning services at St. James’s chapel with his harridan of a mother, his half-mad wife, and his determinedly unwed daughter, Hero. After church, it was his practice to pass several hours in his library dealing with affairs of state before sitting down to Sunday dinner with his family. He was very conscious of the need for the better classes to set a proper example for the lower orders, and church attendance and devotion to family were an important part of that example. It was a duty he had sought to impress upon his daughter, although with indifferent success.
On this particular Sunday, he returned from chapel to find the reports of several of his agents awaiting his attention on his desk. Devlin’s interference with his plans to use the actress Kat Boleyn to ferret out the identity of Napoleon’s new spymaster had forced Jarvis to fall back on more traditional means, but so far his agents had proved unsuccessful. He was glancing through their reports when he was interrupted by a cautious knock.
“Yes, what is it?” he said without looking up.
“A Mr. Russell Yates to see you, my lord.”
Jarvis’s head came up. “What the bloody hell does he want?”
“Shall I tell him you are not at home, my lord?”
Jarvis tightened his jaw. “No. Send him in.”
Russell Yates came in, bringing with him the scent of well-bred horses and a cool morning rain. From his manly chest and powerful shoulders to the glint of pirate’s gold in his left ear, he exuded an aggressive form of masculinity not often seen amongst the members of the
Jarvis had dedicated his life to reading people and manipulating them. He was good at it, and he rarely made mistakes. Yet once Jarvis had underestimated this man. It would not happen again.
Very deliberately, Jarvis leaned back in his chair, but did not rise. “Have a seat, Mr. Yates.”
Yates adjusted the tails of his dark blue morning coat and settled in a leather chair beside the empty hearth. “Please accept my apologies for interrupting you on the Sabbath day, my lord.”
Jarvis merely inclined his head. It was flowery flummery and they both knew it.
“I am here, first of all,” continued Yates, “to share with you the news of my good fortune. The lovely Miss Kat Boleyn has consented to become my wife.”
Jarvis drew a gold snuffbox from his pocket and flipped it open. “Indeed? It was my understanding that Miss Boleyn had consented to become the Viscountess Devlin.”
“Things changed.”
“So it seems.” Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril. “You understand, I assume, that Miss Boleyn has some…shall we say, unfortunate associations in her past?”
“Actually, that is my primary purpose for coming to see you today. While it’s true Miss Boleyn has in the past engaged in certain activities that are better forgotten, the same could be said of many of us.” Yates’s smile widened to show his teeth. “Even you, my lord, have been involved in episodes that would be best left unknown.”
Jarvis closed his snuffbox with a snap. He was not one to bluster or rage, for he had learned long ago to control his emotions. He did at times give vent to anger, but only when it served his purpose. It would not serve his
