Sebastian employed numerous servants, both at his house in London and at the small estate near Winchester left him by a maiden great-aunt. Many were family retainers; almost all were solid, respectable employees. Only one—a twelve-year-old former street urchin named Tom whom Sebastian had taken on as his tiger—was neither.
Returning to the mews behind his Brook Street town house, Sebastian handed his black Arab into the care of one of his grooms. But he entrusted Dominic Stanton’s mare to Tom.
“I suppose by now you know all about the body found in Old Palace Yard this morning,” said Sebastian.
“Aye.” Tom ran an expert’s hand down the gray’s near flank and bent to study a gash Sebastian hadn’t even noticed. “Butchered like a side o’ beef, from what I ’ear. They’re callin’ the cove what did it the ‘Butcher o’ the West End.’”
“Huh. Sir Henry won’t like that.”
Tom’s nearly lashless gray eyes sparkled with expectation. “’E’s asked fer yer help, ain’t ’e?”
“Hasn’t he,” corrected Sebastian absently. “How did you know that?”
“I knows.”
Sebastian eyed the brown-haired, sharp-faced lad beside him. “Any speculation on the streets as to who might be behind all of this?”
“Oh, there’s plenty o’ spec-u-la-tion,” said Tom, pronouncing the word carefully. “People are sayin’ it’s everything from French devil worshippers to witches. But nobody really knows nothin’.” He patted the gray’s neck. “This ’is ’orse?”
Sebastian nodded. “I found her just off the road to Merton Abbey.”
Tom fingered the cut cinch and pushed a low whistle through the gap in his front teeth. “Look at that.”
“Look at that, indeed.” Sebastian turned toward the house. “I want you to take the mare to Sir Henry in Queen Square. Tell him I have a few possibilities I intend to pursue.”
“So we’re gonna be lookin’ into these murders, are we?” said Tom with obvious delight.
Sebastian swung back around.
But Tom only laughed.
An hour later, Sebastian took the stairs of the theater’s Covent Garden entrance two at a time. The theater’s principal front, with its columned portico and classical bas-reliefs, faced onto Bow Street. But that entrance was still chained closed, for the theater did not officially open for the fall season until Monday night. Tonight’s performance was a dress rehearsal only.
Handing a coin to the attendant, Sebastian hurried across the ornate box lobby. Even before he slipped into the row of empty boxes, he could hear a hard-pressed Petruchio exclaiming from the stage, “‘You lie, in faith; for you are call’d plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst. But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom…’”
Easing into a seat, Sebastian watched the woman on the stage below prop her hands on her hips and throw back her head. “‘Asses are made to bear,’” she told her theatrical suitor with a scornful curling of her lip, “‘and so are you.’” Then, for the briefest instant, her eyes lifted to the boxes and she smiled. She knew Sebastian was there.
Her name was Kat Boleyn, and at twenty-three, she was the most acclaimed actress on the London stage, famous as much for her dark good looks and vivid blue eyes as for her considerable talent on the boards. Once, long ago, Sebastian had asked her to marry him. Much had happened since then, although her love for him remained undiminished. That, Sebastian knew. It was, after all, the selfless strength of her love for him that made Kat determined never to become his wife. She had this idea in her head that by marrying him she would destroy him, and nothing Sebastian could say or do would change her mind.
As the dress rehearsal ended, Sebastian headed backstage. He found Kat seated at her dressing table, busy with the task of wiping greasepaint from her face. She looked up, her gaze meeting his in the mirror. She smiled. “I thought perhaps you meant to renege on your offer to escort me to supper tonight.”
He pressed a kiss against the nape of her neck, where it arched delicately below the upswept tumble of her rich, auburn-lit hair. “I’ve been to Merton Abbey,” he said, resting one hip on the edge of her dressing table.
“Merton Abbey?” She frowned. “Whatever for?”
“It’s the last place anyone saw a young man named Dominic Stanton alive. Someone dumped his mutilated body in Old Palace Yard last night, and Sir Henry has asked for my assistance.”
“You agreed?” He heard the concern in her voice, saw it in the way she searched his face. Of all the people in Sebastian’s world, only Kat—and perhaps the surgeon Paul Gibson—understood what his involvement in this murder would cost him. “Why?”
Sebastian gave her a wry smile. “I’d like to think I agreed simply because Sir Henry asked it of me. But I suspect it’s also because the boy’s father warned me that it was none of my affair.”
Kat frowned. “Why would he do that?”
“Most likely because he—or his son—has something to hide.”
Later, as they supped on lobster bisque and a cold joint at Steven’s in Bond Street, he told her of the day’s events. She listened to him in silence, her intelligent gaze thoughtful. When he finished, she said, “So what are you suggesting? That someone tampered with Dominic Stanton’s cinch while he was drinking with his friends in the White Monk, then followed behind him in a carriage until his saddle began to slip?”
Sebastian reached for his wineglass. “There’s no way of knowing for certain that the wheel tracks I found on the verge of the London road were made last night. But if I were planning to move a body, I would certainly bring along a carriage.”
“Was he killed there, by the side of the road?”
“I doubt it. The marks Gibson found on his wrists suggest the boy was tied up and taken elsewhere. He certainly wasn’t butchered there.”
She pushed aside her plate. Sebastian smiled apologetically. “Sorry. This isn’t exactly supper table conversation.”
Reaching out, she cupped her hand over his where it rested on the tabletop. “What do you think is the connection between Stanton and Carmichael? Apart from the fact that both were young men from wealthy families, I wouldn’t have said they had much in common.”
“Neither would I. Dominic Stanton was a raw young mannewly on the Town, while Barclay Carmichael was a Corinthian, a regular out-and-outer. According to Stanton’s friends, he admired Carmichael, but that was all.”
“How horrifying to think someone simply chose them at random.” She paused. “Although I must admit, I couldn’t say why that seems more frightening than the idea that the killer knew them.”
“Perhaps because the randomness of it would make us all somehow vulnerable.”
A hint of amusement lit up her deep blue eyes. “Perhaps that’s it.” The amusement faded quickly. “You say Lord Stanton seemed to fear your involvement. Do you think his lordship is doing something he doesn’t want anyone to find out about?”
Sebastian reached for the wine bottle to refill her glass. “Or he knows his son was involved in something— something that would disgrace the family were it to become known.” Sebastian emptied the last of the wine into his own glass, then sat in silence for a moment, watching the candlelight gleam on the deep burgundy liquid. “I suppose it’s possible Dominic Stanton inadvertently attracted the attention of his killer at the White Monk. Although from what his friends said, I think it’s more likely the killer was watching Stanton for some time. Following him and waiting for the chance to catch him alone. Last night he got that chance.”
He was aware of Kat’s gaze upon him. She knew him like no other, knew the dark dreams that haunted his nights, the dark deeds that haunted his past. “You think this won’t be the end of it, don’t you?” she said.
Sebastian drained his glass in one long pull and set it aside. “No. It won’t be the end of it.”
