Side by side, they strode through the porch and down the church’s ancient, worn stone steps. The watchdog had left the reins of his horse looped over the iron railing of the churchyard. Walking up to the bay, Sebastian reached down and slipped his knife from the sheath in his boot.
“Good heavens,” said Miss Jarvis, watching him.
Throwing back the stirrup leather, Sebastian calmly sliced through the bay’s cinch as the horse nickered softly and swung its head to nose at Miss Jarvis’s reticule.
A shout arose from the church porch. “Bloody ’ell! What the bloody ’ell ye think yer doin’?”
“I don’t like being followed,” said Sebastian as Tom drew the curricle in beside them.
“Bloody ’ell,” said the shadow again, hopping from one foot to the other, his face a study of anger and chagrin mingling now with a touch of consternation.
Sebastian handed Miss Jarvis into the curricle and scrambled up behind her. “Your father will hear of this,” he warned her, giving his horses the office to start.
The chestnuts sprang forward. Miss Jarvis unfurled her parasol and held it aloft. “I can deal with my father.”
Sebastian steadied his horses. He was beginning to acquire a measure of sympathy for the King’s powerful cousin.
Chapter 34
Sebastian smelled the fish market long before he could see it. As they neared the steps, an increasingly sharp odor like seaweed filled the damp air, the cries of gulls mingling with a buzz of raucous voices and the shouts of white-aproned salesmen standing on their tables and roaring their prices.
“There she is,” said Miss Jarvis, nodding to the long-necked Jamaican, who stood on the footpath. With the fingers of one hand, the Cyprian clutched together a drab cloak she wore to cover her Covent Garden finery. She glanced around nervously, her brown eyes open wide enough to show a rim of the dusky-blue whites surrounding her irises.
“Walk ’em,” said Sebastian, handing the reins to Tom.
The tiger threw Miss Jarvis a malevolent glare. “Aye, gov’nor.”
“Was he really a pickpocket?” asked Miss Jarvis, accepting Sebastian’s arm to cross the raucous width of Lower Thames Street.
“It was either that or starve,” said Sebastian.
She released his arm the instant they reached the far footpath. “It’s a curious conceit,” she said, “hiring a pickpocket as your tiger.”
“Tom’s good with horses.” The boy had also saved Sebastian’s life, but he saw no reason to add that.
“I didn’t think ye was gonna come,” said Tasmin Poole as Hero walked up to her. Since the last time Sebastian had seen the Cyprian, someone had obviously worked her over with his fists, leaving her with a discolored cheek and a split lip. She threw a narrowed glance at Sebastian. “What’s he doin’ here?”
“He is also interested in what happened to Rose.”
The Cyprian sniffed and held out her hand, palm up, fingers crooked. “You said you’d give me five pounds, just for showing up here.”
“With the promise of more,” said Miss Jarvis, passing the woman a small cloth purse, “if you can provide me with the information I seek.”
The purse disappeared quickly amidst the woman’s clothes. Most whores cleared little or nothing from the long lines of customers they labored every night to service. These were earnings the girl wouldn’t need to share with her keepers. Precious indeed.
Miss Jarvis said, “Have you learned anything more about Hannah Green?”
“People are lookin’ at us queer,” said Tasmin, turning toward the fish market. “We need t’ keep moving.”
Miss Jarvis plunged after her into a malodorous crowd of men in shiny corduroy jackets and greasy caps. A woman with the limp tails of codfish dangling from her apron brushed past with a sibilant hiss, her elbows clearing a path as she went. A porter bent nearly double beneath a huge dripping hamper that had soaked the shoulders and back of his canvas coat barked, “Move on, there! Move on.”
Miss Jarvis whisked her skirts out of the way and kept going. “
Tasmin Poole said, “I got one or two ideas about where she might be, but I ain’t had time t’go there yet.”
“Where?” asked Sebastian.
The woman glanced over at him. “If I tell you and you find her, then she”—here Tasmin jerked her head toward Miss Jarvis—“won’t give me my money.”
Miss Jarvis said, “You’ll be paid for any information that enables us to find Hannah Green. I’ve told you that.”
Tasmin Poole stared out at the tangled rigging of the oyster boats moored along the wharf, each with its own black signboard and milling crowd of men and women massed around a white-aproned salesman. She bit her lip, obviously weighing the odds of being given a chance to track down the missing Hannah Green herself against the risk of divulging her information here and now. At last she said, “Hannah used t’work the Haymarket before she come to the Academy. She might have bolted back there.”
