They turned their steps back toward the bridge. She said, “I gather Ian Kane is the man who owns the Orchard Street Academy?”
“That’s right.”
“Lord Devlin.” She swung to face him, oblivious to the red-cheeked fishmonger at her side shouting, “Who’ll buy brill, oh? Brill, oh!” She said, “What else do you know that you’re not telling me?”
He met her indignant stare with a bland smile. “Miss Jarvis, I am not some Bow Street Runner you hired to give you daily reports.”
She was an inch or two shorter than he, but she still managed to look down her nose at him. “I would think that common courtesy—”
“Courtesy?” He jerked her out of the way just as the fishmonger in the nearest stall slopped a bucket of water across his marble slab. “Believe me, Miss Jarvis, it is courtesy that prevents me from regaling you with the sordid details of this murder.”
“If I were a man, or if I’d asked for your assistance in discovering the facts surrounding the murder of a cleric of impeccable character, you would tell me?”
“Probably,” he said slowly, not sure where she was going with this.
“Then I would like to point out to you that in this case, ignorance is not bliss. Last night, two men tried to kill me because of what I do not know.”
They had reached that part of Billingsgate known colloquially as Oyster Street from all the oyster boats drawn up at the wharf. Sebastian stared at the bobbing red cap of a man in the hold of the nearest boat, his spade rattling over the gray mass of sand and shells at his feet. “Believe me, Miss Jarvis, you don’t want to hear about this.”
“On the contrary, my lord Devlin. I do.”
He studied her squarely held shoulders, the contemptuous twist of her lips. “Very well, Miss Jarvis. I will tell you. Ian Kane is an ex-miner from Lancashire who enjoys painting nude women and sunlit buildings. He also in all likelihood murdered his first wife. Whether or not he murdered Rachel Fairchild I do not know, but he certainly expressed a desire to do so, seeing as how when she ran away from his house last Wednesday, he was on the verge of selling her to a customer for two hundred pounds.”
“Selling her?”
“That’s right. We don’t quite put our women and children up on the auction block like the Americans, but we still sell four-year-olds to chimney sweeps and nubile young women to anyone with the coin to buy them.”
He hesitated. She stared back at him, tight lipped, and said, “Go on.”
“Very well. The customer in question—let’s just call him Luke, shall we? It seems that Luke is a thief. A very successful thief who, incidentally, had an ambitious project scheduled for Monday night, just hours after the murders in Covent Garden. Is that significant? I don’t know.”
Her face was quite pale, but all she said was, “What else?”
“Well, then there’s Rachel’s betrothed, the inappropriately named Tristan Ramsey. It seems Mr. Ramsey was very well aware of the fact that his future bride was not in Northamptonshire recuperating her health. In fact, he knew she was at the Orchard Street Academy.”
“How did he know that?”
“He went there as a customer.” He left it at that. Hero Jarvis might bring out the worst in Sebastian, but he wasn’t so ignoble as to tell her what Ramsey had done to Rachel there, on the stained sheets of that Covent Garden brothel. He said instead, “Ramsey told Rachel’s brother, Cedric Fairchild, where she was. According to Cedric Fairchild, he went to see her last week, but she refused to leave with him. Both men claim they don’t know why she ran away from home, or how she ended up in Covent Garden.”
Miss Jarvis sucked in a deep breath that stirred the once-jaunty ribbons of her hat, now wet and limp. Two tiny lines appeared between her brows as she studied his face. He wondered what she saw there. “But you know, don’t you?” she said. “Or at least, you have some idea.”
He stared out over the stairs of Billingsgate, to the wind-whipped, choppy brown river. He was thinking about the leper colony that had once stood in the marshes of what had since become St. James’s Park, and what Rachel had told her brother about the diseased and rotting outcasts who threatened society.
“Tell me,” said Miss Jarvis.
He swung his head to look at her, at her windblown brown hair and her once fine burgundy carriage dress now ruined by the slime and muck of the fish market. She was brilliant and well-educated and more aware of the harsh realities of the world than most women of her station. But the explanation that was beginning to take shape in his mind was too raw, too ugly to be spoken aloud.
He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”
She didn’t believe him, of course. She remained uncharacteristically silent, her lips pressed into a thin, straight line, her shoulders stiff as he guided her to where Tom was walking the chestnuts up and down the lane. He handed her up into the curricle. She remained withdrawn, lost in her own thoughts, until he swung the horses out into traffic and headed upriver, away from where she’d left her own carriage awaiting her outside Paul Gibson’s surgery.
“This isn’t the way to the Tower,” she said suddenly, looking around.
Sebastian set his horses at a brisk trot toward Upper Thames Street. “I thought you might enjoy coming with me to pay a call on Sir William.”
She cast him a withering glance. “No, you didn’t. You want me there for some other reason. What is it?”
He gave her a wry smile. “You’re quite right, Miss Jarvis. My motives are entirely disreputable. I’m simply looking forward to watching Sir William explain to Lord Jarvis’s daughter his own involvement in the murder Lord Jarvis ordered him not to investigate.”
