were there?”
“Only two,” she said. “The one was older, in his thirties, I’d say. He was the one in charge. The younger man listened to him, did what he was told without question or argument.”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t tell much, beyond the fact that they were gentlemen.”
He put out his hand, stopping her when she would have kept walking. “We’re at my carriage.”
“Gov’nor,” said Tom, his mouth falling open, “you ain’t never gonna fit that thing in the curricle.”
“Yes, I am,” said Sebastian, temporarily setting the harp on the flagstones beside the carriage. “Miss Driscoll here is going to hold it on her lap.” He offered her a hand up and she took it without hesitation.
With the Academy in flames, he supposed she had no place else to go. But as he watched her settle on the curricle’s high seat, another thought occurred to him. He said, “Do you know who I am?”
Again, that faint smile. “Of course I know who you are. You’re Viscount Devlin. You came to the house last Tuesday. You had wine with Miss Lil, Tasmin, Becky, and Sarah. Then your questions made Miss Lil uncomfortable, and she asked you to leave.”
“I never gave my name.”
“No. But I heard Miss Lil and Mr. Kane talking about you later. People are strange in that way. If you can’t see, they often act as if you can’t hear, either. Or perhaps they simply assume I’m stupid.”
She was far from stupid. He handed the harp up to her, grunting softly beneath its weight. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re willing to come with me.”
She clutched the harp to her. “Those men were looking for Miss Lil. Once they’d killed her, they left.” He saw her delicate throat work as she swallowed. “I don’t want them to come for me.”
Sebastian gazed up at her thin, plain face. Now that he had her in his curricle, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do with her. From the distance came a shout, followed by what sounded like a collective sigh as the walls of the Academy collapsed inward in a fiery inferno that sent sparks flying high into the night sky.
“Gov’nor?” said Tom.
Sebastian leapt up into the curricle and gathered the reins. “Stand away from their heads,” he said, and turned the chestnuts toward Covent Garden Theater.
Chapter 51
Kat Boleyn might have been the most celebrated young actress of the London stage, but her cramped dressing room at the Covent Garden Theater was not designed to accommodate Miss Boleyn in full costume as Beatrice, a tall nobleman in a many-caped driving coat, and a blind woman clutching a harp.
She looked at Mary Driscoll’s pale, strained face and said to Sebastian, “Could I speak to you outside for a moment?”
They crowded into a dimly lit corridor smelling strongly of grease paint and orange peels and dust. Kat whispered, “Sebastian, what are you going to do with her?”
“I’m hoping she can identify the men who forced their way into the Academy tonight.”
“She’s blind.”
“Yes, but she heard their voices. She’ll be able to recognize them if she hears them again.”
Kat looked at him. He knew what she was thinking, that while he might credit Miss Driscoll’s ability to identify voices, no one else would. But all she said was, “And afterward? What will you do with her then?”
“Don’t worry. I won’t leave you lumbered with her forever.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“I’m sorry, but I had no place else to take her where I knew she’d be safe.” He couldn’t see taking a woman like Mary Driscoll to the Red Lion.
“Sebastian, truly, it’s all right.” She reached out to touch his arm. A simple enough gesture, yet it sent a rush of forbidden longing coursing through him. It had been a mistake to come here, he realized, a mistake to allow himself to stand this close to her, to breathe in all the old familiar scents of a tainted past.
She dropped her hand and took a step back. “I heard someone has tried to kill you. Twice.”
“Where did you hear that?”
She stood with her arms gripped across the stomach of her costume as if she were cold, although it was not cold in the theater. Instead of answering, she said, “You will be careful. Not just of this killer, but of Jarvis.”
“I can handle Jarvis.”
“No one can handle Jarvis.”
To his surprise, Sebastian found himself smiling. “His daughter can.”
Walking out of the theater a few minutes later, Sebastian found his tiger waiting patiently at the chestnuts’ heads. The night had fallen clear and cold, with just the hint of a breeze that carried with it the sound of music and laughter and men’s voices raised in a toast. Sebastian said, “Take them home, Tom. I won’t be needing you anymore tonight.”
The tiger glanced at the door of the nearby music hall, then back at Sebastian’s face. “I can stay.”
