“What’s that?” said Gibson, watching him.
Sebastian frowned down at the scrawled direction and resurrected with difficulty the memory of the Bishop’s chaplain accosting him in Whitehall that afternoon with some babble about a hiatus in the Bishop’s appointments.
“It’s an address,” said Sebastian. “The name and address of a family in Chelsea the Bishop visited the Monday before he died.” He could be wrong, but he had a disquieting suspicion that McCain was the name of the doctor he’d seen escorting Miss Hero Jarvis around the Royal Hospital.
“Chelsea?” said Gibson. “What the bloody hell was Prescott doing in Chelsea?”
“I don’t know. But first thing tomorrow morning, I intend to find out.”
Chapter 31
MONDAY, 13 JULY 1812
The next morning dawned cool and gray, with a heavy mist that blanketed the wet city and hung in dirty wisps about the chimney pots. Sir Henry Lovejoy was in his chambers at Bow Street’s public office, a scarf wrapped around his neck and the
“My lord,” said the little magistrate, leaping to his feet. “Please have a seat.”
“No, thank you,” said Sebastian, shaking his head. “I won’t be but a moment.” He drew a folded slip of paper from his pocket and laid it on the open pages of the weekly police gazette. “I have here the name and sailing date of a vessel that was said to have left Portsmouth in February of 1782. But it is also possible the ship sailed from London sometime in mid-December of 1781, headed for the American Colonies. I’d like you to verify when and where it sailed.”
“ ‘The
Sebastian felt a rare suggestion of heat touch his cheeks. “Yes. But I’d appreciate it if you could keep whatever information you discover confidential.”
Sir Henry gave one of his jerky little bows. “You may, of course, rely upon my utmost discretion.”
“I know,” said Sebastian, turning toward the door. “Thank you.”
“I’m not entirely certain I understand this continuing fascination of yours with America,” said Sir Henry, stopping him.
Sebastian turned. “You don’t find it curious, the way the events surrounding both Prescott men’s deaths keep circling back to the Colonies?”
The magistrate shrugged. “Most men of affairs in London have ties to America. I would imagine your own father has had dealings with the Colonies.”
Sebastian blinked, and kept his peace.
“Personally,” continued Lovejoy, “I find the Bishop’s recent encounter with Jack Slade far more telling.”
“Jack Slade was locked up in a watch house here in London the night Sir Nigel disappeared.”
“True. But he could easily have had an accomplice who committed the actual murder for him.”
Sebastian shook his head. “If I were going to kill the man I held responsible for the death of my entire family, I’d want to watch him die. And I’d want to make certain he knew exactly
The magistrate looked oddly pinched, as if the flesh had suddenly stretched taut across the features of his face. He cleared his throat and glanced away. “Yes . . . well . . . perhaps. But you must admit that the reappearance of Slade in the Bishop’s life at just such a time is curious.”
“I won’t deny that,” said Sebastian.
Half an hour later, Sebastian was rubbing gray ashes into his hair in his dressing room at Brook Street when Tom appeared in the doorway.
“I ’ear yer lordship is goin’ to Chelsea this mornin’,” said the tiger, his arm resting rakishly in a sling, his voice strained by the effort to appear nonchalant. “Ye want I should bring the curricle ’round?”
Sebastian glanced over at him and frowned. “What are you doing up?”
“Dr. Gibson said I could.”
“Getting out of bed and going back to work are two different things.”
“But I’m gonna be fit fer nothin’ but Bedlam, sittin’ around ’ere with nothin’ to do!
Sebastian wrapped a cheap black cravat around his neck. “I fear your sanity must be sacrificed to a higher cause—in this case, your health.”
Tom’s scowl deepened. “Never say you’re taking
“No, I’m not taking Giles. I have no intention of arriving in Chelsea in a gentleman’s curricle. I’m taking a hackney.”
“A hackney? Gov’nor, no!”
“A hackney,” repeated Sebastian, slapping the false padding around his stomach. “I’ve no doubt Mr. Brummell would sympathize with your revulsion. But then, the Beau would also swoon at the sight of this neckcloth and coat, so there’s no hope for it, is there? If I’m recognized by any of my acquaintances, my reputation is ruined.”
Rather than smile, the tiger simply looked troubled. “The thing is, ye see, there’s this cove what’s been ’anging round the ’ouse, like ’e’s watching for ye. I seen ’im last night, and agin this mornin’. Early.”
Sebastian crossed to the window and carefully parted the drapes. “Where?”
“ ’E’s not there now.” Tom dug the toe of one boot into the carpet. “Even if ye take a hackney, I could still come with ye—”
“No.”
“Ye need somebody t’ watch yer back.”
Sebastian gave a sharp laugh. “In Chelsea?”
“Ye never know—”
Sebastian slid his dagger into the hidden sheath of his boot. “I’ll be fine.”
Much to her father’s disgust, Hero Jarvis spent a good part of that morning at London House, investigating church records. What she discovered was curious. Very curious.
She devoted several hours during the afternoon to accompanying her mother on a tour of cloth warehouses and mantua makers. Lady Jarvis returned to Berkeley Square tired, but happily laden down with bandboxes and piles of brown paper- wrapped packages. At first she protested she had no appetite, but Hero managed to coax her into drinking tea and eating some cakes. Then, when her mother went to lie down for a rest, Hero ordered her carriage brought ’round, and set off with her maid for Tanfield Hill.
Chapter 32
By the time Sebastian paid off his hackney outside the Old Bun House at the end of Jew’s Row in Chelsea, the
