Bevin Childe was feeling his way down the unlit stairs from his rooms in St. James s Street when Sebastian stepped out of the shadows of the landing to grab the scholar by the back of his coat with both fists and swing him around to slam him face-first against the wall.
Merciful heavens, bleated the antiquary as his protuberant belly thwumped into the paneling. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. My purse is in the inner pocket of my coat. You re welcome to it, sir, although I must warn you that you will find there scant reward for this brutish act of violence upon my person.
I am not interested in your bloody purse, growled Sebastian.
Devlin? The antiquary went limp with relief.
Is that you? He attempted to twist around but found himself frustrated when Sebastian tightened his grip. Good God; I imagined you a cutpurse. He stiffened with gathering outrage. What is the meaning of this?
Sebastian kept his voice low and deadly calm. I should perhaps have warned you that when it comes to murder, I am not a patient man. And you, Mr. Childe, are sorely trying my patience.
There are laws in this country, you know. You can t simply go around accosting gentlemen in their lodgings. It s not legal. It s not right. It s not not the done thing!
Sebastian resisted the urge to laugh out loud. Instead, he leaned into the antiquary until the man s plump face was squished sideways against the elegantly paneled wainscoting. You didn t tell me you were a suitor for Miss Tennyson s hand. A disgruntled and annoyingly persistent suitor.
Well, it s not the sort of thing a gentleman does go around talking about, now, is it? I mean, a man has his pride, don t you know?
So you re saying your pride was offended by Miss Tennyson s rejection of your suit?
Childe quivered, as if suddenly becoming aware of the pit yawning at his feet. I don t know if I d say that, exactly.
Then what would you say? Exactly?
Women such as Miss Tennyson must be delicately wooed. But I m a persistent man. I ve no doubt my suit would eventually have prospered.
You ve no doubt.
None. Childe s voice had grown in confidence to the point of sounding smug.
So you would have me believe you didn t know she d recently fallen in love with a dashing young cavalry officer she met at the British Museum?
What? Childe tried again to twist around, but Sebastian held him fast. I don t believe it! Who? Who is this man? This is nonsense. You re making that up. It s impossible.
You d better hope I don t discover that you did know.
Childe blanched. What does that mean?
It means, said Sebastian, shifting his grip, that there is a certain kind of man who doesn t take kindly to the realization that the woman he s decided to honor by making her his wife has scorned his courtship not because she was shy and needed to be delicately wooed, but because she quite frankly preferred another man to him. What does it take to drive a man like you to violence, Childe? Hmm? A threat to your scholarly reputation? Or an affront to your manhood? How would you react, I wonder, if the very same woman who d humiliated you as a suitor then threatened to destroy your credibility as an antiquary? Would that be enough to compel you to murder?
Perspiration glistened on the man s forehead and clustered in droplets on the end of his nose. A foul odor of sweat and fear rose from his person, and his voice, when he spoke, was a high-pitched crack. This is madness. Miss Tennyson and I disagreed about the authenticity of the cross in Gough s collection; that is all. My credibility as an antiquary was never threatened in any way.
Then why
Sebastian broke off at the sound of the street door opening below. Men s voices, slurred by drink, echoed up the stairwell. He loosed his hold on the antiquary and took a step back.
I m not through with you. When I find out more, I ll be back. And if I discover you ve been lying to me, I can guarantee you re going to regret it.
Sebastian returned to Brook Street to find Hero perusing an improving pamphlet written by one Ezekiel Smyth and entitled Satan, Druidism, and the Path to Everlasting Damnation.
Good God, he said. What are you reading?
She laughed and cast it aside. Believe it or not, this piece of sanctimonious drivel was written by George and Alfred Tennyson s aunt, Mary Bourne.
You can t be serious.
Oh, but I am. She also attends a weekly Bible study class with one Reverend Samuel at the Savoy Chapel. Another member of the study group is none other than Lady Winthrop.
He reached for the pamphlet and flipped through it. Now, that s interesting.
It is, isn t it? She looked over at him, her eyes narrowing. You ve split the shoulder seam of your coat; what have you been doing?
He glanced down at his coat. Ah. I hadn t noticed. It could have been when Lieutenant Arceneaux tried to draw my cork for insulting the honor of the woman he loved
How did you do that?
By asking if he lay with her. He says he did not, incidentally.
Do you believe him?
No. He did, however, provide me with one bit of information which proved to be valuable: It seems Mr. Bevin Childe was a suitor for Miss Tennyson s hand an annoying suitor who refused to take no for an answer. According to Hildeyard, the man has been in love with Gabrielle since she was a child.
Hero stared at him. Did you say, since she was a child?
Yes; why?
But she simply shook her head and refused to be drawn any further.
Thursday, 6 August
By 9:50 the next morning, Hero was seated in her carriage outside the British Museum, a sketch pad open on her lap and her pencils sharpened and at the ready.
She had no illusions about her artistic abilities. She was able to draw a fairly credible, easily recognizable likeness of an individual. But her sketches were competent, nothing more. If she were a true artist, she could have sketched Bevin Childe from memory. As it was, that was beyond her.
And so she waited in the cool morning shade cast by the tall fronts of the town houses lining Great Russell Street. At exactly 9:58, a hackney pulled up outside the Pied Piper. His movements slow and ponderous in that stately way of his, Mr. Bevin Childe descended from the carriage, then stood on the flagway to pay his fare.
He cast one disinterested glance at the yellow-bodied carriage waiting near the museum, then strode across the street, his brass-handled walking stick tucked up under one arm.
Within the shadows of her carriage, Hero s pencil scratched furiously, capturing in bold strokes the essence of his likeness.
As if somehow aware of her intense scrutiny, he paused for a moment outside the museum s gatehouse, the high points of his shirt collar digging into his plump cheeks as he turned his head to glance around. Then he disappeared from her view.
She spent the next ten minutes refining her sketch, adding details and nuances. Then she ordered her coachman to drive to Covent Garden.
The man s jaw sagged. I beg your pardon, m lady, but did you say Covent Garden?
I did.
He bowed. Yes, m lady.