Simon reached into his pocket and pulled half a crown. “I’d take it as a great kindness if you’d see her settled well.”
The sexton’s unshaven visage locked on the coin. “Well, sir, I don’t know if the vicar will have it.” He looked up in alarm. “Given what she … who she was, sir. You understand, it’s not my thoughts, sir.”
Simon pulled a second coin and held both of them out. “I’d take it as a great kindness.”
The man took the money with a comforting nod. “Very good, sir. I’ll do well by her. You may trust me.”
“Thank you. And I will provide a grave marker. You’ll help me place it when the time comes?”
“Yes, sir. I will. God bless you, sir. She must’ve meant something to you.”
Simon regarded the sexton. Then he touched the casket again before turning and striding from the otherwise empty church.
St. Giles was no more than a ten-minute walk from Simon’s town house in fading fashionable Mayfair, but he had no wish to return home. He preferred to stay in the shadows tonight, so he made his way to the Devil’s Loom. A drinking establishment had existed on this spot since the reign of Edward III. It was nearby the Resurrection Gate, where condemned prisoners were given a last pint before being hustled to the scaffold at Tyburn.
Simon found a spot in a nearly hidden corner of the pub. He slouched in a seat with his long legs up in a chair and stared through the thinning crowd into the far wall. He tapped the gold key idly on the tabletop. His jacket was gone and his white shirt was wrinkled and open at the collar, hanging loose at the cuffs. He threw back a gin and set the glass down, no longer calling for another. Another came just the same, as the previous ten had come.
Beatrice would be in the ground by now. His father had been in the ground for nearly thirty years. Simon had seen to Beatrice’s killer. However, John MacFarlane hadn’t killed his father. It was as if he had buried one and exhumed another.
He scrubbed at his face, trying to keep his thoughts coherent. He didn’t want to give up any of his long-cherished beliefs passed on by his mother, including the tale of his father’s murder. There was only one problem—he believed Malcolm MacFarlane. The sooty eyes of the Scotsman were true like steel. Hard and unmovable. Malcolm was what he said and nothing more.
Malcolm MacFarlane was an honest man.
Over the years, Simon had come to terms with the fact that his father had been murdered. There was nothing Simon could do about it. He had honored his father by continuing in his role as a scribe. He studied magic. When his mother died eight years ago, Simon had come to London to live. His intention was to immerse himself in his magical studies and become a scribe.
However, he found city society beguiling and distracting. Despite the fact that his questionable parentage would always set him apart from complete propriety, he still navigated it with ease. Simon came to perfect his own roguish personality, which put him inside the drawing rooms and even boudoirs of London. Everyone knew he was the son of Elizabeth Archer and an unknown father. The persona of a charming rake was a necessary construct to make himself appealing at all levels of society because otherwise, he was just a rich bastard.
“Well, well,” came a voice, “so this is where all the gin has gone.”
Simon looked up with fierce annoyance to see Nick standing at the table. He slumped deeper into his seat.
“Oh, thank you,” Nick said, pulling a chair from under Simon’s feet. “Don’t mind a drink myself.”
Simon growled. “Damn it, Nick. I want to be alone if you don’t mind.”
Nick signaled for a pint. “You nearly are alone, old boy. The place should’ve shut hours ago and you look very drunk.”
The barman brought the pint grudgingly, and said with emphasis, “Time, gentlemen.”
Simon finished his gin and held up the empty glass. “Another, please!”
“You’re not getting another.” Nick hooked an arm over the chair. “Let’s head off home, shall we?”
“You go if you’re tired.” Simon studied his watch, holding it upside down. He scowled at it. “It isn’t late at all. If they won’t serve me here, I’ll go to the club.”
“The club? Which club would that be? You’ll find no doors open to you at this hour except your own.”
“I can drink at home in the morning. I’ve got to celebrate tonight.”
“What are you celebrating?”
“I have acquired a new outlook on life.”
“Have you? What became of your old outlook?”
“It has been rudely torn away.” Simon waved a hand and leaned over to pat Nick on the chest. “But no matter. You will have a role to play in it because you are my friend.”
“Gratified to hear it. Would you care to share, or is it a secret?”
“Everything’s a secret to someone.” Simon put a finger to his lips. “The Order of the Oak killed my father.”