“I did not.”
“But you’re not denying that you did sometimes act as his procurer.”
Perlman kept his gaze on the vast oil. “What an ugly little word.”
“You have one you prefer?”
“I won’t deny I did occasionally perform certain . . . commissions for him.”
“Define ‘occasionally.’”
“Every few weeks . . . or so.”
“Where did the women come from?
“The Haymarket. Covent Garden. Really, Devlin, you know as well as I do where to find women of that sort.”
“Are you saying you supplied him with common women you picked up off the street?”
Perlman swiped the tip of his nose between one pinched thumb and forefinger and sniffed. “That’s the kind he liked.”
“I’ve heard he also liked another kind of women. Pretty young gentlewomen who owed him money—or whose husbands owed him money.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” said Perlman loftily.
“You wouldn’t?”
“I would not.” He cast a quick glance around, but the auction rooms were nearly deserted in the gloom of the rainy afternoon. “Listen: I am not denying my uncle had an appetite for women. He did. It was . . . unseemly. But to my knowledge he satisfied those needs with whores. Now, if you’ll excuse me? You are distracting me. This is not a leisure activity, you know. Art collecting is serious business.”
“In a moment. So you would have me believe you never heard of him coercing a gentlewoman to share his couch?”
“I have not, no.”
Sebastian smiled. Unlike Tyson, Samuel Perlman was a terrible liar. “Then tell me this: Who owed your uncle money?”
Perlman gave a tsking huff of derision. “That sort of information is privileged. I couldn’t tell you, even if I knew.”
“Are you saying you don’t know?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. The bastard must have written it all down somewhere, but I’ll be damned if I can find his ledgers. He obviously hid them.”
“That’s one possibility,” said Sebastian.
“Are you suggesting there’s another?”
“Whoever shot Eisler could have taken them.”
Perlman gave another of his derisive little laughs. “My uncle was shot by Russell Yates. And everyone in London knows it . . . except you, apparently.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze to the large canvas beside them, a biblical scene complete with plumed Roman soldiers, fainting women, and an angry bearded man with a bare, heavily muscled chest who may or may not have been Samson. “Looks like a Van Dyke.”
Perlman opened his eyes in astonishment. “Impressive.”
“But that doesn’t mean it is.”
Sebastian turned toward the door.
He’d taken two steps when Perlman stopped him by saying, “I do know the name of one man who owed my uncle money. Beresford. Blair Beresford.”
Sebastian paused. “I thought you said you consider that sort of information privileged.”
A gleam of what looked suspiciously like sly triumph flared in the other man’s eyes. “I know I can rely upon you to exercise the utmost discretion with the information I have provided you.”
“Have something against Beresford, do you?”
But Perlman only smiled faintly and returned to his study of the oil.
It took Sebastian a while, but he finally tracked Blair Beresford to Bond Street, where the Irishman waited outside the bow-fronted establishment of one of London’s most fashionable milliners. The rain had finally eased up, the clouds breaking apart to show pale aquamarine streaks of clear sky above. Beresford was leaning against the side of Louisa Hope’s elegant barouche, his arms folded at his chest, his chin sunk in his cravat, his thoughts evidently far, far away.
“Ah, there you are,” said Sebastian, walking up to him.
Beresford straightened with a jerk, his eyes going wide in a way that told Sebastian the young Irishman had obviously at some time in the past several hours had an interesting conversation with his friend Matt Tyson. “Actually, I was just about to go see if Louisa—”
“Not to worry,” said Sebastian, ruthlessly turning the younger man’s steps toward Oxford Street. “I won’t take but a moment of your time. I’m just wondering if you could explain something for me.”
Beresford cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder, toward the milliner’s shop. “I can try.”
“Good. You see, I’ve been wondering: Why would someone whose cousin is married to one of the richest men in England need to go to a bloodsucker like Daniel Eisler to borrow money?”
Sebastian watched as all the color drained from the younger man’s face to leave him pale and visibly shaken. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He drew up abruptly. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must—”