“Devlin isn’t my viscount anymore.”
“True. But then, he’s not exactly your brother either, is he?” When she remained silent, he said, “I’m sorry. That was totally uncalled for.”
“It’s all right,” she said softly.
He nodded toward the window, where the ancient masonry that formed the prison’s gatehouse was just visible. “Do you know what that chamber is over there, right above the entrance gate? They call it ‘Jack Ketch’s kitchen.’ I’m told that’s where they used to preserve the quartered bodies of those executed for treason, before putting them on display around the metropolis. They’d boil them in vast cauldrons full of pitch, tar, and oil. Must have smelled . . . ghastly. The heads were treated to a different process, of course; those were parboiled with bay, salt, and cumin. I suppose I should be thankful that in our own more enlightened era, I can look forward to merely dancing the hempen jig for the amusement of the populace, before being given over to the surgeons for the edification of their students.”
“You’re not going to hang.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “The verdict of the coroner’s inquest is in. My trial has been scheduled for Saturday; did you know?”
“Oh, God. So soon?” She was aware of a pressing sense of urgency that came close to panic. And she understood, then, why he had been standing here watching the last of the light fade from his prison’s walls.
She said, “Is there anything you know about Eisler that you haven’t told Devlin?”
“I don’t think so.” He turned to face her. “Do you think I want to hang?”
She studied his dark, handsome face, the gold pirate’s hoop in his ear winking in the fading light. She said, “To be honest, I don’t understand why you’re still in prison. Jarvis could have had all charges against you dropped days ago, only he hasn’t done it. He knows you have the power to destroy him; all you need do is release the evidence you have against him. Yet he’s not afraid. Why not?”
He remained silent. But she read the answer in his face.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” she whispered. “That’s what he told you when he came to see you the night of your arrest. He warned you that the documents you hold can protect you, or they can protect me, but they can’t protect us both.”
Yates held himself very still.
She said, “I’m right, aren’t I? He told you that if you made any move against him, he’d have me killed.”
Yates turned to where a bottle of his best brandy stood beside a glass. “Unfortunately, I’ve only the one glass. May I offer you something to drink?”
She shook her head.
“You don’t mind if I do?” He poured himself a large measure. “So you see,” he said, setting the bottle aside, “I have even more incentive to cooperate with your viscount than you previously thought.”
He took a long, slow swallow of his brandy and looked over at her. “You came for a reason; what was it?”
“Devlin wanted me to ask you about Matt Tyson.”
Yates frowned. “I already told him I know the man only slightly. What more is there?”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In a molly house on Pall Mall. Why?”
Kat sucked in a quick breath. “So he’s a molly?”
“Of course he is. So is Beresford.”
The last of the light was leaching rapidly from the sky.
Kat knew she should be at the theater, preparing for that evening’s performance. Instead, she went for a stroll through the flower stalls of Covent Garden Market.
Already, the square lay in deep shadow, the few remaining vegetable and fruit sellers scrambling to hawk their fading produce, cheap, before closing for the night. Only the florists, nurserymen, and bouquet girls were still doing a brisk trade, selling flowers to the theater, music hall, and restaurant managers and to earnest beaux looking for posies to present to their lovers. The air was full of laughter and shouting and a sweet, familiar medley of floral scents that always took her back to another time, another place.