He stood on the ragged, unfinished arc of the new stone bridge that would someday span the Thames. The river was a foam-flecked turgid rush far below, the city quieting and slowly sinking into darkness around him. He found himself unconsciously rubbing his wrists, where the old scars still showed as white lines against his skin. He’d thought in his confident na?veté that he was somehow coming to terms with those events of three years ago. But he realized now that he’d simply fallen victim to a comfortable illusion wrought by the passage of time and the joy an unexpected, enduring love could bring.
He tried to focus on the swirling black waters of the river below. But what he saw instead were soul-destroying images from a different time, a different place. And as he turned toward shore, he could have sworn he caught the distant echo of children’s laughter and the faint scent of orange blossoms overlain by the heavy stench of old blood.
? ? ?
Some hours later, Hero paused in the doorway to the darkened library. The soft light from the streetlamp fell through the open curtains to show her the man who stood with his back to the room, his gaze on the empty street beyond. She could feel the intensity of the tension thrumming through him, see it in every line of his tall, lean body.
She’d moved quietly, but of course he heard her. Even after six months of living with this man, she still found the acuity of his senses disconcerting. He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder, and a humming silence stretched out between them.
She said, “I’ve watched you work to solve murders before. I know how personally you take what you do, how deeply troubled you can become. But there’s something more going on here, isn’t there, Devlin?”
He shifted his gaze, once again, to the window, so that she could see only his profile. He said, “I saw someone tonight who reminded me of an incident I’ve spent the last three years trying to forget.”
“Someone you knew in the Peninsula?”
“Yes. The injured woman in Gibson’s surgery.”
She went to him then, sliding her arms around his waist and laying her cheek against his strong, taut back. He brought his hands up to lay them over hers at his waist and tipped back his head until it rested against hers. But he didn’t say anything, and neither did she.
She knew something had happened to him during the war, something that had shattered the already frayed remnants of his youthful idealism and made a mockery of so much that Englishmen of his station traditionally held dear. It had driven him to resign his commission and plunged him into a downward spiral that came perilously close to destroying him.
But that was all she knew. And she feared what might happen if the toxic events swirling around Damion Pelletan’s murder forced him to confront the unresolved demons of his past.
Sunday, 24 January
The next morning, Sebastian was easing his coat up over his shoulders when his valet said, “I believe I have discovered the individual in whom you expressed an interest.”
Sebastian straightened his cuffs. “Oh?”
“His name is Sampson Bullock, and he’s a cabinetmaker. He lives over his workshop on Tichborne Street, not far from Piccadilly. I took the liberty of making a few inquiries.”
Sebastian glanced over at him. “Learn anything interesting?”
“It seems Mr. Bullock is not what you might call well liked in the area.”
“I take it I am to infer that is an understatement?”
“Indeed. From the sound of things, he’s a quarrelsome brute with a nasty temper. Most of his neighbors were reluctant even to speak of him. He has a reputation for being rather vindictive—lethally so.”
“Hear anything about his brother?”
“Only that the two were much alike—both big, brawny, and foul tempered. The brother’s name was Abel.”
“Sampson and Abel? How very biblical. Did you discover what happened to the brother?”
“I did, my lord. He died two weeks ago.”
“Under Alexandrie Sauvage’s care?”
“No, my lord. He died of gaol fever. In Newgate.”
? ? ?
A curving sweep of pubs, small shops, and tradesmen’s establishments, Tichborne Street lay to the south of Golden Square, just off Piccadilly. It was a middling area, neither fashionable nor wretched. Sebastian found Bullock’s shop near the corner. The shutters were up, yet the door opened to his touch—which was unexpected, given that it was early Sunday morning.
He entered a shadowy, cavernous space smelling pleasantly of freshly cut wood, linseed oil, and turpentine. An inquiry addressed to a half-starved, frightened-looking apprentice sweeping up a scattering of sawdust led Sebastian to a back room, where a massive man with a head of thick, curly black hair and a pronounced jaw was planing a long board. He had his head bent, his shoulders hunched, his arms moving in long, rhythmic sweeps.
“Sampson Bullock?” asked Sebastian, pausing on the far side of the board.