Chapter 24
Friday, 16 June
Paul Gibson stood in the midst of Alexi’s garden, his arms spread wide at his sides. It was the hour just before dawn, the vast city around him still quiet with sleep, the air cool against his hot face.
He smiled, feeling the warmth and relaxation spreading slowly through his body. It was like a balmy breeze on a sunny day or the rush of euphoric peace that comes in the moments after a man has pleasured a woman. It was heaven on earth.
He tipped back his head, eyes blinking at the universe of stars that whirled hazily above as he let himself sink deeper and deeper into that peaceful, pain-free place that beckoned like a calm refuge. He heard a door open behind him, but it only registered on the periphery of his consciousness, so that Alexi’s voice came to him as if from out of a dream.
“You never finished the last autopsy, did you?”
He turned toward her, moving slowly, as if he were under warm water. “I can do it today.”
“That’s what you said yesterday.”
He licked his dry lips and gave a faint shake of his head. A part of him knew he should worry. Worry about the work that lay unfinished, worry about Alexi leaving him, worry about the looming menace of the investigation into Sedgewick’s death that threatened them both. But why worry? Everything was going to be all right.
For a moment he was aware of a distant, roaring fear that it wasn’t going to be all right, that he and Alexi were both in grave danger. But then the fear receded beneath another wave of warmth and the stars above disappeared from sight.
The sun rose on a cloudy day, with a fetid, oppressive atmosphere that seemed to press down on the rain-soaked city, the air heavy with the fecund odors of damp coal smoke, manure, and old, dank stone.
In the early-morning light, the narrow, wretched streets of St. Giles were populated mainly by ragged costermongers and an assortment of scavengers picking through the refuse left from the previous night. Pushing open the door to the Weird Sisters’ shop in Seven Dials, Sebastian found an unknown woman behind the counter, her head bowed as she read the newspaper she had spread open there. She was younger than the woman he’d seen here before, tall and slender, with rich tawny skin, an elegant long neck, and a thick mass of tight dark curls that cascaded around her shoulders.
“You must be Rowena,” he said, closing the warped door behind him.
She straightened slowly, her face unreadable. “Ah, it’s his lordship, back again. Sibil told us about you.”
“She did? What did she tell you?”
“I told them you’re trouble,” said Sibil Wilde, coming through the low doorway at the back of the room. Today she wore a Tudor-style gown of a rich green silk, with fitted sleeves and a kirtle bodice with a square neckline edged in petite white lace.
His gaze met hers. “Am I? Why?”
“You know why.”
He gave a faint shake of his head. “I saw you at Drury Lane once; you were playing Ophelia. It was an amazing performance. I’ve never forgotten it.”
She frowned. “How old were you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Huh. That was a long time ago.” She glanced tellingly at Rowena, then said to him, “Follow me.”
She led him to the same small, opulently furnished room he’d seen before, although this time the cloth on the round table was gold and a deck of cards already rested before the tall chair facing the door.
He walked around the table to pick up the cards and fan them open in his hands. It was a Marseilles deck, an Italian version of the tarot that had been popular in France for hundreds of years. “It’s an interesting occupation for a woman with your talents—reading cards and studying natal charts, I mean.”
Her nostrils flared on a quick intake of air. “I am very good at what I do. Or were you referring to my acting talents? What precisely would you have had me do after someone did this to me?” One hand flashed up to touch her scarred face. “Hmm? Dwindle into some pitiful wardrobe mistress, condemned to stand in the shadows and watch while other women play the roles I once loved? Or perhaps become a madam, finding protectors for the young women who have no real hope of ever succeeding on the boards?”
“Actually, I hear you do that, too.”
That obviously surprised her. But then she huffed a soft laugh and twitched one shoulder in a shrug. “Men have appetites. I help them find the women to fill them.”
“Is that why Sedgewick came here?”
“Hardly. From what I hear, he had more than enough success filling his own appetites. I told you before: He came for the readings.”
He closed the deck of cards, then cut it in two. “So he believed in the cards?”
She watched him shuffle the deck. “I don’t know if he believed in them, or if he was simply fascinated by the process. Does it matter?”
Sebastian cut the deck again, then turned over the first card. It was the nine of swords. “I was attacked by two men after I left here the other night. One of them was obviously French-born; the other didn’t speak, but he could make a good living exhibiting himself at the local fairs as a giant. You wouldn’t happen to be familiar with them, would you?”
“I did tell you it’s a rough neighborhood.”
“You did. Except the men who attacked me weren’t after my purse; they were delivering a message—a warning, actually—to stop asking questions.”
“A warning you don’t appear to be heeding.”
He turned over the next card: the four of cups.
She said, “Are you accusing me of sending them after you?”
“The possibility did cross my mind.”
“If I had a message for you, I could have delivered it myself.”
“Perhaps.” He turned over the eight of swords. “I hear you collect information to send to Artois. That you were once his lover and you still work for him.”
“Now, where did you hear that?”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed in a slight smile. “The implication was that your interest in Sedgewick—or should I say Artois’s interest?—might have led to his death.”
“You’ve surely discovered by now how Sedgewick amused himself when he wasn’t wooing his friends’ wives into his bed. Everyone from the Prince Regent and Lord Jarvis to their minions in Downing Street wants to see the Bourbons restored in Paris; why would Artois harm someone who was working with them toward that end?”
Sebastian turned over another card: the two of swords. “I don’t know. If I had it figured out, I wouldn’t be here.”
She didn’t smile. “Perhaps you should be directing your inquiries toward one of Napoléon’s creatures in London.”
“Now, there’s an interesting idea. Do you have any names to suggest?”
“Me? I only tell fortunes.”
“Of course.” He laid one last card on top of the others, only facedown this time, then set the deck on the table and turned toward the door.
“Did they ever discover the identity of the man found without a head?” she asked, stopping him.
He paused to look back at her. “Not to my knowledge.”
“Suggestive, don’t you think?”
“Is it? Do you have any idea who he might be? Perhaps you could try reading his cards. It might tell you something.”
“Not really. We already know how his story ends.” Reaching out, she turned over Sebastian’s last card. It was the ten of swords. She stared at it a moment, then looked up. “Who were you reading for?”
“No one. I was simply turning over cards.”
She gave a faint shake of her head. “You had a question in your mind. The cards knew, even if you did not.”