Chapter 16

He possessed a knack, Sebastian had discovered during his years in the army, for playacting, for accents and mimicry and all the subtle nuances of behavior and attitude that could be used to impersonate and deceive. He also knew that, in general, people saw what they expected to see, that men looking for an absconding nobleman would not peer too closely at a humble vicar, or an honest shopkeeper in cheap linen and a poorly cut, drab coat.

And so, after leaving Kat Boleyn's elegant little townhouse, he made his way to the Rag Fair in Rosemary Lane, where he bought a set of secondhand clothes, a drab topcoat, and a rusty black round hat. He stopped at several small shops, where he made an assortment of other purchases. Then, wrapped in his new topcoat, with the round hat pulled low to hide his tawny eyes, he took a room at a respectable but simple inn called the Rose and Crown, and set about transforming himself into someone else entirely.

Sebastian tipped his head first one way, then the other, surveying his reflection in the small mirror above the washstand. Mr. Simon Taylor, he thought he'd be called. He had little sense of style, Mr. Taylor, with his badly cut hair, old-fashioned coat, and poorly tied cravat.

With practiced care, Sebastian used chalk dust to add a few streaks of gray to his dark, newly chopped hair. After months of drifting aimlessly, of living a life at once privileged and predictable and always, inevitably, unbearably boring, he was conscious of a faint stirring of interest, of excitement such as he hadn't known since he'd left the army ten months before.

He found Hugh Gordon in a corner booth of the crumbling old redbrick pub known as The Green Man that had been popular with the theatrical crowd since the days when Elizabeth was queen.

The actor was alone; a tall, elegant man drinking a pint of ale and eating a simple plowman's lunch. His entire posture spoke of self possession and arrogance and a pronounced desire to be left alone.

Shuffling up to the table, Sebastian pulled off his hat and held it, awkwardly, humbly even, before his breast. "Mr. Hugh Gordon?"

Gordon looked up, his dark brows drawing together into a frown. Even offstage, his manner was theatrical, his voice stentorian. "Yes?"

Sebastian tightened his hold on his hat brim. "Pardon me for being so bold as to introduce myself, but I am Taylor. Mr. Simon Taylor?" Sebastian brought the inflection of his voice up at the end, in the manner of one so unsure of himself that even simple sentences come out sounding like questions. "From Worcestershire? They said at the theater I might find you here."

Reaching out, Gordon took a slow sip of his ale. "So?"

Sebastian swallowed, working his Adam's apple visibly up and down. "I'm endeavoring to locate a young relative of my mother's, a Miss Rachel York. I was hoping you might be able to provide me with her direction."

"Do you mean to say you haven't heard?" The timbre of his voice was deep and rich, the intonation flawless. If Gordon hadn't been born a gentleman, he'd certainly done a good job of cultivating both the image and accent.

Sebastian looked confused. "I beg your pardon?"

"She's dead."

"Dead?" Sebastian staggered as if reeling beneath the shock, and sat down on the bench opposite the actor. "Good heavens. I had no idea. When did this happen?"

"They found her in an old church off Great Peter Street, near the Abbey. Yesterday morning. Someone'd slit her pretty little throat."

There was no sorrow in the statement, only a faint lingering of animosity that Sebastian noted with interest, although he was careful to keep all trace of the observation off his face. "But this is dreadful. Any idea who did it?"

"Some nob." Gordon stuffed a forkful of beef in his mouth, and spoke around it. "Or so they say."

"I am so sorry. This must be very hard for you."

Gordon paused with another forkful halfway to his face. "For me? What's that supposed to mean?"

"I was under the impression that you and Rachel were..." Sebastian cleared his throat. "Well, you know."

Gordon grunted. "Your information is out of date, my friend. There've been any number of gentlemen who've visited her pleasure palace since me, I can tell you that."

It was a crude and decidedly unloverlike expression. Sebastian drew a deep breath, his chest lifting in a soulful sigh. "My mother always feared the girl would end up as common Haymarket ware."

Gordon snorted. "Nothing common about Rachel. Hell, a man would need to be a lord or a bloody nabob at least, to get past her ivory gates these days."

And there, thought Sebastian, lay the source of at least some of this man's resentment toward his former mistress. When she'd been young and just starting out in the theatrical world, Gordon's status as one of the titans of the stage must have made him seem powerful, even godlike to her. But once Rachel had established a reputation of her own and attracted the attention of some of London's wealthiest noblemen, she'd obviously decided she could do better than a common actor. Especially one with a tendency to use his fists on her.

Gordon took a long, deep drink from his tankard. "She used to talk about the day their noble heads would end up on pikes, and how London's gutters were going to run with their precious blue blood." He gave a low, mirthless laugh. "She changed her tune quick enough, didn't she, when they started buying her silks and pearls?"

So Rachel York had sympathized with the aims of the French Revolution. Interesting, thought Sebastian. He shook his head soulfully. "And now one of these noblemen has murdered her?"

"So they say. Although if you ask me, the authorities ought to be taking a closer look at that bloody Frenchman."

"She had a French lover?"

"Lover?" Gordon shoved the last of his bread in his mouth, chewed once or twice, and swallowed hard. "I don't know if I'd call him that. Although the man was paying the rent on her rooms, all right."

"What man is this?"

"One of those bloody émigrés. Claims to be the son of a count or some such nonsense." The flawless accent slipped for a moment, allowing a hint of Geordie to peek through. Pushing away his plate, the actor leaned back and dusted the crumbs off his fingers. "Man by the name of Pierrepont. Leo Pierrepont."