When Maidens Mourn (41 page)

“Sure, then, ’tis a foul night we’re in for,” he said when he saw them.

“It is that,” agreed Sebastian. “We were looking for the Gypsy woman who’s usually here reading palms. Do you know where we might find her?”

“Has she stolen something from you, sir? Nasty thieving varmints, the lot of ’em.”

“No, she hasn’t stolen anything. But my wife”—Sebastian nodded to Hero, who did her best to look credulous and eager—“my wife here was desirous of having her palm read.”

The charlie blinked. But he was obviously inured to the strange ways of quality, because he said, “I think she belongs to that band what camps up around Nine Elms this time of year. I seen her leaving once or twice by wherry.” The hamlet of Nine Elms lay on the south side of the river, beyond Lambeth and Vauxhall in a low, marshy area known for its windmills and osier stands and meadows of rue and nettle.

“Thank you,” said Sebastian, turning to shout directions to his coachman and help Hero climb into the carriage.

“Funny you should be asking about them,” said the charlie.

Sebastian paused on the carriage steps to look back at him. “Why’s that?”

“Mr. Tennyson asked me the same thing,” said the charlie, “not more’n a couple of hours ago.”

They found the Gypsy camp in a low meadow near a willow-lined brook, where some half a dozen high-wheeled caravans were drawn up in a semicircle facing away from the road. Wet cook fires burnt sluggishly in the gloaming of the day, their blue smoke drifting up into the mist, the penetrating smell of burning wood and garlic and onions carrying on the wind. At the edge of the encampment, a herd of tethered horses sidled nervously, their heads tossing, their neighs mingling with the thunder that rolled across the darkening sky.

As Sebastian signaled to his coachman to pull up, a motley pack of lean yellow dogs rushed barking from beneath the wagons. A tall man wearing a broad-brimmed black hat and a white shirt
came to stand beside the nearest caravan, his gaze focused on them. He made no move to approach, just stood with one hand cupped around the bowl of his clay pipe, his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat as he watched the dogs surround them.

“Now what do we do?” asked Hero as the pack leapt snapping and snarling around the carriage.

“Stay here.” Throwing open the door, Sebastian jumped to the ground to scoop up a rock and hurl it into the pack. They all immediately drew back, ears flattened, tails low.

“Impressive. Did you learn that in Spain too?” Hero dropped down behind him. But he noticed she kept one hand in her reticule.

“Even if you don’t have a rock, all you need to do is reach down and pretend to throw one, and the effect is the same.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

They crossed the waterlogged meadow toward the camp, the tall, wet grass brushing against their clothes. They could see more men, and women in full, gaily colored skirts, crouched around the fires, pretending not to notice their approach. But the children hung back in the shadows, still and quiet as they watched with dark, sullen eyes.

“O boro duvel atch pa leste,”
called Sebastian to the lone man standing beside the nearest caravan.

The man grunted, his teeth clenching down on the stem of his pipe, his eyes fierce. He had weathered, sun-darkened skin and a bushy iron gray mustache and curly dark hair heavily laced with gray. A pale scar cut through his thick left eyebrow.

“The woman who tells fortunes near the Adelphi and the York Steps,” said Sebastian, still in Romany. “We would like to speak to her.”

The Gypsy stared at Sebastian, not a line in his face moving.

“I know you have two Gadje children here with you,” said Sebastian, although the truth was, he didn’t know it; he was still only working on a hunch. “A boy of nine and a younger child of three.”

The Gypsy shifted his pipe stem with his tongue. “What do you think?” he said in English. “That we Rom are incapable of producing our own children? That we need to steal yours?”

“I’m not accusing you of stealing these children. I think you’ve offered them protection from the man who killed their cousin.” When the Gypsy simply continued to stare at him, Sebastian said, “We mean the children no harm. But we have reason to think that the man who murdered their cousin now knows where they are.”

Hero touched Sebastian’s arm. “Devlin.”

He turned his head. The old woman from the York Steps had appeared at the front doorway of the nearest caravan. She held by the hand a small child, his dark brown hair falling around his dirty face in soft curls like a girl’s. But rather than a frock he wore a blue short-sleeved skeleton suit. The high-waisted trousers buttoned to a tight coat were ripped at one knee, the white, ruffle-collared shirt beneath it grimy. He stared at them with wide, solemn eyes.

“Hello, Alfred,” said Hero, holding out her arms. “Remember me, darling?”

The Gypsy woman let go of his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he went to Hero. She scooped him off the platform into her arms and held him tight, her eyes squeezing shut for one betraying moment.

Sebastian said, “And the older child? George?”

It was the woman who answered. “He went down the river with some of our boys to catch hedgehogs. They were coming back to camp along the road when a man in a gig drove up behind them and grabbed the lad.”

“How long ago?” said Sebastian sharply.

“An hour. Maybe more.”

Hero met his gaze. “Dear God,” she whispered.

Fishing his engraved gold watch from his pocket, Sebastian turned back to the mustachioed Gypsy. “I’ll give you four hundred pounds for your fastest horse and a saddle, with this standing as
security until I can deliver the funds. And to make damned certain you give me your best horse, I’ll pay you another hundred pounds if I catch up with that gig in time.”

“But we don’t know where they’ve gone,” said Hero.

“No. But I can guess. I think Hildeyard is taking him to Camlet Moat.”

T
he Gypsies sold him a half-wild bay stallion that danced away, ears flat, when Sebastian eased the saddle over its back.

“I don’t like the looks of that horse,” said Hero. She had the little boy balanced on her hip, his head on her shoulder, his eyelids drooping.

“He’s fast. That’s what matters at this point.” He tightened the cinch. “Lovejoy should still be at Bow Street. Tell him whatever you need to, but get him to send men out to the moat, fast.”

“What if you’re wrong? What if Hildeyard isn’t taking George to Camlet Moat?”

“If you can think of anyplace else, tell Lovejoy.” Sebastian settled into the saddle, the stallion bucking and kicking beneath him.

“Devlin—”

He wheeled the prancing horse to look back at her.

For one intense moment their gazes met and held. Then she said, “Take care. Please.”

The wind billowed her skirts, fluttered a stray lock of dark hair
against her pale face. He said, “Don’t worry; I have a good reason to be careful.”

“You mean, your son.”

He smiled. “Actually, I’m counting on a girl—a daughter every bit as brilliant and strong and fiercely loyal to her sire as her mother.”

She gave a startled, shaky laugh, and he nudged the horse closer so that he could reach down and cup her cheek with his hand. He wanted to tell her she was also a part of why he intended to be careful, that he’d realized how important she was to him even as he’d felt himself losing her without ever having actually made her his. He wanted to tell her that he’d learned a man could come to love again without betraying his first love.

But she laid her hand over his, holding his palm to her face as she turned her head to press a kiss against his flesh, and the moment slipped away.

“Now, go,” she said, taking a step back. “Quickly.”

Sebastian caught the horse ferry at the Lambeth Palace gate. The Gypsy stallion snorted and plunged with fright as the ferry rocked and pitched, the wind off the river drenching them both with spray picked up off the tops of the waves. Landing at Westminster, he worked his way around the outskirts of the city until the houses and traffic of London faded away. Finally, the road lay empty before them, and he spurred the bay into a headlong gallop.

His world narrowed down to the drumbeat of thundering hooves, the tumbling, lightning-riven clouds overhead, the sodden hills glistening with the day’s rain and shadowed by tree branches shuddering in the wind. He was driven by a relentless sense of urgency and chafed by the knowledge that his assumption—that Hildeyard was taking his young cousin to Camlet Moat to kill him—could so easily be wrong. The boy might already be dead.
Or Hildeyard might be taking the lad someplace else entirely, someplace Sebastian knew nothing about, rather than bothering to bury him on or near the island in the hopes that when he was eventually found the authorities would assume he’d been there all along.

A blinding sheet of lightning spilled through the storm-churned clouds, limning the winding, tree-shadowed road with a quick flash of white. He had reached the overgrown remnant of the old royal chase. The rain had started up again, a soft patter that beat on the leaves of the spreading oaks overhead and trickled down the back of his collar.

The Gypsy stallion was tiring. Sebastian could smell the animal’s hot, sweaty hide, hear its labored breathing as he turned off onto the track that wound down toward the moat. He drew the horse into a walk, his gaze raking the wind-tossed, shadowy wood ahead. In the stillness, the humus-muffled plops of the horse’s hooves and the creak of the saddle leather sounded dangerously loud. He rode another hundred feet and then reined in.

Sliding off the stallion, he wrapped the reins around a low branch and continued on foot. He could feel the temperature dropping, see the beginnings of a wispy fog hugging the ground. As he drew closer to the moat he was intensely aware of his own breathing, the pounding of his heart.

The barrister’s gig stood empty at the top of the embankment, the gray between the shafts grazing unconcernedly in the grass beside the track. On the far side of the land bridge, a lantern cast a pool of light over the site of Sir Stanley’s recent excavations. Hildeyard Tennyson sat on a downed log beside the lantern, his elbows resting on his spread knees, a small flintlock pistol in one hand. Some eight or ten feet away, a tall boy, barefoot like a Gypsy and wearing only torn trousers and a grimy shirt, worked digging the fill out of one of the old trenches. Sebastian could hear the scrape of George Tennyson’s shovel cutting into the loose earth.

The barrister had set the boy to digging his own grave.

Sebastian eased down on one knee in the thick, wet humus behind the sturdy trunk of an ancient oak. If he’d been armed with a rifle, he could have taken out the barrister from here. But the small flintlock in his pocket was accurate only at short range. Sebastian listened to the rain slapping into the brackish water of the moat, let his gaze drift around the ancient site of Camelot. With Hildeyard seated at the head of the land bridge, there was no way Sebastian could approach the island from that direction without being seen. His only option was to cut around the moat until he was out of the barrister’s sight, and then wade across the water.

Sebastian pushed to his feet, the flintlock in his hand, his palm sweaty on the stock. He could hear the soft purr of a shovelful of earth sliding down the side of George’s growing dirt pile. The fill was loose, the digging easy; the boy was already up to his knees in the rapidly deepening trench.

Moving quietly but quickly, Sebastian threaded his way between thick trunks of oak and elm and beech, the rain filtering down through the heavy canopy to splash around him. The undergrowth of brush and ferns was thick and wet, the ground sloppy beneath his feet. He went just far enough to be out of sight of both boy and man, then slithered down the embankment to the moat’s edge. Shoving the pistol into the waistband of his breeches, he jerked off his tall Hessians and his coat. He retrieved his dagger from the sheath in his boot and held it in his hand as he eased into the stagnant water.