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Welshman.”
    “Does it sound like anyone you know of?” Fraser asked Roth.
    “No, but even I can only boast acquaintance with a fraction of London’s criminal class. We’ll circulate a description and offer a reward for information. I’ll make inquiries at Hatchards, though I’d lay you money he’s no deliveryman.” Roth nodded at Polly. “This is a good start. You’ve done well.” He returned his notebook and pencil to his pocket, then added, “Mr. Fraser is right, Polly. They’d have got the information they wanted, one way or another. There’s no way you could have known what they were planning. No one could.”
    Polly gave him a tremulous smile, got to her feet, and dropped a quick curtsy before Addison escorted her back to the kitchen.
    “I’d best be off,” Roth told the Frasers. “I want to get this description circulated as soon as possible.” He took a last swallow of coffee and stood up. “You’ll tell me what you learn from Carevalo?”
    Both the Frasers were silent for a moment. “I didn’t say I was going to see Carevalo,” Fraser said.
    “But you are, aren’t you? It’s what I’d do in your place.”
    Mélanie Fraser rose from the sofa and went to stand beside her husband. “We’re both going to see him.”
    Roth looked into her eyes and caught a glimpse of iron beneath the porcelain surface. He nodded. “You know Carevalo, you’ll know to handle him. Did you think I’d try to stop you? I don’t see how I could. Besides, if Carevalo is behind the boy’s disappearance, he’ll scarcely admit it to a Bow Street Runner. But presumably he’ll admit it to you. I only ask that you keep me informed. No rash heroics, Mr. Fraser.”
    For an instant the coolness in Fraser’s eyes cracked like a sheet of ice. Beneath lay a white-hot rage that was one step short of violence and a self-recrimination that went bone-deep. “I’m not a fool, Roth.”
    “I didn’t say you were.”
    Mélanie Fraser reached for her husband’s hand. “Charles wouldn’t do anything that might jeopardize Colin’s safety. Neither of us would.”
    Which, Roth thought as he left the house, answered his question without promising anything at all. Charles Fraser might be a master at control, but sooner or later the fury roiling beneath the cool surface was bound to break free. Roth wondered if the Marqués de Carevalo had the least idea what he’d unleashed.
     
    “Ah, Mr. Fraser.” The desk clerk at Mivart’s Hotel turned his head between his well-starched shirt points. “We’ve been expecting you.”
    Oh, Christ. It was true. “Expecting us?” Charles said.
    “The Marqués de Carevalo thought you might call.” If the clerk thought it odd that they had done so at half-past six in the morning, he gave no sign of it.
    Charles barely refrained from reaching across the polished counter and grasping the clerk by the well-tailored lapels of his coat. “Where is he?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t say, sir. The marqués left this morning.”
    “Left?” Mélanie’s voice shook, frayed to the breaking point. “But he was at the Princess Esterhazy’s only a few hours ago.”
    “The marqués returned to the hotel at about four this morning, madam. A short time later he settled his account and departed.” The clerk’s face was carefully wooden. “He said if you or Mr. Fraser asked for him I was to direct you to Mr. O’Roarke in room 212.”
    “O’Roarke?” For a moment Charles wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “Raoul O’Roarke?”
    “I believe that is the gentleman’s name. He arrived at the hotel yesterday evening.”
    Charles didn’t even stop to look at Mélanie. There was no point. They crossed the lobby and made for the stairs without speaking.
    Raoul O’Roarke. A name from the past, a force to be reckoned with, a piece that shook the emerging pattern of the puzzle. O’Roarke and Carevalo had both been leaders in the Spanish resistance to French occupation, but O’Roarke’s