we’ve been able to discover. But I’ve kept the constables away from him so far—thought it might be better to let you have a go at him first.” The bells of the city’s churches began to toll, counting out the hour in a rolling cascade of sound as they drew up before the Bow Street Public Office. Lovejoy said, “There is one thing about Austen that may or may not be pertinent, but is nonetheless rather disturbing.”
“Oh?”
“His wife is the widow of a French count.”
“Please don’t tell me
he
lost his head as well?”
“I’m afraid so. He was guillotined in 1794. I gather she’s been ill for quite some time and may even be dying; Austen has his sister up from Hampshire to stay with them and help.”
“What do you know about her?”
“The sister? I gather she’s quite unremarkable. A spinster by the name of Jane. Miss Jane Austen.”
Sebastian went first to the Austen bank on Henrietta Street in Covent Garden, only to be told by a plump, supercilious clerk with heavily oiled, sandy hair that Mr. Austen was “currently unavailable.”
“Is he out, or simply not receiving?” asked Sebastian.
The clerk sniffed. “I’m afraid I really can’t say.” He started to turn away, a sheaf of papers in his hands.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
The icy menace in Sebastian’s voice brought the clerk to an abrupt halt, his chin sagging in a way that caused his mouth to gape open, his pale blue eyes widening as his gaze met Sebastian’s.
Sebastian said, “Consider your response very carefully.”
“He . . . he is not in today. Truly. He was scheduled to visit one of our branches down in Hampshire this morning, and I—I can only assume he went.”
“Where does he live?”
The man swallowed hard enough to bob his Adam’s apple visibly up and down. “I don’t think I should answer that.”
Sebastian gave the young man a smile that showed his teeth. “Actually, I think you should.”
The papers the clerk had been holding slipped from his fingers to flutter to the floor. “Sloane Street. Number sixty-four Sloane Street.”
“The keeper o’ the Hyde Park Turnpike is gonna think we’re up to somethin’ ’avey-cavey,” said Tom as Sebastian turned his horses toward Hans Town for the third time that day.
“Very likely,” agreed Sebastian, guiding his pair around a slow collier’s wagon.
The Austen house lay halfway down Sloane Street, not far from Sloane Square and the narrow, haunted lane that led to Bloody Bridge. One of a long line of terraces built late in the previous century, it had neat, white-framed windows and a shiny front door and was in every respect what one might expect of a prosperous, up-and-coming banker.
The door was opened by a young and rather inexperienced housemaid who confirmed the bank clerk’s information, saying breathlessly, “I’m sorry, me lord, but the master left at the crack o’ dawn, he did.” When Sebastian then asked to see Mr. Austen’s sister instead, the girl grew so flustered she dropped the card he’d handed her.
She retrieved the card with a stammered apology and hurried away, only to return a moment later and escort him up to an elegant octagonal drawing room. The salon was expensively furnished in the latest style, with Egyptian-inspired settees covered in peach- and lime-striped silk, ornately carved gilt mirrors, and an exquisite collection of French porcelains. The only odd note came from a small, rather plain writing desk that rested on a round, inlaid rosewood table positioned before the windows so that it overlooked the garden. At Sebastian’s entrance, the woman seated beside it thrust whatever she’d been working on beneath the desk’s slanted lid so quickly that the corners of some of the pages were left protruding.
“Lord Devlin,” she said, rising from her chair to come forward and greet him.
Like the plain writing desk, Miss Jane Austen looked vaguely out of place in the room, both more comfortable and less
“Oh?”
“His wife is the widow of a French count.”
“Please don’t tell me
he
lost his head as well?”
“I’m afraid so. He was guillotined in 1794. I gather she’s been ill for quite some time and may even be dying; Austen has his sister up from Hampshire to stay with them and help.”
“What do you know about her?”
“The sister? I gather she’s quite unremarkable. A spinster by the name of Jane. Miss Jane Austen.”
Sebastian went first to the Austen bank on Henrietta Street in Covent Garden, only to be told by a plump, supercilious clerk with heavily oiled, sandy hair that Mr. Austen was “currently unavailable.”
“Is he out, or simply not receiving?” asked Sebastian.
The clerk sniffed. “I’m afraid I really can’t say.” He started to turn away, a sheaf of papers in his hands.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
The icy menace in Sebastian’s voice brought the clerk to an abrupt halt, his chin sagging in a way that caused his mouth to gape open, his pale blue eyes widening as his gaze met Sebastian’s.
Sebastian said, “Consider your response very carefully.”
“He . . . he is not in today. Truly. He was scheduled to visit one of our branches down in Hampshire this morning, and I—I can only assume he went.”
“Where does he live?”
The man swallowed hard enough to bob his Adam’s apple visibly up and down. “I don’t think I should answer that.”
Sebastian gave the young man a smile that showed his teeth. “Actually, I think you should.”
The papers the clerk had been holding slipped from his fingers to flutter to the floor. “Sloane Street. Number sixty-four Sloane Street.”
“The keeper o’ the Hyde Park Turnpike is gonna think we’re up to somethin’ ’avey-cavey,” said Tom as Sebastian turned his horses toward Hans Town for the third time that day.
“Very likely,” agreed Sebastian, guiding his pair around a slow collier’s wagon.
The Austen house lay halfway down Sloane Street, not far from Sloane Square and the narrow, haunted lane that led to Bloody Bridge. One of a long line of terraces built late in the previous century, it had neat, white-framed windows and a shiny front door and was in every respect what one might expect of a prosperous, up-and-coming banker.
The door was opened by a young and rather inexperienced housemaid who confirmed the bank clerk’s information, saying breathlessly, “I’m sorry, me lord, but the master left at the crack o’ dawn, he did.” When Sebastian then asked to see Mr. Austen’s sister instead, the girl grew so flustered she dropped the card he’d handed her.
She retrieved the card with a stammered apology and hurried away, only to return a moment later and escort him up to an elegant octagonal drawing room. The salon was expensively furnished in the latest style, with Egyptian-inspired settees covered in peach- and lime-striped silk, ornately carved gilt mirrors, and an exquisite collection of French porcelains. The only odd note came from a small, rather plain writing desk that rested on a round, inlaid rosewood table positioned before the windows so that it overlooked the garden. At Sebastian’s entrance, the woman seated beside it thrust whatever she’d been working on beneath the desk’s slanted lid so quickly that the corners of some of the pages were left protruding.
“Lord Devlin,” she said, rising from her chair to come forward and greet him.
Like the plain writing desk, Miss Jane Austen looked vaguely out of place in the room, both more comfortable and less
Similar Books
