The Devil to Pay (12 page)

Devellyn lifted his gaze, and for the first time, looked at the red-haired woman with hurt in his eyes. “You thought she’d decided to leave me for Sir Edmund Sutters,” he said. “And so she did.”

At that, the fight seemingly went out of Camelia, and she fell back onto the chaise. “Aye, well, that’s all well and good,” she whimpered, her face suddenly crumpling. “But I can’t ’ave ’im now, can I?”

Devellyn was silent for a moment. “Why not?”

At that, she broke down utterly and dropped her candlestick to the floor. “E’s in the sponging house!” she wailed. “The bloody Peelers come got ’im last night.”

Alasdair nodded. “I’m afraid it’s true,” he said. “Sutters is expected to be in insolvent debtor’s court before the month is out. It was all the talk at White’s last night.”

“Ruined! Ooh, ’e’s proper ruined!” Sobs wracked Camelia now. “’E’s got debts up to his pretty blue eyes, and owes the moneylenders everything ’e’s like to get ’is mitts on in this life, and probably the next.”

“Oh, Camelia.” Devellyn’s voice was suddenly soft. “I am sorry.”

Camelia exploded again. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me!” she screamed, lunging at him again. He caught her against him, but Camelia kept pummeling him with her fists.

“Now, now, Camelia!” Alasdair crossed the room, and gently peeled her off Devellyn, his voice soothing. “This is not necessary, my dear. You’re far too lovely to be wasted on an insensitive lout like Dev. Besides, he neglected you dreadfully. You must on no account excuse him for it.”

Camelia stepped back, sniffed, and began to pat at her hair. “Oh, ’e pretty much ignored me, right enough,” she agreed. “Unless he wanted a little bounce on my bel—”

“Yes, yes, understood!” said Alasdair swiftly, shooting an uncertain glance at Sidonie. “Now, I collect you need a place to live, my dear, until you can chose from what will doubtless be a score of new suitors vying for your charms?”

Camelia looked at him hopefully. “It’s a long, lonely wait, too.”

Alasdair blanched. “Yes, well, you’ll soon make some chap frightfully happy, I’m sure,” he said hastily. “Now, if we turn our minds to it, surely we can think of some suitable accommodation for you?”

Camelia’s face fell. “I’ve turned my mind far enough,” she said insistently. “Devellyn promised me a fortnight, and a fortnight is what I ought’er have, after all I put up with.”

The marquess cursed softly under his breath. Camelia shot him a venomous look, then turned her glare on Sidonie. Clearly, matters were sliding downhill again.

“Julia and I have an extra bedchamber,” blurted Sidonie, feeling sorry for the woman. “Miss Lederly, you would be welcome to it until you’ve made other arrangements.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, running an eye down Sidonie’s attire. “Desperate, I’m not.”

“By George, I’ve got it!” said Alasdair, going to the desk and whipping out a sheet of foolscap. “Camelia, you can use my brother Merrick’s flat. He’s gone off to Milan until Michaelmas.”

“Well, I don’t know…” said Camelia. “Is it someplace posh?”

“Quite,” said Alasdair, scribbling. “The Albany.”

“Ooh, the Albany!” said Camelia. “Lots of rich blokes live there!”

“Place is infested with ’em,” agreed Alasdair, folding the note and thrusting it at her. “Just give this to the porter, and ask for the key to Mr. Merrick MacLachlan’s flat.”

Camelia’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “What about me things?” she said. “I’ve got lots. Will he carry them up?”

Alasdair patted her on the shoulder as he urged her toward the door. “My dear, he will even cart them over for you,” he reassured her. “But hurry along now. The night porter comes on at six, and he suffers terribly from the lumbago.”

Together, they vanished down the corridor. Sidonie could only hold Devellyn’s gaze and fight down a burst of laughter. The marquess groaned softly and covered his face with his hand. “God, I cannot believe this just happened,” he said.

A moment later, the front door thumped shut. Alasdair rushed back into the room, slammed the study door, and fell back against it as if fearing she might return.

Devellyn swore beneath his breath again. “Alasdair, you’ve lost your mind,” he said, kicking a wet lily from his path. “Camelia cannot go to the Albany! They won’t permit a woman to live there!”

“Well, Merrick hasn’t gone to Milan, either,” his friend retorted. “Until Michaelmas or otherwise. But she doesn’t know any of that, does she? And by the time she trots all the way down to Piccadilly and comes back again, I should hope you’ll have put some proper bars on the bloody doors and windows. Good God, Dev! The woman’s a menace to society!”

The marquess had hurled himself back into his chair and was staring morosely at the sodden mess of newspapers. “I like my women with a little fire in them,” he said defensively.

“Yes, well, that one blows like a bloody Sheffield forge,” Alasdair answered. “Melts my silver just to look at her. What were you thinking to let her back in?”

Suddenly, all of the marquess’s restraint seemed to leave him. “Well, I didn’t expect her back, now, did I?” he snapped, jerking back onto his feet. “I’ve never had one of them
come
back once they’d cast me off, have I?—and I’ve even begged a couple!—so, Alasdair, I guess you could say this took me by surprise! And thanks for rubbing it in.”

“Well, you don’t have to shout,” said Alasdair peevishly. Then he turned to Sidonie and extended his hand. “Allow me to fall at your feet, ma’am,” he said smoothly. “I am Sir Alasdair MacLachlan, your newest and most ardent admirer.”

Still trying not to laugh, Sidonie took the proffered hand. “I am Madame Saint-Godard,” she answered. “I live across the street. I was inviting his lordship to tea with my vicar.”

“Oh.” Alasdair’s face fell.

But Devellyn’s thoughts seemed elsewhere. “Honeywell!” he roared. “Honeywell, get back in here, you fainthearted hen!”

The butler dashed back into the room, looking at his wit’s end. “Yes, my lord?”

Devellyn shot another nasty look at Alasdair. “Take a hundred pounds out of the cash box,” he said. “Then go down to the Albany and fetch Miss Lederly.”

Honeywell paled. “Oh, sir, must I?” he whimpered. “She really does not care for me. Can’t you make Fenton go?”

“Both of you go,” roared the marquess.

Honeywell made a pitiful mewling sound.

“Well, you know what my Granny MacGregor always says,” murmured Alasdair. “Better a coward than a corpse.”

“You!” said Devellyn, turning on him. “Stop spewing that Scottish drivel! And you, Honeywell, take a whip and a chair if it’ll make you feel better. And for pity’s sake, don’t bring her back here. Rent her a flat—a nice one. In St. James. Or—hell, take two hundred and make it Mayfair.”

“Cut your losses, Dev!” warned Alasdair. “You are well rid of that spiteful cat.”

The marquess eyed him angrily. “She cannot very well live on the streets, Alasdair,” he said. “I owe her, at the very least, a roof over her head.”

Honeywell eyed his master suspiciously. “Well, with two hundred pounds, surely she can rent her own roof.”

A vein popped out on the marquess’s forehead. “Lord, Honeywell, don’t
give
her the cash!” he returned. “She’ll only lose it at Lufton’s. You do it. Lease it for a year, and take that new footman—what the devil’s his name?”

“Polk, sir,” sniffed Honeywell. “Henry Polk.”

“Yes, well, Polk can move her things,” he said. “A strained back might keep him away from that housemaid across the street, mightn’t it, Madame Saint-Godard? Now, Godspeed, Honeywell!”

The butler fled. Alasdair looked at him incredulously.
“Godspeed?”
he echoed. “What are you now, some sort of Puritan?”

The marquess clasped his hands rigidly behind his back. “Alasdair,” he said very quietly. “Why are you here?”

Alasdair looked irritated. “You told me to be here before three,” he snapped. “And it is now a quarter ’til. Need I remind you we’ve an appointment?”

Sudden understanding swept over Devellyn’s features. “Ah, quite right!” he murmured. “And we shall keep it, too. Please be so kind, old friend, as to go upstairs and wait for me.”

Alasdair shot Devellyn an exasperated look and left. The marquess still appeared vaguely embarrassed. “You enjoyed that vastly, did you not?” he said, as soon as the door closed. His eyes were no longer flat and cold, but rather, filled with a hint of wry humor.

For an instant, all barriers were down between them. “I can honestly say it was like nothing I’ve ever witnessed before,” she answered. “And I’ve hardly lived what one would call a sheltered life.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have witnessed it at all, Sidonie,” he said, pronouncing her name flawlessly. “My apologies for allowing you to be dragged into such a mess.”

“You did not drag me,” she said. “I knocked on your door and came in of my own accord.”

“Ah, Sidonie!” he said, looking past her and into the gardens beyond the window. “Tell me, my dear girl. There is no vicar coming to dinner tomorrow, is there?”

“Tea,” she corrected. “It was tea.” She dropped her gaze. “And no, there is not.”

He gave a dry chuckle. “Oh, you really do owe me an apology now!” he said. “I shall be there at six.”

“For…for what?”

“Dinner.” He turned from the window and looked down at her, eyes twinkling. “And I shan’t be fobbed off with tea, either. Now, why the open mouth, Sid? You and Mrs. Crosby do dine, do you not? Or do you sustain yourselves on something more ephemeral? Champagne and sugar-water, perhaps?”

He smiled, and for an instant, Sidonie felt the floor shift beneath her feet. “We…oh, yes, we dine.”

“Capital,” he said. “I shall bring Alasdair. He is, as you see, quite charming. And I find him rather more tolerant of my wicked ways than a vicar might be.”

“I see.” There seemed to be no arguing with him, and strangely, Sidonie was not at all sure she wished to. “Well, you like beef, I daresay?” she ventured. “Mrs. Tuttle does a lovely joint.”

“Perfect,” he said, the smile deepening. “And a sponge cake, perhaps? I am inordinately fond of it, too, Sidonie.”

Oh, God. She liked the way her name sounded on his lips. That could not possibly be a good thing. “Yes, orange sponge, perhaps,” she managed to murmur. “We’ve been rather flush with oranges lately.”

Suddenly, Devellyn had her hand again and was carrying it to his lips, but unlike the previous evening, this time, he lingered. When he lifted his head, his eyes were filled with some sort of intense emotion. “Sidonie,” he said, his voice strangely hoarse. “You are the most—I mean, you are so…I find you…ah, devil take it! Never mind!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” he growled. “I misspoke. What did you say about oranges?”

But Sidonie had forgotten all about that. She withdrew her hand, and shook her head as if it might clear her vision. “My lord—” she began uncertainly. “My lord, forgive me, I cannot help but ask—did Miss Lederly really cast you off?”

He looked at her strangely. “You think it unlikely?” he asked. “If so, rest assured that Camelia is not particularly discriminating. It happens to me with a startling regularity.”

“I see,” said Sidonie. But she didn’t. In fact, she was beginning to feel as if she understood nothing at all—particularly where Lord Devellyn was concerned. And she was beginning to feel dreadfully guilty, too.

The marquess shrugged, as if his failings did not matter, and drifted closer to the window, where he stood looking out at the fading sunlight. “The truth is, Sidonie, I don’t fare well with women.” He spoke coolly, and without looking at her. “It is my own fault, of course. I…I neglect them. I forget where I’m supposed to be, and when I’m supposed to be there. I’m irresponsible. I drink to excess, gamble to excess, and sometimes I brawl. I never remember special occasions. And I very often go to sleep before they’ve…well, never mind that.” Devellyn fell silent for a moment. “And I cheat on them,” he quietly added. “Dreadfully. Did I mention that?”

“You did not,” she answered. “But a full disclosure of one’s fidelity, or even one’s skill in the bedroom, is not, strictly speaking, necessary before having dinner with someone.”

Devellyn smiled down at her a little wearily. “Ah, Sid, I have no charm at all, have I?” he said almost regretfully.

“Very little,” she agreed. “But I think charm can be a vastly overrated virtue.”

He lifted his sharply arched brows. “Do you now?”

Sidonie smiled and laid her hand lightly on his arm. “I have had a great deal of experience with charming men, my lord,” she said. “They do not always wear well.”

Devellyn smiled. “I see.”

“As do I,” said Sidonie. “Indeed, my lord, I see a great deal more than you might guess.”

He looked at her curiously. “How so?”

She gave a faint smile. “Well, for example, last night I saw the man who waited for me in the shadows along Bedford Place.”

Strangely, the marquess turned back to the window and would not look at her.

“Indeed,” she went on, “I saw him linger—very near your door, in fact—until it was quite obvious I had returned home safe and sound.”

“Did you indeed?” murmured Devellyn.

“I did.” She deepened her smile and cut a sidelong glance at him. “And he did not, in that moment, strike me as especially irresponsible. Moreover, I begin to suspect he was not that drunk.”

“Be careful, my dear,” said the marquess softly. “Don’t imagine in him any virtues he does not, and will never, possess.”

“Oh, I shan’t,” she said. “I am slowly learning to measure a man’s character with the greatest care and patience.”

And then, without another word, Sidonie slipped from Devellyn’s study and made her way home.

“I owe you, Alasdair,” Devellyn said awhile later as their carriage went rumbling over the Southwark Bridge.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” his friend agreed. “But for what?”

Devellyn lifted his shoulders and rolled them restlessly backward. “Oh, for smoothing things out with Camelia,” he finally said. “What a bloody awful mess.”

Alasdair reached across the space between them and thumped him on the shoulder. “Well, you cannot keep two birds in the same cage, old chap,” he answered. “And the French girl was too fine to let go.”

“You much mistake the situation, Alasdair.” Devellyn stared down the river at a barge drifting out to catch the tide. “Madame Saint-Godard is a neighbor. That is all.”

“You aren’t pursuing the lady, Dev?”

“I am not.”

“Oh, I see,” said Alasdair pensively. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I did?”

Devellyn shot his best friend a long, dark look. “I did not say that, did I?” he answered. “I know you, Alasdair, and your intentions would not be honorable.”

“I resent that, old chap,” said Alasdair. “I thought her every inch a lady—and lovely inches they were, too, even in that dreadful dress. No, were I to approach such a woman, it would be with the best of intentions.”

Devellyn withdrew his shiny new pocket watch, a replacement for the one the Black Angel had stolen. “Well, Alasdair, you have almost twenty-seven hours in which to ponder those intentions,” he said grimly. “We dine with her tomorrow at six.”

In the gloom of the carriage, he saw Alasdair’s eyes widen. “Do we?” he murmured. “That should prove fascinating. I take it the lady is a widow of some means?”

“Of modest means, I collect.”

Alasdair leaned nearer. “What else do you know of her?”

Devellyn was silent for a moment. “She is French, of course,” he finally answered. “From a poor but noble family, or so it’s said. She teaches deportment to the daughters of various cits around town.”

“That sounds like a miserable job,” answered Alasdair. “The lady obviously needs a pair of comforting arms.”

Devellyn gave a snort of disgust. “Are you offering?”

“Lord, no,” said Alasdair. “I cower from the competition.”

Devellyn felt a moment of panic. “What competition?”

Alasdair had the audacity to grin. “It looked to me as if Madame Saint-Godard had eyes for only one man.”

The marquess fell silent for a long moment, then said, “If you can do nothing but babble nonsense, Alasdair, kindly stop talking altogether.”

And so Alasdair did. Instead of talking, he relaxed against his banquette, propped up his boots on the seat beside Devellyn, and grinned at him like a lunatic all the way down to the Anchor.

Devellyn should have been relieved when the carriage drew up at the door to the taproom, but he was not. Just seeing the old tavern again set his every nerve on edge. All thought of Sidonie Saint-Godard fled his mind, and he could think only of her.
Of the Black Angel.
Of how desperately he wanted to get his hands round that slender stalk of her neck, and force her to—to—well, he was not perfectly sure what he would force her to do. What he had paid her to do, most probably. He still wanted it, and badly.

Good Lord! Devellyn closed his eyes and tried not to think of what a fool he was. Instead, he tried to think only of what she had stolen—Greg’s portrait—and not about the strange fantasies that lately haunted his sleep.

Once inside, they had no trouble finding the young man who had been working the taproom on the night of the Black Angel’s trickery. He seemed cooperative enough, so Devellyn bought three pints of porter and pulled the lad aside to an empty table. But it soon proved impossible to get much information out of him, for he denied knowing anything of the woman Devellyn had met that night.

“She was pretending to be a doxy working the South Bank,” Devellyn growled. “I’ll wager she’s tried her tricks in here before.”

“No, s-s-sir.”

Devellyn slammed his open hand on the table surface. “Bloody hell, man, I saw you talking to her! It was dark in here, but not that dark.”

“No disrespect m-meant, your lordship, but I never laid eyes on the woman afore that night, I s-s-swear it,” he stuttered. “That’s
why
you saw me talking to her.”

“What the devil does that mean?”

The young man looked at him earnestly. “We always warns ’em, the new ones what comes in. We tell ’em straight out that we’ll brook no trouble at the Anchor. They can stay and ply their trade, long as they’re quiet about it.”

Irritated, Devellyn fished in his coat pocket, then slapped a gold guinea on the table.

For a moment, the young man just blinked at it. “I’m sorry, sir,” he finally said. “You can lay out ten of ’em, but I won’t be taking your money, for I’ve naught to tell.”

Devellyn meant to drag the fellow over the table by his shirt collar, but Alasdair interceded, thrusting an arm between them. “Calm down, old chap,” he said. “This place is affecting your judgment.”

“No,
Ruby Black
is affecting my judgment,” snarled Devellyn. “I want that woman under my thumb, Alasdair, and I don’t care what it takes.”

Alasdair looked at him strangely for a moment, then turned to the tapster in some sympathy. “Surely, if you search your memory, my good man, you can think of something which might be of help to us?” he said sweetly. “My friend, a regular patron of your fine establishment, was robbed of his most prized possession—a family heirloom, no less—by this Ruby Black person. He wants to find her. You can understand that, can you not?”

The young man blinked again, and laid both hands flat on the table. “Well, I know nothing more,” he said. “But Gibbs was working out front that night, totting up the accounts for the week.”

“Yes?” said Alasdair eagerly. “Can we see him?”

The man shook his head. “Gone down to Reigate to see his sister,” he said. “But he did remark as how he’d seen her come in that night. Said she paid with one of them.” He gestured at the gold guinea. “Thought it was a bit queer, he did, for her sort. And then, when he gave her the change, he saw her hands were fair and smooth. A proper lady’s hands, he said.”

Devellyn narrowed one eye and considered it. He’d noticed that, too, hadn’t he? Ruby Black’s hands—those delicate, long-fingered hands which had so cleverly undressed and caressed him—had scarce washed so much as a dirty dish, he’d wager. In the dark, they had felt like satin skimming over his heated flesh.

“So that’s all we know, sir,” the young man finished. “Now, I’ll give you the key to the room, and gladly, if you think another look about would be of help?”

Devellyn shook his head. He hoped never to enter that room again. The memory of his night with Ruby Black was cut deep into his brain, and already, the rage and humiliation and raw sexual frustration were flooding back again.

Alasdair must have sensed something was wrong. He jerked abruptly to his feet. “Let’s go have dinner at White’s, Dev, and see if we can find Tenby,” he suggested.

Devellyn pushed the memory of Ruby Black away, pushed it deep into the cellar of his mind, and ruthlessly slammed the door. “Dinner, yes,” he managed to say. “But that pup Tenby? Hell, no.”

Alasdair stood, and the young man scurried back to his post. “Well, at the very least, I hope you sent him a list of what was stolen?”

“I did,” Devellyn admitted. “But I hold little hope his Runner will find anything.”

Indeed, he had sent it, but he had hated having to do so; had hated having to admit he still carried Greg’s portrait out of guilt and sentiment, which was the conclusion everyone would draw when Tenby started gossiping. It had felt as though he was revealing a painful little piece of himself to the public, and he resented it. It had been a measure of his desperation that he’d done it anyway.

“What they’ve actually hired is one of those new policemen,” Alasdair corrected, as they strode through the tavern and back into the cobbled yard. “A nasty, brutal-looking chap by the name of Sisk. But he is to work the case off duty, on a private basis.”

Devellyn’s breathing had calmed now. “Is that still allowed?”

Alasdair shrugged. “Probably not,” he answered. “Still, having seen the fellow, I pity the Black Angel if he gets hold of her.”

Something in his words sent a chill down Devellyn’s spine. Oh, he wanted the Angel punished, all right. But he wanted the doing of it left to
him.
“Find out what they are paying this policeman, Alasdair,” he said. “I shall offer to double his sum if he brings the woman to me first.”

“Easily done, old chap,” his friend agreed. “Money greases everyone’s wheels.”

“Truer words were never spoken.” Suddenly, Devellyn reached up and banged on the carriage roof. At once, Wittle began to slow.

“What now, Dev?” asked Alasdair.

“Gracechurch Street,” Devellyn bellowed through the window. His gaze returned to Alasdair. “I’ve a sudden notion to visit my solicitors. You will not, I hope, object to a brief detour?”

“Certainly not,” he answered. “But why?”

“Because, Alasdair, as you say, money greases everyone’s wheels. Perhaps it’s time to throw a little in Ruby Black’s direction.”

In the Strand, the business day was fast drawing to an end, and Jean-Claude was in the process of hanging out the shop’s CLOSED sign, and bolting the front door for the evening. Beyond the matching bow windows, the flow of clerks and shopgirls heading home to dinner had turned into a roiling river of gray wool which bobbed with floating black hats.

Such a pity,
thought Jean-Claude. The English always dressed with a total lack of panache.

But just then, he spotted what looked like a salmon swimming upstream. A man wearing a bright pink waistcoat was fighting his way up from the direction of St. Martin’s. Soon, his meaty red face was visible. Too visible. Unfortunately, Jean-Claude was too slow. The man placed his hand firmly on the door a mere instant before Jean-Claude shot the bolt.

“Not so fast, me pretty boy!” he said, giving it a hearty push. “I’ve business ’ere.”

Jean-Claude backed away as he entered.
“Oui, oui, monsieur,”
he answered, recognizing the man well.
“Mais je ne parle pas anglais!”

“Friggin’ frogs!” said the man, obviously frustrated. “Where’s Kem, eh? I knows ’e’s in ’ere someplace, so go and tell ’im to get ’is scrawny arse down ’ere, awright?”

Jean-Claude widened his eyes and shook his head.
“Oui, monsieur, mais je ne comprends pas!”
he said.
“No anglais! No anglais!”

The man raised both hands in the air and shook them.
“Où est
yer boss, eh?
Où est
Monsoor Kemble?” he bellowed. “I wants him right away,
capitare?”

Suddenly, the back draperies flew open with a violent jangling of curtain rings.
“Capitare
is an Italian word, you dolt,” said George Kemble. “And the wrong one, at that. Lock us up, Jean-Claude. I’ll throw him out through the alley.”

Jean-Claude wrinkled his nose, reached past the man, and shot the bolt tight.

Kemble turned his attention to their caller. “Good afternoon, Constable Sisk,” he said. “To what do we owe the displeasure?”

“That’s
Sergeant
Sisk now, I’ll thank you,” he said. “In the back, Kem. This is a social call, and I wants to talk private-like.”

Kemble lifted his sharp black brows. “A capital notion, dear boy,” he answered. “It does my sort of business no good to have the police seen hanging about, does it?”

Jean-Claude followed them through the green velvet draperies and began to polish a silver bowl from a baize table littered with similar pieces. Kemble pulled out the chair at his rolltop desk, and motioned Sisk to take a seat nearby.

Sisk eyed Jean-Claude across the room. “What about ’im?” he asked suspiciously. “I don’t need an audience for this.”

Kem shrugged. “Doesn’t speak a word of English, old chap.” Then he threw up the rolltop, and drew out a silver flask and two small crystal tumblers. “Armagnac?”

Sisk turned his suspicious gaze on the flask. “I don’t drink noffink I can’t pronounce,” he said.

“Jean-Claude!” called Kemble over his shoulder. “Bring Sergeant Sisk a bottle of the cheap stuff.”

Jean-Claude rummaged around in a nearby cupboard and produced a bottle of gin.

Sisk’s expression shifted to one of outrage. “Thought he didn’t speak
no anglais!”

“He’s psychic,” said Kemble, as Jean-Claude skulked away. “Now, do you want a tot of the pale or not?”

Scowling, Sisk filled his glass. Kemble lifted his and lightly touched Sisk’s rim. “Well, to the good old days, then,” he said.

“What was so bloody good about ’em?”

“No organized police force?” Kemble ventured. “A fair-minded fence could do an honest day’s work back then. Now thanks to Peel and our friend Max, this town is crawling with brass-buttoned blues. Speaking of which, old chap, where is yours?”

Sisk patted his pink waistcoat—and the ample belly beneath—with both hands. “Told you this was a social call,” he said. “Not the sort of thing I wants to be doing in uniform.”

Kemble let his gaze drift over the man’s attire. “Sisk, you have a gift,” he declared. “Only a rare sartorial talent would pair that shade of pink with a green coat and mustard trousers.”

Sisk’s brow furrowed. “Poking fun at me again, eh?”

Kemble splayed his fingertips over his heart.
“Moi?”
he said. “Never. Now, what can I do you out of?”

Sisk finished his gin, dragged the back of his hand over his mouth, then rummaged inside his coat. “Have a gander,” he said, extracting a list. “Stolen property. And I wants to retrieve it bad, Kem. A private matter.”

Kemble unfolded the grimy sheet of foolscap and let his eyes run down it. “I don’t often deal in this sort of thing,” he said quite honestly. “Pocket watches? Snuff-boxes? It’s trivial, Sisk.”

Jean-Claude had drifted toward the desk and held out his hand.
“Donnez-le moi.”

“Mais naturellement,”
said Kemble, passing it to him.

Together, they read it again. Sisk’s beefy finger wedged between them. “I want this piece in partic’lar, and I wants it bad,” he said, tapping on one item.