Where Serpents Sleep

Chapter 51

Kat Boleyn might have been the most celebrated young actress of the London stage, but her cramped dressing room at the Covent Garden Theater was not designed to accommodate Miss Boleyn in full costume as Beatrice, a tall nobleman in a many-caped driving coat, and a blind woman clutching a harp.

She looked at Mary Driscoll’s pale, strained face and said to Sebastian, “Could I speak to you outside for a moment?”

They crowded into a dimly lit corridor smelling strongly of grease paint and orange peels and dust. Kat whispered, “Sebastian, what are you going to do with her?”

“I’m hoping she can identify the men who forced their way into the Academy tonight.”

“She’s blind.”

“Yes, but she heard their voices. She’ll be able to recognize them if she hears them again.”

Kat looked at him. He knew what she was thinking, that while he might credit Miss Driscoll’s ability to identify voices, no one else would. But all she said was, “And afterward? What will you do with her then?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t leave you lumbered with her forever.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“I’m sorry, but I had no place else to take her where I knew she’d be safe.” He couldn’t see taking a woman like Mary Driscoll to the Red Lion.

“Sebastian, truly, it’s all right.” She reached out to touch his arm. A simple enough gesture, yet it sent a rush of forbidden longing coursing through him. It had been a mistake to come here, he realized, a mistake to allow himself to stand this close to her, to breathe in all the old familiar scents of a tainted past.

She dropped her hand and took a step back. “I heard someone has tried to kill you. Twice.”

“Where did you hear that?”

She stood with her arms gripped across the stomach of her costume as if she were cold, although it was not cold in the theater. Instead of answering, she said, “You will be careful. Not just of this killer, but of Jarvis.”

“I can handle Jarvis.”

“No one can handle Jarvis.”

To his surprise, Sebastian found himself smiling. “His daughter can.”

Walking out of the theater a few minutes later, Sebastian found his tiger waiting patiently at the chestnuts’ heads. The night had fallen clear and cold, with just the hint of a breeze that carried with it the sound of music and laughter and men’s voices raised in a toast. Sebastian said, “Take them home, Tom. I won’t be needing you anymore tonight.”

The tiger glanced at the door of the nearby music hall, then back at Sebastian’s face. “I can stay.”

Sebastian’s gaze lifted, like Tom’s, to the music hall door. It was too well lit, too loud, too full of the exuberance of life. Sebastian intended to do his drinking someplace dark and earnest. He clapped the tiger on the shoulder and turned away. “Just go home, Tom. Now.”