Wesley furrowed his brow. Surely she could see the flyers for herself? “Holidays,” he said anyway. “Every last one seems to be advertising for some kind of getaway in Spain or the Caribbean.”
The corner of Jade’s mouth curled up in a small grin. But she still didn’t look at the pub.
The alley was easy to miss, a barely noticeable opening on Bishopsgate just past the pub. It was far narrower than even the side street, hemmed in tightly by the tall buildings on both sides. It was unpleasantly dark as well, as the windows facing the alley were mostly boarded, and everything smelled of stale ale and piss. Wesley wrinkled his nose.
Jade stopped in front of a door partway down the alley, and knocked. After a long moment, she knocked again. “I wonder if he’s not home. It’s terribly frustrating not to be able to tell ahead of time, isn’t it?”
“Is there a way to know ahead of time without calling?” Wesley liked this plan less and less. She said this man was her friend, but what sort of riffraff would haunt an alley like this?
But as he stepped behind her protectively, his foot connected with something.
“What thedevil—” Wesley scrambled backward. “Something wet just spilt all over my ankle!”
“Oh dear.” Jade craned her neck. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I think it was just the cats’ water.”
“Whatcats?”
“The strays.”
“Thestrays.”
“My friend feeds the animals.” There was just enough light to see Jade’s face and her apologetic smile. “I did say I suspect he’s a marshmallow.”
Wesley’s sock was drenched because ofstray cats? “Feeding strays is how you catch disease. What on earth is wrong with your Mr.—you know, I don’t believe you’ve told me his name.”
“Mr. de Leon,” she said. “Sebastian.”
She pronounced Sebastian not as he would have, but with an elegant roll of the tongue at the end, like she was speaking French or Spanish, like a hint of a Mediterranean breeze to warm a cold English alley.
But no warm name would change Wesley’s cold, wet ankle. He folded his arms. “You know, the last man I met named Sebastian was a bootlegger and a kidnapper.”
Jade blinked. “What, really?”
“Oh yes,” said Wesley. “To be fair, I didn’t actually meet himper se. I was in the backroom office of a New York antiques shop when a group of three people came in after Rory Brodigan—bootleggers, apparently, that’s what Arthur said. One of them was named Sebastian and he had a Spanish accent.”
Jade looked like she’d had a shock. “You’re—you’re certain?”
“I told you I have an excellent memory, and frankly who would forget an experience like that? They used ridiculous code words likesubordinate paranormal. I’d recognize any of the three kidnappers by their voices alone.” Wesley frowned. Jade really had gone awfully still. “I’m sorry, was that not a story I should tell a woman?”
He heard footsteps then, coming into the alley.
Jade’s gaze went to the side, and she said, a little desperately, “Wait—”
The new voice that floated down the alley was like velvet in Wesley’s ears, an exquisite tenor made even more honeyed by a soft Spanish accent. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were waiting.”
Wesley knew that voice.
“I was at the train,” that very same bootlegging, kidnapping Sebastian de Leon from New York was saying. “But please, come in—”
In one sharp move, Wesley had his arm around de Leon’s neck and slammed him face-first into the alley wall.
“How the hell can you be the same man?” he hissed into de Leon’s ear. The gasp of pain was barely audible as Wesley wrenched de Leon’s arm behind his back and used his full weight and strength to hold him pinned to the bricks. “How the fuck can you be in London?”
Jade’s hand was suddenly on Wesley’s arm. “Lord Fine, let him go.”
“Miss Robbins, you don’t understand,” said Wesley. “He’s a kidnapper.”
De Leon stiffened. Wesley tightened his grip, but the other man seemed to have abruptly stopped moving.
