Zhang tapped a name farther down the list, one that had been circled.
Wesley Collins, the Viscount Fine.
Sebastian tilted his head. “Lord Fine? As in, the viscount who lives in Kensington and has one of my cousin’s paintings?”
Jade nodded. “I will swear on a stack of Bibles that Lord Fine knows nothing of magic. But Sir Harold’s valet hitched his ride to America by insinuating himself intoFine’s life as a valet. We may not know if Blanshard is a murderer, but I can vouch that he’s a nasty piece of work. If he connects the stolen pomander to Chester and then to Lord Fine...” She made a face. “It’s a lot of ifs.”
“But also far too interwoven to be a coincidence.” Sebastian bit his thumb. “I was in Kensington today,” he said. “I stop by every now and then to be sure the magic is still protecting him, and it is. He should be safe.”
Jade and Zhang both looked slightly surprised. “That’s decent of you,” Jade said. “You don’t owe Lord Fine that.”
“But I do owe it to Arthur and Rory, after what I put them through in America,” Sebastian said. “But if Lord Fine might be a target of a paranormal murderer, I would help even if I did not feel the debt—well. If, ah.” He swallowed. “If you want my help.”
Jade picked up her tonic water, considering him. “Did you meet Lord Fine in the spring?”
Sebastian shook his head. “He was out when I arrived. I gave the painting of Barcelona to the footman and said it was a gift.” The footman had seemed confused but pleased, and had agreed to hang it by the back door. “Lord Fine is your friend too, no?”
Zhang snorted. “Friendis such a strong word,” he muttered, picking up his own drink.
Jade smiled ruefully again. “Fine has a reputation for being an ass—a deserved one, if I’m being perfectly honest—but I can’t seem to help but like him. I’m sending a telegram this evening.” Her smile turned more speculating. “And with that warning, if he agrees to meet with me, could I convince you to talk to him at some point?”
“Of course,” Sebastian said. “How bad could he be?”
Chapter Two
It was eight o’clock on the dot. Wesley’s tea was the proper temperature, steeped for exactly four minutes and served with freshly sliced lemon. His toast was satisfactorily golden. His newspaper had been unfolded and placed in its correct spot to the side of his tea, and the morning room’s fire was adequately warm to offset the chill of a September day.
It would have been an acceptable breakfast, if not for theceaseless fucking yipping.
“Christ, does that mongrel ever shut up?” Wesley raised his voice. “Dog! Cease this racket!”
His footman, Ned, lifted the teapot from the table. Wesley’s staff was small these days—his footman, his driver, the cook, and two maids. Once upon a time, he’d also had a butler, and briefly, a valet, but the butler had retired and the valet had gotten himself offed in America—mauled by an escaped zoo tiger, the police reports had said, what were the fucking odds—and Wesley hadn’t replaced them. Plenty of the aristocracy were reducing their staff, and he was, after all, quite alone and likely to stay that way forever.
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Ned said, as he poured tea into Wesley’s china cup, “but Powderpuff probably can’t hear you from Lady Pennington’s yard.”
Wesley gritted his teeth. His elderly neighbor, the one with whom he shared the back garden wall, had gone and adopted a Maltese, because she claimed the ridiculous creature’s affections eased her rheumatoid pains. What a load of sentimental rot. Everyone was miserable; it was no excuse to dote on a yappy speck of fluff.
“I demand silence with my breakfast,” said Wesley. “No music. No speaking. Nobarking.” He raised his voice again. “Dog! Quiet!”
The yipping continued.
Wesley was going to end up with a headache. “Ned,” he snapped at his footman. “Bring me a cigarette.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” said Ned. “You’re trying to quit.”
“Don’t nag me,” said Wesley. “Do as I say.”
“Sir, you specifically told me that if you requested smokes, I wasnot to acquiesce—those were your words. You said you’d read the latest medical reports, that your American friend, Mr. Kenzie, wassodding right—apologies, sir, but again, your words—and that you intended to quit for your health. You said you would dock my pay if I ever brought you your cigarettes again.”
In actuality Wesley intended to quit because having an addiction was intolerable, but he would not show weakness in front of his staff or anyone else. Let them think it was only for health—as long as they still brought him the bloody things. “I’ll dock your pay if you don’t bring them.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ned said loftily. “But I’m a man of my word.”
Wesley huffed. He had never once docked any member of his staff’s pay, for any reason. Clearly he should start, if they felt entitled to be cheeky. “Bring me my revolver, then.”
“My lord.”
“Don’t take that tone with me. I’ll only fire a warning shot above the dog’s minuscule head. I could do it with a cigarette in my mouth, if the man I pay to do my bidding would ever bring me one.”
