“You should know better,” Tensford reproached.
“What I know is that it is time for me to seek out my next refugee. I promised not to pursue another without telling all of you, so let this serve as your notice.” He stood.
Chester did as well. “I’ll go with you. You were not to go alone, that was the bargain. You need one of us with you, at least until you discover if the latest one is dangerous.”
“Fine.” Whiddon moved his gaze around the table. “None of your wives needs to know any of this.Anyof it.”
“Oh, we won’t say a word.” Sterne’s eyes were alight with laughter.
“We won’t have to, I’ll wager,” Tensford told him. “Be careful, both of you.”
* * *
Holdingthe paper up into the afternoon light, Whiddon looked over Chapman’s list. A stray wind ruffled his hair and brought with it the scent of the river. He frowned as it triggered a sudden memory.
“Chester, do you recall me telling you about the last refugee? The one I found in a warehouse down at the docks?”
“The one who beat you about? No, I’d forgotten,” his friend said sarcastically. “Of course, I remember.”
“I just remembered something. Something odd. I’d forgotten, because I was focused on the drubbing they gave me.”
“What is it?”
“Yet. He said yet. Did I have his mother’s pearls,yet? I meant to ask him what he meant.”
“But you were too busy getting beaten black and blue?”
“Well, yes. What could he have meant by that?”
“I don’t know, but I think we should concentrate on one at a time. What does Chapman say about this one?”
The valet had listed three possible contacts, and so far, two had proved to be a waste of time. Both swore they knew nothing of the Comte de Perette. Both insisted they had heard nothing of the man since they’d fled the Terror in France, years ago.
Now, he stood with Chester outside the last address. “Not much. The man is an artist of some sort. Let’s go.”
The door was located in a cramped, cobbled courtyard not far from Leadenhall Market. Several worn stairs led down to what promised to be a dark, dank hovel of a place, but fortunately, they did not have to go in. The door stood open and the occupant sat outside, bent over a small easel.
“Monsieur Laspar?”
The grizzled man scowled as Chester moved closer. “Stay out of the light, will you?” He squinted down at the illustration he was working on.
“You’ve got the King’s nose all wrong,” Chester pointed out.
“You knew who he was, did you not?” the man snarled back. He looked up and his eyes widened. “Ah, but you’re . . .” He fixed his gaze on Whiddon. “And you are . . .”
“We are looking for someone,” Whiddon said. “We heard you could help.”
A crafty look stole across the man’s face and Whiddon wondered how much this was going to cost him. “Who is it you seek?”
“The Comte de Perette.”
The man’s expression closed. He turned back to his illustration. “No. Very sorry. I’m not familiar with that name.”
Whiddon reached for calm. Chapman’s work was always thorough, and his information was usually flawless. Today they were being put off. But why? He looked over the man’s project. “You create caricatures for the print shops and broad sheets?”
“When I can find a subject amusing enough,” the man muttered.
Whiddon was more than familiar with the satirical prints. He and the rest of his friends had been the subject of them more than once. He studied the image more closely. “I recognize your style, I believe. Didn’t you draw the one of me and Keswick racing ponies across Hampstead Heath?”
