I must make the most of the opportunity. Harry firmed his resolve. Things might not have gone as planned this evening, but now he had rare access to the suspect’s domain. He would not waste it.
His boots moved soundlessly over the plush rugs as he traveled the perimeter of the high-ceilinged room. He didn’t know what to search for. Keeping an eye on the door, he rifled through the drawers of an escritoire: nothing but candle stubs, an inkwell, and some broken quills. He continued on past several seating areas, one of them around a carved stone fireplace. His shadow glided over a silk-covered wall lined with columns. Between the columns hung gilt-framed portraits in the style of famed painter Benjamin West.
Intrigued, Harry peered at the signature…make thatbyWest.
Upon closer perusal, he saw that gold placards beneath the portraits identified the subjects as members of Black’s family. There was one entitled “Althea Bourdelain Black,” showing a regal matron, her dark hair bound in a pearl-studded coronet. Framed by crimson curtains, she sat by a table, her beringed hand resting delicately on a bible. The paint brought out the richness of her forest green eyes, the blood-red of her heart-shaped ruby pendant and ring.
The next several portraits were of Black’s only child Mavis, spanning her development from girl to womanhood. In all of them, the painter had emphasized her doe-eyed fragility. The last picture depicted her as a young lady, sitting on a swing beneath the bowers of a leafy oak.
Harry came to the portrait at the end. It was one of Black himself, dressed in the style of the previous century with white silk breeches and an embroidered jacket. Beneath a powdered wig, Black’s piercing dark eyes seemed to stare directly at the viewer.
“They don’t make painters like they used to,” a voice boomed.
Harry turned to see Bartholomew Black framed in the open doorway.
Black looked as if he’d stepped out of his own portrait. He had on the same type of old-fashioned wig and breeches, his waistcoat blooming with exotic stitchery. Instead of a jacket, he wore a maroon silk banyan.
On any other man, the outmoded get-up might appear foolish. Nothing, however, could diminish the palpable aura of power and ruthlessness that swirled around the King of the Underworld. It reminded Harry that the civilized ambiance was just for show. Lives had been brutally cut short by this man’s command.
Muscles tensed, he reviewed his plan.Keep your identity hidden. Learn as much about the suspect as you can. Stay alive.
As Black neared, Harry noted that there were a few differences between the man in the portrait and the one in the flesh. Even London’s most powerful cutthroat couldn’t escape the ravages of time. Deep lines were etched into Black’s broad face. He had a walking stick, not just for decorative purposes. Harry observed the weight Black put on the cane, the white-knuckled grip on its brass knob.
Black stopped next to Harry. He was shorter by several inches, but his husky, barrel-chested figure gave him the presence of a larger man.
“Know who did these portraits?” he demanded.
At the non-sequitur, Harry said warily, “Benjamin West, I believe.”
“Bloody right, it was. West was ’ead o’ the Royal Academy, only the best for my family. But the damned codger ’ad to go and cock up ’is toes before ’e could paint my Tessie.”
Black grunted as if he took West’s death some twenty years ago as a personal affront.
“Inconsiderate, I’m sure,” Harry said wryly.
Gaze thinning, Black pointed his walking stick at a chair by the hearth. “Sit.”
Harry thought it best to comply.
Black took the adjacent studded wingchair, a throne-like affair several inches higher off the ground than Harry’s seat. Nonetheless, Harry’s height brought him eye to eye with his host.
“Explain yourself,” Black commanded.
Here goes.“My name is Sam Bennett—”
“Know your name. Know you were found with my Tessie in my stables,” Black growled. “What I want to know is whether I need to gut you like a pig.”
Bloody hell, there’s an introduction.“I don’t believe that’s, er, necessary.”
“Then spit it out. What were you up to with my granddaughter, eh?”
He decided to stick to the truth as much as possible. “I was at the Hare and Hounds when Miss Todd appeared to be in a predicament. At the time, I thought she was a lad, since she was disguised as such,” he added as Black’s mien darkened. “I saw she was outnumbered and lent a hand. The brutes gave chase, and she led the way to the stables, where we were hiding. Your man Ming chased off the villains,”—and blew one’s brains out—“and brought us here.”
Moments ticked by. Black said nothing, the flames of the hearth casting demonic shadows over his face. Just as Harry was beginning to wonder if his body would be found floating in the Thames, his host said gruffly, “Nothing else ’appened? ’Twixt you and my Tessie?”
“No, sir. ’Pon my honor.”
“Honor, eh? We’ll see.” Black’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. His gold signet ring, a crested affair, gleamed in the firelight. “’Ow much?”
