"Unless they're beautiful and well-spoken," Phoebe said.
Sebastien smiled as he came from the kitchen. Too many women of this era were silenced by its unrelenting primness. . .or simply as naïve as society expected they remain. He enjoyed Mrs. Smith. She would have been at home in the courts of the Renaissance. "So this young man was kept? How fascinating."
Jack placed one hand lightly on his wrist. "Sebastien. You're not—"
The killer was most likely one of the young man's clients. Or patrons, if one preferred. No mystery worth solving, though that did not ease his compulsion to try.
"Right," he said, and pulled Epaphras' ring from his pocket and showed it to her. "Phoebe," he said, "and Jack. I'm going out tonight. He lifted a hand to forestall Jack's inevitable protest. "I swear to you, Mr. Priest, I will not interfere in the investigation of this killing. But I must refresh myself, and I have dined at home too recently. Please stay in the house, both of you. If anyone comes looking for me—a man about Jack's height, with pale eyes—don't invite him in. He might be wearing a stone such as this."
Phoebe said, "I can survive scandal, but a reputation for plain bad manners will have me cut from society entirely."
"Have him wait in the cottage, then," Sebastien answered. There was a summer house, of sorts, in the back garden, boarded up for the winter now. One of the blood would not mind the cold. "He does not cross your threshold, as you value your safety and mine."
* * *
In his first weeks in Boston, by virtue of being able to claim a mutual acquaintance in Venice, and through the good offices of Mrs. Smith, Sebastien had garnered an invitation to a certain well-known salon at the home of Miss de Courten, which he now frequented. Miss de Courten—Sebastien assumed it was a nom d'amour—was French-speaking Swiss, and still quite European in her habits. She had only recently dropped the style of mademoiselle, deeming it unwise in the growing atmosphere of dividedness surrounding relations between the British Empire, the French incursions thereon, and colonial calls for Home Rule.
In any case, the lady, whose Christian name was Verenna, was a daylight sleeper, though quite mortal, and her guests were accustomed to such society hours as one kept on the continent. Lamps still burned in all the windows when Sebastien arrived, though it was well after midnight, and the maid responded immediately when he tapped upon the door.
He was instantly admitted, though he had not taken the precaution of sending ahead a card. The staff knew him, and the party was still in full voice.
Sebastien surrendered hat, gloves, coat, and walking stick, and suffered himself to be led to the parlor.
Miss de Courten had been a courtesan in more than one sense, in the old country. Although she was but recently acquainted with Sebastien, she was well aware of his nature and history. . .and quite grateful for his attentions. She was growing older, and had left her own patron behind in Nice, crumbled by the sun.
One grew tired. Sebastien understood very well the exhaustion that came with age, and it would be a lie to say he had never been tempted to the same route. But then, those left behind—mortal, or of the blood—grieved so.
Miss de Courten's salon was populated by the demimonde. When Sebastien entered, there were three in attendance. He made his obeisance to Miss de Courten and then greeted each guest in turn: a dark-haired stage actor with a famously burred and rasping voice, Mr. Alexander Frazier—named, like so many, for King Philip's mother, the Iron Queen; Mr. Roderick Chisholm, an author even more scandalous than Mrs. Smith for all he was a man; and a rangy, beaky woman in a domino mask, to whom all did the courtesy of honoring her incognito, though her identity could be no true secret. Even if he hadn't recognized her scent, Sebastien would have known her. Her fame—in impolite society—was undeniable.
"Chouchou," Sebastien said, her preferred alias. He bowed over her broad-knuckled hand and pressed his lips to the red-flashing violet glitter of amethyst on her gloved finger. It did not matter that Sebastien's hands were cold; she'd never notice through the kidskin. She made the demure turn of her head and the drape of a black line of false eyelash across her cheek seem bold as a stare.
"Mr. Nast," she replied—his new alias, and he was almost accustomed to