Campion was nervous as she dressed, hardly aware of what clothes she put on, thinking only of the distrust she had for all the seal-bearers. Marta Renselinck laughed at her fears. “He’s a good man, child, a kind man. Now, sit down while I arrange your hair.”

The room into which Marta showed her and left her was magnificent. It faced the river and, for the first time, Campion realized she was on the south bank of the Thames. To the right she could see the Tower of London, its highest ramparts touched with the sun’s dying light, and to her left was the great bridge, rearing high above the water. The room itself was dark-panelled, its floor covered with eastern rugs, while one wall was covered with bookshelves, the gold-blocked spines of the packed volumes glinting from the light of the few lit candles. She moved nervously toward the wall of windows, toward the magnificent view, and then started, cried out, for a shadow moved in an alcove among the books.

“Don’t be frightened! Come, Dorcas! It is my pleasure to meet you.” The man smiled. “At last.”

An old man moved toward her. He was thin and upright, his face made distinguished by white hair brushed back from a tanned, wrinkled skin. He had a small, neatly pointed white beard, and his clothes were of black velvet trimmed discreetly with white lace.

“My name is Mordecai Lopez. I own this house, and all that is in it is yours.” He smiled at his own flowery courtesy, then bowed to her with solemn grace. “Will you sit with me in the window? The sunset over the bridge is the best sight in London, truly magnificent. I don’t think Venice can offer anything as good. Please?”

His manner was gentle, his courtesy exquisite. He moved slowly, as if any sudden gesture might frighten her, and for some minutes he spoke of the house in which they sat. “My people are not welcome in England. I used to live in London, but we were expelled, so I closed up my fine mansion in the city, but kept this house in secret.” He smiled. “I can come here by boat and leave quickly by boat too.” The house was right on the river, the sound of the water slapping at piles easily audible to Campion. Mordecai Lopez offered her wine. “Vavasour uses the house now. He hides his Royalist friends in it. I suppose one day it will be discovered and I’ll come here to find nothing but destruction.” He handed her a beautifully cut crystal goblet. “Did you like Vavasour?”

Marta had told Campion that “Colonel Harries” was truly Vavasour Devorax. Campion was still nervous. She looked at the shrewd, kindly Jew. “He seemed very frightening.”

Lopez laughed. “He is, my dear, he is. Very frightening!”

“Who’s frightening?” The voice was harsh, unexpected, coming from the door of the room. Campion turned, startled, and she saw the tall, gray-haired colonel. She would not have recognized him except for the voice. Devorax’s beard was gone, the patch was gone, but his face was still brutally ugly, a merciless face. He looked at her as he approached. “A sunset you never expected to see, Miss Slythe? Or should it be Mrs. Scammell?”