Sir Grenville shouted for his secretary, “Morse! Morse!”

“Sir?” The door opened.

“I want Barnegat, now! Tell him I’ll pay double, but get him now!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wait!” Sir Grenville looked at Ebenezer. “You think it will be soon?”

“Within a week.”

“I want a dozen men sent to a village called Bradwell, Morse. Ebenezer can tell you where it is. They’re to search the place and wait there! And Morse!”

“Sir?”

Sir Grenville ran a hand through his white curls. “Make sure the travelling coach is ready. I’ll need it within the week.”

“A week!” Morse frowned. “But you’re supposed to meet the French ambassadors this…”

“Get out!” Cony snarled at him. “Get out! Do as I say!”

Sir Grenville turned and stared past Ebenezer at the great painting that hung above his fireplace. Aretine, the most beautiful man Cony had ever seen. Was he alive? Had that beauty come back to pursue him and humiliate him? The lawyer walked to the fireplace, reached up, and closed the lime-washed shutters over the naked body. “You had better be wrong, Ebenezer. Pray God you are wrong.”

The next night, Wednesday, Vavasour Devorax came back to the city. Campion would not have recognized him. The filthy, stained, greasy clothes were gone. He had bathed, trimmed his hair and beard and then rubbed lamp-black into the graying hairs. By candlelight he looked ten years younger. He was dressed in sober, neat, clean clothes. He wore a broad-brimmed Puritan hat, in his hand was a well-thumbed Bible and his only weapon was a long, slim dagger.

His destination was close to Tower Hill in Seething Lane, and he hammered at the door of a darkened house. It was late, though many citizens would still be up. He had to hammer twice more before the door opened a crack.

“Who is it?”

“My name is God Be Praised Barlow, a Minister of the Commons.”

Goodwife Baggerlie frowned. “It’s late, sir.”

“Is it ever too late for God’s work?”

Grudgingly she opened the door wider. “You’re here to see the Reverend Hervey?”

“With God’s will, yes.” Devorax stepped inside, forcing Goodwife to step back. “Is the Reverend Hervey abed?”

“He’s busy, sir.” Goodwife was impressed by the tall preacher from the House of Commons. She was ready for bed, a gown pulled hastily over her nightdress and her hair wrapped in muslin.

Devorax gave her a ghastly smile. “At his prayers, sister?”

“He’s got company.” Goodwife was nervous. The Reverend Barlow was a big man and she did not like to contradict his wishes. She frowned. “It’s better you come in the morning, sir.”

Devorax frowned. “I take no denial from a woman. Where is he?”

A stubborn look came into her small eyes. “He says he’s not to be interrupted, sir.”

“The House of Commons wishes him to be interrupted. Now lead me to him, woman! Lead!”

“You’ll wait here, sir?” Goodwife said hopefully, but the tall preacher insisted on following her up the polished staircase. Goodwife stopped at the landing and tried to push Devorax downstairs. “If you’ll wait in the parlor, sir, I’ll light a fire.”