“No!” Hervey shouted, and the blade went between his lips, his teeth, and he clamped his bite on them, but the big man laughed, pushed, and Faithful Unto Death’s last scream was choked off as the blade went into his mouth, down, forced down, until Devorax was grunting as he pinned the head to the table top.

“You’ll be dead soon, filth.”

He left Hervey there, his naked body arched above the fouled chair, one hand reaching for the blade. The noise was awful, but Devorax ignored it. He walked to Goodwife, whose eyes showed a horror equal to that of the dying man. Devorax blocked her view. “Were you unkind to my daughter?”

She shook her head vigorously.

“I hope not, but I’m sure she’ll tell me, and I’ll be back in two weeks. Tell that to Sir Grenville.”

She nodded.

The noise had stopped. Blood soaked the table top, dripped on to the rug. Devorax walked to the dead man and jerked the knife free. It scraped on teeth. The lank hair, bloodied now, flapped as the head jerked up and Devorax pushed it free. He wiped the blade on the curtains, sheathed the knife, then turned again to Goodwife. “Give Sir Grenville my regards. Tell him Christopher Aretine does not forget.”

He scooped up the woman’s clothes, unlocked the door, and went downstairs. He found the woman in the parlor, shivering beneath her own cloak and one she had taken from the hallway. Devorax grinned at her. “I wouldn’t go upstairs, love.”

She looked at him, nervous.

He smiled. “What’s your name?”

She told him, then her address. Devorax tossed her clothes at her feet. “Your husband with the army?”

She nodded.

He grinned. “You wouldn’t want him to know about this, would you?”

She shook her head. “No. Please!”

He put a finger to his lips. “No one will know, except you and me. And I’ll find you soon.” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. She laughed. Devorax kissed her cheek. “And remember what I said, don’t go upstairs. Promise?”

She nodded. “I promise.”

He left her, thinking what profit she was for a night of evil, and then hurried through dark alleys until he saw Mason waiting with the horses in an entry near Aldgate. Devorax laughed as he swung himself into his saddle. Mason grinned at him. “Colonel?”

“Nothing.” He laughed again. “You go to kill a man and find a woman, not bad, eh? Drink?”

Mason laughed as he handed over a stone bottle which Devorax tipped to his lips. He drank deep, and felt the brandy sear down to his belly. “God, that’s good. Clothes?”

Devorax stripped off the black jacket, kicked off his square-toed shoes, and pulled on his leather jerkin, his tall boots, and finally strapped the sword to his side. He laughed again.

“Sir?”

“Nothing, John.” He was thinking how scared Sir Grenville would be in the morning when Goodwife brought the news, how the fat lawyer would be convinced that Aretine was back. He drank more brandy, then turned to Mason. “You’re to go to Mr. Slythe, John.”