“You certainly did a great deal of damage while you were walking around up here,” she whispered. “Who could possibly have admired you so much that he would wish to emulate you?”

The dead leaves danced a ghostly waltz across the grass.

Smiling Jack waited for him in the alley behind the Gryphon, his massive bulk silhouetted in the rear entrance of the tavern. He was barking orders at two men who were in the process of unloading several large shipping casks from a cart.

“Have a care with that French brandy,” Jack snapped at one of the men. “Cost me a bloody fortune.”

Tobias walked down the alley and came to a halt beside Jack. He studied the casks.

“Brandy, Jack? Isn’t that a bit elegant for the Gryphon? I was under the impression that your clientele prefers ale and gin.”

Jack chuckled, drawing the ghastly scar that ran from his mouth to his ear into a death’s-head grin. “Aye. This is for my own personal use.”

Tobias studied the large casks. “That’s a great deal of brandy for one man to drink.”

“I have a lot of guests.” Jack clapped him on the back. “Take yourself, for instance. I like to be able to entertain gentlemen such as yourself in the manner to which you have become accustomed.”

“Speaking for myself, I appreciate that sentiment,” Tobias said.

He rarely came to the Gryphon during the day. He preferred the cover of night for his visits with Jack. But the boy’s message had sounded urgent, so he had taken extra precautions to conceal his identity. Before making his way to this part of town he had taken the time to put on the work-worn clothes and heavy boots of a dockside laborer. In spite of the warmth of the day, he had added a voluminous, high-collared coat and an oversize wide-brimmed hat that was angled to conceal his features. In addition, he had used the alley entrance deliberately so as to avoid the front room of the tavern.

“I got your message,” he said, keeping his voice very soft so that his educated accents would not be overheard by the workers unloading the cart. “What news do you have for me?”

“It’s only a rumor.” Jack, too, pitched his voice to a low tone. “No way to confirm it yet. But it was as nasty a bit of gossip as I’ve heard in a while, and I thought you’d better know about it as soon as possible.”

“Go on.”

“There’s word going around that a young footpad who goes by the name of Sweet Ned has taken a commission.”

“What sort of commission?”

“Can’t say.” Jack watched him with grim eyes. “My source did not know exactly why Sweet Ned was employed. Something to do with following a particular person about, he believes. I doubt that he’ll be offering to assist the lady across the street.”

Tobias went still. “What lady would that be?”

“Yours.”

After a while Lavinia turned away from Elland’s grave and went back along the path to the iron gates.

The narrow lane that bordered the graveyard was quiet and empty of traffic and passersby. The only person about was a young man who looked like a laborer or a stable lad. He was garbed in a worn, ill-fitting mud-colored coat and battered boots. His cap was pulled down low over his eyes.

There was something feral and hungry-looking about him. He made her think of the cats that survived by preying on rats and mice in alleys and warehouses. He was propped in the heavily shadowed doorway of a shuttered building at the open end of the lane.

The cap and the slouch were disturbingly familiar, she thought.

Her stomach knotted with sudden tension. This was not the first time that she had seen the man today. She was almost certain that she had caught a glimpse of him earlier when she left Claremont Lane. She could have sworn that he had been loitering in the little park at the end of the street.

The fine hairs on the nape of her neck lifted. Her palms went icy cold.

She glanced toward the opposite end of the lane, thinking to leave by that route. But that was impossible. The narrow passage ended at a stone wall.

The man in the cap noticed her hovering between the gates. He straightened indolently and reached into his pocket. Slowly, tauntingly, he withdrew his hand.

Light glittered on the blade of the knife.

The only thing she could do was retreat back into the graveyard, but the surrounding walls and locked church door made it a trap.

The man in the cap started toward her, sauntering as though he had all the time in the world.

She took a step back into the graveyard.

He smiled, evidently pleased by her small show of anxiety.

She had no choice. She whirled and fled back into the cemetery.

Mrs. Chilton wiped her hands on her apron. “Mrs. Lake said something about going out to a little cemetery in Benbow Lane. Said it was just off Wintergrove Street near a park. Mrs. Gray sent a message asking her to meet there.”

“How long ago did she leave?” Tobias asked.

Mrs. Chilton glanced at the clock. “Going on an hour, I believe.” She frowned. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“Yes.”

Tobias went back down the steps. He did not bother to hunt for a hackney. He knew the cemetery well. It was not far away, but it was surrounded by a maze of tiny lanes and narrow streets. He would make better time on foot.

Sweet Ned took a deep breath and sauntered toward the gates of the graveyard. He wanted to handle this business in a professional manner.

Business. He liked the sound of that. He’d taken a real commission from a real client. He was no longer an ordinary street lad who picked pockets and snatched the odd valuable. As of last night, he was a professional with his own business.

When he’d struck the bargain with the woman, it was as though a magic door had opened, allowing him a tantalizing vision of a new future. It was a truly dazzling scene in which he was the master of his own destiny, successful and prosperous. Respected.

There would be no more dealing with the damned receivers who never gave fair value for the goods he risked his neck to steal. No more skulking about in alleys waiting to rob drunken gentlemen when they stumbled out of the hells and brothels in the wee hours of the morning. No more dodging the Runners. From now on he would only accept commissions from clients who were willing to pay well to, have their dirty work done by an expert.

He’d have to consider how best to advertise his services, he thought as he strolled through the iron gates. Unfortunately, he could not put a notice in the papers. He would have to depend on word of mouth. But that should not be a problem after the news of how well he had carried out his first commission circulated. The woman would likely tell her friends and they would tell others, and in no time at all he would be swamped with commissions.

Too bad his pa had drunk himself to death before he’d had an opportunity to see his son move up in the world.

At the thought of his father lying dead in the stinking alley, a half-empty bottle of gin in one hand, the old rage came back, nearly blinding him. Memories of the beatings made him clench his hand around the handle of the knife. They had grown more frequent and more savage after his ma died. In the end he’d had no choice but to take to the streets.

There were times when the urge to hit someone or something nearly overpowered him. Sometimes he wanted to strike blow after blow until this rush of raw fury evaporated.

But he refused to give in to the fierce anger. He had vowed to himself a long time ago that he would not follow in his father’s drunken footsteps. After today everything would be different. After today word would go out that he was a reliable professional and he would be launched on his new career.