— Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta, IV, i

In Belliston Square, Lord Vaughn had received a letter of his own.

Vaughn could see why his fastidious butler had pointedly buried it at the very bottom of the pile, beneath an invitation to the Naughty Hellfire Club's annual Fall Frolic (breeches optional) and a circular advertising a two-for-one sale at Mme. Pimpin's House of Pleasure (bed one wench, get the next one free). The paper was the cheapest sort of foolscap, stained with trails of ink and the oily imprint of grubby fingers, presumably those of the bearer, since the letter itself bore no frank. It must have been delivered by hand, and a decidedly dirty hand, at that. Beneath the streaks of grime, the enclosing sheet was puckered and snagged where the writer's impatient quill had jabbed through in her haste. The writer had driven the nib clean through the base of the V like a swordsman running his opponent straight through the heart.

Not that the heart was an organ with much bearing on the affair. Not for a very long time, at any rate.

Vaughn didn't need to crack open the wax to know the identity of the writer. There was no seal imprinting the wax, no telltale scent wafting from the folds (other than a slight tang of mud, courtesy of the bearer), no distinguishing curlicues twining from the base of the letters, but even blotted and smeared, he knew that handwriting. There had been a time — a time he preferred to ignore — when he knew it as well as his own.

With the finicky care of a cat, Vaughn lifted the letter by one corner. It was all of one sheet, folded over, sealed, and addressed on the blank side, curiously insubstantial for something that pressed against him like the weights used to crush accused traitors, stone by painful stone, gasping for air from their constricted lungs until their organs crumpled one by one beneath the pressure.

The seal crumbled off with the flick of a finger, red wax flaking onto the table like drops of wine. Slowly, deliberately, Vaughn spread open the page.

"Sebastian — " it began.

A name no one addressed him by anymore. His acquaintances, his enemies, even his own mother called him Vaughn, in proper deference to his rank. The boy Sebastian had been outrun years ago, abandoned somewhere in Paris.

If the use of his name were an attempt to soften him with reminders of past intimacy, it was in singularly poor taste, given the terms on which they had parted. Vaughn's eyes flicked past the salutation, to the letter itself. The ink she had used was as cheap as the paper. Diluted with water, it turned the words into a gray wash on the page. Even so, one phrase burned from the blur.

Did you really believe I was dead?

Vaughn pressed his eyes closed, but it didn't help. He could still see the words blazoned against the backs of his lids.

Grimacing, Vaughn looked down his nose at the letter. She needn't sound quite so snippy about it. It had, after all, been an impression she had gone to a great deal of trouble to secure.

Believe it? Yes. No. Perhaps.

Letting the paper drift to the table, Vaughn rubbed two fingers against his temples. Belief had had nothing to do with it. At the time, it had been far easier to take the situation as it appeared, without wasting time on trivialities like confirmation, accepting it because he wanted it to be so. A quest after proof bore far too great a chance of kicking up inconvenient truths, like slut's wool under the rug.

He hadn't reckoned with resurrections. When someone went to that much bother to appear dead, they generally stayed dead. At least, so one would hope.

Believed? Perhaps not. Hoped? Oh God, yes. He hadn't realized just how much, until now, with the disappointment of it wrenching at his gut, filling his mouth with ashes and his breast with bile. Since returning to England, he had found himself contemplating the very banalities he had long since abandoned: a wife, a nursery, speeches in the Lords and a well-worn chair at Brook's. What a grand irony it would be, after all his years of wanderings, to settle down like Odysseus at his own hearth with a faithful Penelope on his knee. And yet, there it was, beckoning, taunting him with the possibility that the past might be rolled up and bundled back into Pandora's box; that he could, after all this time, start again and redeem the years he had lost.

He ought to have known better.

Exposure, the letter threatened. A full accounting, unless he acceded to her as-yet-unspecified demands. Never mind that by exposing him, she would expose herself as well. She had less to lose. He didn't doubt for a moment that she meant what she threatened. She was, and always had been, entirely ruthless when it came to achieving what she desired; ungracious in victory, vengeful when thwarted, like the goddesses of classical drama, who thought nothing of destroying an empire for an imagined slight.

Rising, Vaughn stalked to the window. Outside, the autumn twilight had deepened to full dark, smudged with coal smoke. All around Belliston Square, lamps were being lit, curtains drawn, fires built against the October chill. Narrow chimney pots sent out their dense smoke to coat the arrogant stone of the great houses and film white woodwork with gray.

Vaughn breathed deep of the tainted air, savoring the scratch of smoke against his nostrils, scraping the back of his throat. It was, he supposed, as close as one could get to brimstone without actually being in hell.

Reaching for a decanter, Vaughn poured himself a splash of smuggled French brandy, contemplated his glass, and splashed in some more.

"Where I fly is hell, myself am hell," he murmured, and raised the glass in sardonic salute to his own reflection in the window, a shadow figure who nodded and drank in concert, watching him with wary eyes. The shadow image was filmed by the soot that streaked the window. Every day, the servants wiped it away, and every day the stain returned.

He had been a fool, at this late date, to think he could settle to domesticity, warm his toes by the fire and cultivate his garden in gouty old age. Like Milton's Satan, he carried the seeds of his own destruction with him wherever he went.

Taking up the letter, Vaughn held the corner with the signature to the candle flame. The flimsy paper caught instantly, the paper blackening and curling, obliterating the name he had hoped never to see again. As the paper twisted and charred, one word stood out against the shrinking background. Dead.

Did you really believe I was dead?

Wincing, Vaughn dropped the burning letter onto the silver tray, where it smoldered like one of the salamanders of medieval alchemy, a twisted, blackened thing with glowing red embers for eyes, until those, too, winked out into a pile of ash.

He poured more brandy to stop the pain in his head, marveling at the diabolical impishness of the workings of providence. Tossing it back, he poured another, settling himself down in a wide-armed chair, balancing his glass on one arm as he contemplated the bloody fiendishness of fate.

Closing his eyes, Vaughn let his head drop against the back of the chair. Against the backs of his lids, he could see the firelight striking blue lights in Mary Alsworthy's hair as she stood in that tiny Gothic chamber in Sibley Court, coolly bargaining over terms. It reminded him of another fall of blue-black hair, spread against the arm of a settee…. Without opening his eyes, Vaughn applied the brandy to his lips and found the liquid chased the vision away. Instead, like a necromancer's potion, it supplied him with another image of Mary Alsworthy, canoodling in a corner of the room with that bloody St. George, fluttering her lashes for all she was worth, and doing it bloody well. What a courtesan she would have made, what an actress. What a countess.

Mary Alsworthy, Vaughn reminded himself, reaching for the decanter without bothering to open his eyes, was not auditioning for a role as his countess, or even his mistress. She was there for a task, a task that might be more easily accomplished if he let her get on with it, rather than rushing forwards like an overprotective duenna the minute danger threatened.

Danger, indeed! The Common Sense Society was a toothless lot, so harmless that even the government hadn't bothered to swoop down and close them down. A bunch of idle dreamers, ink-stained scribblers, each more ineffectual than the last, led by poor, mad Rathbone who spent most of his time solitary in a laboratory, endlessly tinkering with the elements. The point of their presence at the society had been merely to establish Mary's radical bona fides, to have her seen in the company of known supporters of the revolution, in the hopes that word would spread to the right quarters. They ought to have stayed longer, made the rounds of the room, established Mary firmly as part of the group. Instead…

Vaughn set the decanter back down with an abruptness that made the stopper rattle against the lip. He had no excuse for his actions, nothing except a fleeting, unreasoning impulse to which he had even more unreasonably given way. Balancing his brandy balloon on his chest, Vaughn contemplated his own folly. Standing there, in the corner of the low-beamed room, with her dress a long streak of white against the smoke-stained walls, Mary had looked uncannily like Teresa. It was more than coloring, more than clothing. She had that same trick of angling her head, that same proud tilt of the chin. She had looked so slight next to St. George, so vulnerable, with nothing but a thin layer of linen between her skin and an assassin's stiletto. With a clarity that had made his skin prickle with cold in the overheated room, Vaughn had seen Teresa as he had last viewed her, superimposed over Mary, the red lips slack, the pale skin gone gray, eyes filmed and staring. Only this time, it wasn't Teresa, but Mary Alsworthy.