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slack.
    “ Jesus Christ .” Maitland let go of the knife’s hilt, his own features twisting with horror.
    The young constable wavered on his feet, his gaze caught by the knife still protruding from his chest. A thin trickle of blood spilled from his mouth. “You’ve killed me,” he whispered, his gaze lifting to Maitland’s, his legs buckling beneath him.
    Sebastian caught the young man as he fell. Blood spilled over Sebastian’s hands, down the front of his greatcoat. Lowering the gasping constable to the footpath, Sebastian ripped off his own neckcloth, pressed it to the bubbling wound in the constable’s chest. The fine linen turned red and sodden in his hand.
    “Good God,” whispered Maitland, staggering down the last step, his face ashen.
    “Get a doctor. Quickly,” snapped Sebastian.
    Maitland stood with one arm wrapped around the area railing as if for support, his eyes wide and staring.
    “ Bloody hell . Sir Henry, if you would—”
    Sebastian pivoted on one knee to find Lovejoy standing on the hackney’s steps, his little face pinched with shock. “My lord,” said the magistrate. “What have you done?”
    “What have I done?” said Sebastian.
    Still grasping the railing, Constable Maitland’s wide-eyed gaze lifted from Simplot to the magistrate. “He stabbed him,” Maitland suddenly shouted. “He stabbed Simplot!”
    Sebastian stared down at the man in his arms. A cold, misty rain had begun to fall, bringing a dark sheen to the paving stones and dampening the graying face of the dying man. Sebastian had seen enough death, from Italy and the West Indies, to Portugal, to recognize the signs when he saw them. The man would die, and Sebastian would be blamed for this death, just as he was already being blamed for the murder of a West End actress he had barely known.
    He had considered that a misunderstanding, an inconvenience simply dealt with. Not so simple now, he thought. Easing his hands from beneath the constable’s shoulders, Sebastian rose to his feet.
    Brook Street, once empty, now resounded with the tramp ofapproaching footsteps as two Inns of Court Volunteers, dressed in scarlet with yellow facings, white waistcoats and breeches, and black gaiters, appeared around the corner from Davies Street. “You men,” shouted Sir Henry Lovejoy from the carriage’s open doorway, one trembling hand extended to point, damningly, at Sebastian. “Seize that gentleman. Constable Maitland . Snap out of it.”
    Shaking his head as if to clear it, Maitland pushed away from the railing in a clumsy rush. Sebastian stopped him with a right hook that caught the constable under the chin and sent him reeling back to slam against the stucco wall.
    The rain was falling harder now. Someone shouted. The footsteps broke into a run. Sebastian spun around. Calculating the distance to the hackney’s box, he leapt, landing beside the startled jarvey with a force that set the old landau rocking on its sagging straps.
    “ ’Ere, ’ere!” said the jarvey, his bloodshot eyes opening wide in a gnarled, gray-whiskered face. “You ain’t allowed up ’ere with me.”
    “Then I suggest you get down.” Seizing the reins, Sebastian tweaked the whip from the man’s slack grip and snapped the leather thong over the bays’ ears. The ancient carriage jerked forward.
    “ ’Oly ’ell,” gasped the jarvey, and dived for the footpath.
    Sebastian threw a quick glance behind him. The Inns of Court men had stopped to kneel beside the wounded constable. But Maitland was running in the carriage’s wake, his arms and legs pumping, his face twisted with determination. “Stop that hackney! The man’s a murderer.”
    “Shit,” said Sebastian, and spanked the reins hard against the bays’ flanks.
    Without checking at the corner, he swung onto New Bond Street, cutting between a wide-wheeled freight wagon and a high-wheeled gig driven by a fat man in a yellow coat. The yellow-coated man jerked on his reins, his chestnut