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cursing herself for her shortsightedness. She had been so absorbed in her own worries; she had completely forgotten that the rest of London believed the arsonist had come to a fiery end in one of his own blazes.
    Two separate fires had been deliberately set after the one on Viscount Barlowe’s property. The stables belonging to the Earl of Chilton had been set ablaze; a month afterward the estate of Lord Webster had gone up in flames. Found among the smoldering remains of Webster’s property was an unidentified man, a man presumed to be the arsonist himself. When no fires had occurred thereafter, that presumption had been considered confirmed. The city had breathed a collective sigh of relief, and life had resumed as before.
    Even Julia had been lulled into a false sense of security — a security that had vanished the day she received this latest letter.
    “He didn’t die,” she said. “I don’t know who that body belonged to, but it wasn’t the arsonist. He’s alive, and he means to begin setting fires again. I’m certain of that.”
    “I see.” He hadn’t moved. He was posed exactly as he had been earlier: one slim hip propped upon a trestle table, one foot swinging to and fro beneath him. But his expression was entirely different. No longer coolly seductive, he regarded her with a look of naked disdain.
    “Upon what evidence are you basing this rather hysterical presumption?” he asked, his voice ringing with aristocratic superiority.
    “Letters,” she stated succinctly, refusing to be intimidated by his tone. “Letters very like the one you now hold. All sent to me and signed by the same man — Lazarus.” She turned back to the cabinet and withdrew a slim bundle of papers. “I received this the very day your servants’ quarters were set ablaze.” She passed him a parchment sheet and watched as he read,
     
Flame,
The time has come, my love. How glorious is the wrath of the righteous. At last he shall suffer as I have suffered. What ultimate joy. A flame shall wither him up in his early growth, and with the wind his blossoms shall disappear.
Lazarus
     
    “Job, chapter fifteen, verse thirty,” she said as he finished reading, referring to the last line in the letter.
    “Yes. I’m familiar with the passage.”
    She waited for him to say more, but nothing came. The heavy silence that weighed between them was broken only by the distant echoes coming from the docks outside. He had shifted his body slightly as he read. A shadow now fell across his face, denying her any glimpse of his reaction. Nor had there been any clue in his voice as to the state of his emotions.
    With little choice but to go on, she passed him the remaining letters. One she had received the day of the Earl of Chilton’s fire, the other the day of Lord Webster’s. Both were similar in content and style to the ones she had shown him. He skimmed them, and then passed them back.
    “Flame?” he asked at last.
    “I believe he’s alluding to the color of my hair.”
    “I see.” He hesitated a moment, then continued coolly. “The letter referring to seeing you in Cheapside — when did you receive that?”
    “Two weeks ago.”
    “And between Lord Webster’s fire and the letter of two weeks ago…”
    “Nothing. No word at all. Like everyone else, I assumed he had perished.”
    “Do you know the identity of this… Lazarus?”
    “I’m afraid I have no idea.”
    “In that case, why you? Why would he send these letters to you?”
    “That’s rather difficult to explain,” she hedged.
    “Then skip the explanations. Just give me the facts.”
    There was a curtness to his tone that immediately rankled. She was on the verge of reminding him that she was not one of his servants to be ordered about but held her tongue. Not yet. She knew better. This had to be handled delicately if she was to have any hope of success.
    “Would you care for tea?” she asked.
    “Tea?”
Although his face remained masked by shadow, raw