But as he walked, he found himself heading for Bond Street.
He slipped his watch from his pocket. The winding mechanism had needed looking at for some time. He hefted it, thoughtfully.
He pondered what he was about to do and why and for whom he really wanted to do it, and somehow it felt riskier and more foolhardy than any wager he’d ever made.
What he wanted had more than he cared to admit with who he wanted.
It drove his decision. Once on Bond Street he strolled nonchalantly, like a gentleman of theton, nodding at passersby when their eyes met.
Some of them did indeed whip their heads about for a swift second look.
When that happened, he smiled benignly. Pleasantly. As though he was delighted to see them even if they couldn’t quite place him.
Finally he stopped in front of the jeweler, Sylvester & Sons, from whom his father had purchased his gold watch. From whom most men of his father’s station purchased watches, in fact.
He hesitated.
And then he pushed open the door, to the jangle of bells.
The shop was artfully lamplit; fine gold and silver watches, rings, and fobs twinkled and gleamed on little beds of velvet residing in cases, meant to tempt men with money to surrender to impulse.
The skinny and bespectacled young man behind the counter looked up, smile at the ready. He took in what sort of customer Lucien happened to be with a swift, educated glimpse. He was instantly all deference.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?”
“Will you kindly tell Mr. Sylvester that Lord Bolt would like to speak to him about my watch?” His tone was polite, edging toward jocular.
A flicker of recognition passed over the boy’s face, but Lucien could tell his name rang only faint bells of recognition.
“Of course, sir. One moment, sir.”
He disappeared into the back of the shop while Lucien inspected the gleaming things in cases and listened with a little smile to the muttered conversation. He could not quite make out all the words, but the intonation was unmistakable: disbelief.
Finally Mr. Sylvester emerged briskly, wiping his hands on his apron, clearly prepared to make short work of the imposter or interloper who had the nerve to claim to be a long-dead viscount.
He froze, hands tangled in his apron.
“Lord... Bolt...?”
“How are you, Mr. Sylvester? I’m so delighted to find your shop still thriving.”
“But... sir... Lord Bolt... that is... you are...”
Poor Mr. Sylvester’s face had gone as white as his hair.
Clearly he was too polite to come right out and say, “But aren’t you dead?” Perhaps in case Lucien didn’t know himself. Perhaps if Lucien was a ghost.
“Ah, Mr. Sylvester!” he said at once, all soothing, amused concern, a tone that instantly removed at least one furrow from the poor man’s brow. “I see you haven’t yet heard. You see, I’ve only lately heard the nonsense about my dying in the Thames, though I suppose the confusion is understandable, as Ididfall into the river. As you can see for yourself, I emerged soundly. You know how incorrigible gossip can be, and how it so often gets everything very wrong for the sake of selling newspapers.”
“Incorrigible,” Mr. Sylvester repeated faintly. But the color that had retreated from his complexion was advancing once more. He ventured a smile.
“I’ve been off making my fortune across the world, Mr. Sylvester, and I’ve only just returned to London. I’ve had the most fascinating decade. I’ve been to many places, I’ve seen beautiful things, but I’ve never met a finer purveyor of watches than you. I would never let another man touch my timepiece, and a busy man needs a working watch, wouldn’t you say?”
And Mr. Sylvester glowed as Lucien handed over his watch, that unmistakable signet ring glinting in the lamplight.
“Lord Bolt, what apleasureto know both you and your beautiful watch have survived. I fear I did indeed fall prey to the gossip.”
“I shall not hold it against you, Mr. Sylvester, as anyone would have been persuaded by such a story. I’ve a job ahead of me making sure the truth is known.”