CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Lady Fairbank crumpled against the Sphinx’s marble pedestal in the garden of Mivart’s. She quickly regained her composure, stiffening her back and lifting her chin, but still her hand shook, the paper sketch pressed against her breast.
“You drew this portrait, Doctor Polidori?” she said.
“Yes, my lady,” he said softly.
She touched her brow. “Tell me, did he have a small scar, just here?”
“No, not this one. The second young man who fled from my basement possessed the scar.”
She looked again at the sketch, seemingly losing herself in it. “James,” she whispered, touching her fingertips to the vellum. “And my husband’s brother—he also lies upon your slab, dead?”
“There does appear to be a strong familial similarity between the elderly decedent and Master James.” He mot
