View of the Cornish Coast.
His brother removed his sword, squatted next to him, then leaned back on his haunches. His dark gaze roamed over Nicholas’ face. With one hand, Niles reached out and put two icy fingers under his nose. Shocked out of lethargy, Nicholas rolled over. Shaking with the effort, he struggled to his elbows and stared hard at his twin’s pale face. Did Niles believe he was dying?
“I want….Go home. Niles…Take…Me…Home.” With horror, Nicholas heard himself slur the words. He dropped his head in his arms, trying to calm himself. He was now St. Aubyn. It wouldn’t do to show he was afraid.
View in Drury Lane looking south and St Mary le Strand. The gabled house in this view was formerly the “Cock and Magpie” tavern.
Belle stopped, oblivious that she stood in the middle of the Cock and Magpie’s doorway, or that she would soon be trampled by a few rowdy men dismounting from their coach. Nicholas wrapped his fingers around her forearm, pulled her toward him and then backed her against the building out of their view. She looked too damn vulnerable with all that hair blowing about.
A view of 17th Century row houses in Wych Street, Covent Garden.
A warm gust of wind blew through the opening, along with a few scattered splashes of rain. Thunder rolled overhead and lightning flashed against the wall. Dark, pointed rooftops of timbered buildings jutted out toward the sky, their windows boarded with wooden shutters against the coming storm. The empty streets below emphasized Nicholas’s solitude.
Another View of Wych Street.
Feeble light from flickering tapers lit each doorway. Tall shadows danced onto the narrow walkways, throwing the street into virtual darkness. The rumble of carriage wheels and the hollow sound of horses’ hooves hitting the cobblestones echoed against the high buildings and mixed with the muted voices traveling down the lane.
The old Temple Bar Entrance still standing after the fire of 1666.
Isobel gazed around the chaotic street. Heat from the flames toasted her face and licked closer. She had to save the girls. She grabbed Folly’s hand and pulled her toward the gate. She pushed through the crowd, the heat on her back intense. Patience’s arms wound around her neck in a choking hold, her tears wetted Isobel’s shoulder. Nicholas caught up at the entrance and together with the mob, now more terrified than angry; they thrust their way into the Strand. Isobel cast one last look at the grand shops of Fleet Street. The buildings were now nothing more than flaming shells.