The Day of Atonement Read Free Page B

as I ran. This thief was called Harry Nunes. His ancestors were Portuguese Jews, but he had lived his whole life in England. He knew nothing about betrayal, and so hethought it was a game to take what belonged to another man. He also clearly knew nothing about the Portuguese spirit. You did not attempt to steal another man’s woman unless you were prepared to pay the price. I knew that even before I understood why a man might want to steal a woman, or to keep one.
    I had heard, from children on my street—that’s how I discovered it!—that Nunes had visited Leonora. He had brought her a gift of flowers and cakes, and he had stayed for hours, visiting with her and her parents. There had, I am certain, been laughing within her home, for Nunes was a merry fellow. I was not.
    Nunes was no fighter, but he was swift. When he saw me as he left his father’s silversmithing shop, he had known at once, and he fled. He leapt over stone and crate and broken barrel. He was as graceful as a deer, but every man’s luck runs short sooner or later, and he tripped over nothing at all—his own feet got in the way—and flew forward, sliding face-first through the muck in the alleyway.
    I was on him in the span of three breaths, turning Nunes over to make sure he didn’t drown in the growing puddle. I would not have him drowning before I was done with him. The rain was coming down hard now, and lightning was slicing through the gray covering of clouds. I would have liked to think I resembled a spirit of righteous vengeance. In truth I knew what I looked like—a jealous madman.
    Nunes’s lips quivered, and he formed words only after several unsuccessful attempts. “Sir,” he said. “I never meant to offer offense.”
    “Then you should not have called upon Miss DeCosta,” I shouted at him.
    He tried to scramble away, but my grip on his collar was tight. “She told me she did not think you were serious in your interest in her,” he said. His eyes were wide, darting back and forth, as though some escape were just outside his range of vision. “She says you do not love her.”
    Of course I did not love her. I was not made for such feelings, but I did not like the reminder, coming from Nunes. I struck him in theface, feeling the warm pain of flesh against knuckles. I knew how to hit hard without doing myself too much damage. I struck him again, this time in the stomach. I was lost to my fury, but some part of me, some distant voice, did not want me to disfigure the poor fellow, to break his nose or knock loose his teeth. I raised my fist once more. The thunder and lightning seemed to be coming from within me, a product of my anger.
    “Stop it, Mr. Foxx.”
    I froze, but I did not turn to look. Not at first. Chasing Nunes through the wet London streets had required not a moment’s thought, but looking to see who spoke required all the courage I could muster. It was, of course, Leonora DeCosta, standing in the storm. As I came to myself, I realized where Nunes had been running—to the DeCosta home, looming above us. A tall footman held his own coat over Leonora’s head to protect her from the rain, and he was mostly successful. It was no easy task, for Miss DeCosta was tall herself, shapely and beautiful. She was also clever and witty, precisely the sort of woman who ought to have found a way into my heart.
    “Miss DeCosta,” I said, dropping Nunes and straightening up. I spoke as though it were a chance encounter upon the street, as if I had been doing nothing more shameful than taking a stroll.
    “Why would you do this?” she asked.
    I could say nothing. It suddenly seemed too absurd. He had brought her cakes. He had sat in her parlor. There had, perhaps, been laughter.
    “I’m sorry,” I said to her.
    Despite the footman’s best efforts, water trickled down her face. It was rain, not tears. “I had heard,” she said, her voice hard and icy, “that you destroy everything you touch. I see now it is so.” She looked at