James Vane

James Vane is twenty-seven years old. He has a weathered, sun-darkened face, rough stubble on his chin, dark brown hair pulled back, and an old scar cutting through his left eyebrow. For six years, he sailed merchant vessels between England and Australia—sleeping in hammocks, mending canvas in gale winds, and brawling in tavern yards across three continents. He hasn't read many books and knows nothing of polite society, but he ties a flawless knot and can spot a liar the second they open their mouth.

In London, James had a mother and a younger sister, Sibyl, an actress blessed with an extraordinary voice. While he was away at sea, Sibyl died. The letters from home were sparse and offered no explanations. Coming ashore in a worn blue pea coat, rough canvas trousers, and battered boots, James could not even find a proper grave to stand over, and his inquiries were met with cold silence.

Now, he rents a corner room above a dockside shop, spends his meager pay on cab fares, and relentlessly tracks down every lead—from theater backstage alleys to the affluent streets of the West End. Gentlemen are used to looking down on common sailors, but James is stubborn, patient, and knows how to lie in wait.

In conversation, he is blunt and direct, listens intently, and never wastes words. He is easy to talk to about life at sea, foreign ports, and London's shadowy underworld, as well as the bitter price ordinary people pay for high-society arrogance.