by C. S. Harris
She sat down on a nearby swan-shaped pink silk settee with an inelegant thump. “Good heavens,” she said again.
“You knew him, I presume?”
“Of course I knew him.” The Duchess of Claiborne not only knew everyone—she knew all their dirty little secrets, too. And she remembered them forever. “A most disagreeable man,” she said with a tut-tut. “Very bad ton. Nothing at all like his brother.”
“Sir Nigel was the eldest?”
She nodded. “Yes. Of five brothers. He inherited the title while still up at Oxford. He was always a big man—tall, like the Bishop, but much bigger boned, and fleshy. He married a lovely woman by the name of Mary Mayfield, and made the poor dear miserable. She hadn’t been dead of consumption a year when he married again—to Lady Rosamond, the second daughter of the Marquess of Ripon.”
“When was this?” said Sebastian.
She frowned. “ ’Seventy-six? ’Seventy-seven? Something like that.”
“Sir Peter was his only son?”
She nodded. “There were no children at all from the first marriage. He was wed to Lady Rosamond for some five or six years before Sir Peter was born—and he was a posthumous child, born after his father disappeared.”
Sebastian pulled forward a chair with gilded crocodile-shaped legs and sat down opposite her. “You say Sir Nigel was a disagreeable man. In what way?”
“He had a vicious temper. And a nasty reputation.” She dropped her voice, even though they were alone and no one could hear. “Hellfire Club, you know.”
Interesting, thought Sebastian; Squire Pyle had also mentioned the Hellfire Club. A notorious secret society of the previous century, the Hellfire Club had been dedicated to black magic, orgies, and political conspiracies. Meeting in the ruins of an ancient abbey, the “monks” specialized in defiling virgins, exhibitionism, voyeurism, and incest. At one time, its powerful members included the Prime Minister of England, the Lord Mayor of London, the Prince of Wales . . . and a certain home-spun American named Benjamin Franklin.
The Duchess kept her voice low. “When he disappeared the way he did, it was assumed the club was somehow involved—an ungodly ritual gone awry, perhaps, or some poor young girl’s family seeking their own revenge. There’d been other mysterious deaths and disappearances linked to that crowd—although mostly of young girls from the nearby villages.” She paused to give him a significant look. “And a few young boys.”
“What did you think happened to him at the time?”
“Me?” Henrietta sat back, her fierce blue St. Cyr eyes narrowing. She was a shrewd woman, able to see clearly through all the pretenses and flummery of her society. “Personally, I thought it more than likely that someone quietly slit his throat and dumped the body down an old well or some such thing. I told you: He was a disagreeable man. I don’t think anyone was sorry to see him gone—least of all his wife.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Lady Prescott? There’s not much to tell, really. She married Prescott at the end of her first season. There was talk of another suitor, but he was said to be a second son with no prospects. Her father, Ripon, was always badly dipped in those days. Gambling, you know. Most of the members of the Hellfire Club drifted pretty far into dun territory.”
“Ripon and Prescott were both in the Hellfire Club?”
“So I’m told. All I know is that when Prescott offered for Lady Rosamond’s hand, Ripon accepted.”
“Sold to the highest bidder, was she?”
“Essentially. Ripon had half a dozen sons to see established in careers; he couldn’t afford to let Lady Rosamond be picky. Particularly as there were rumors that Ripon had dragged her back from the border when she and her unsuitable suitor made a bolt for Gretna Green.”
“Really? Who was this unsuitable suitor?”
“I’m not quite sure. It was all kept very hush-hush.”
“It must have been, if you didn’t hear about it,” said Sebastian with a smile. “What can you tell me about Lady Rosamond’s marriage to Sir Nigel?”
“I don’t think she was ever very happy, poor dear. She went from being a rather vivacious, carefree woman to something quite squashed. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. After Sir Nigel disappeared, she essentially withdrew from society. He was eventually declared dead after the requisite number of years so that his son could inherit the title and estate, but she never remarried. If there’s been any scandal attached to her name since that time, I’ve never heard of it.”
Sebastian nodded. If the Duchess of Claiborne hadn’t heard of any scandal, then there hadn’t been any scandal. He said, “What about the Bishop? How well did you know him?”
Henrietta let out her breath in a long, troubled sigh. “He was a great favorite of the Archbishop’s.”
“But not yours?”
She pulled a face. “You know me; I’ve little patience for earnest clerics.”
Sebastian smiled. “The Archbishop of Canterbury himself being the notable exception.”
A rare bloom of color touched his aunt’s cheeks. “John is different,” she said, and looked away.
Sebastian studied his aunt’s plump, carefully rouged and powdered face. She had been married at the age of eighteen to the heir to the Duke of Claiborne, who assumed the title on the death of his father not long after the wedding. For fifty years she had reigned as one of the acknowledged queens of society, imperious, assured, and seemingly more than content with her lot in life. Odd that it had never occurred to Sebastian, until now, that the onetime Lady Henrietta St. Cyr might have nourished a tendre all these years for the poor but ambitious cleric who had eventually risen to become the most powerful churchman in all of England.
She said, “I know the Archbishop had hopes that Prescott would be named his successor. But it never would have happened.”
“Why’s that?”
“In theory, the selection of the new Archbishop of Canterbury will fall to the Prince Regent. But you know as well as I do that when it comes to affairs of state, Prinny doesn’t sneeze without consulting Jarvis first. And Prescott was far too reform-minded to ever find favor with Jarvis. You mark my words: When the time comes, Charles Manners-Sutton will be named Archbishop. Mark my words.”
“Jarvis’s dislike of Prescott was well-known?”
“To anyone who gave it much thought. The two men tangled on everything from slavery in the West Indies to child labor here in England.”
Interesting, thought Sebastian, that Miss Hero Jarvis hadn’t bothered to mention it.
“Not that I’m suggesting,” the Duchess continued, “that Jarvis had anything to do with the Bishop’s death—however convenient that death may be for him.”
“ ‘Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?’ ” quoted Sebastian softly.
The Duchess heaved to her feet with a soft grunt. “I assume your involvement in this affair is the reason you were seen walking with Miss Jarvis at the Chelsea Royal Hospital yesterday afternoon?”
“Good God,” said Sebastian. “Do you have spies everywhere?”
“Not spies. Observant connections. And while I know I have been pressing you of late to set about the business of selecting a wife, I wouldn’t want you to take that as in any way suggesting that you—”
Sebastian gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Never fear, Aunt; I have it on the best of authority that Miss Jarvis considers matrimony under England’s current laws a barbaric institution that gives husbands the same rights over their poor wives as an American master might exercise over his slave.”
“Good heavens; she said that?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” His aunt’s worried frown cleared. “Seeing as how you are here, why not take a moment to meet Lady Christine? She’s—”
“No, Aunt.”
“But she’s—”
“No.” Sebastian opened the door for her, then stopped her by saying, “Was there any connection that you know of between Jarvis and Sir
Nigel Prescott?”
She hesitated, her brows drawing together in thought. “I believe there was something. . . .” She let out her breath in a harsh sigh, and shook her head. “I must be getting old. But don’t worry; it will come to me. Eventually.”
Chapter 16
Sebastian returned home that night to be met by his major domo.
“A packet arrived in your absence, my lord. From London House.”
“Thank you,” said Sebastian.
Carrying a branch of candles into the library, he slit the seal on the sheaf of papers and spread them open on his desk. The top sheet proved to be a curt note from the Bishop’s supercilious chaplain, Simon Ashley. Sebastian could imagine the cleric’s nose twitching with disapproval as he wrote it.
My lord Devlin,
As per the Archbishop’s instructions, herewith find enclosed a list of the Bishop’s most recent appointments. At His Grace’s suggestion, I have annotated the list for your edification.
It was signed with a single initial: “A.”
The next two pages had obviously been copied from the Bishop’s appointment diary by someone with a painfully neat hand, most likely the diary secretary. The Chaplain’s own annotations were, in contrast, hurried scrawls, although thorough.
Settling back in his chair, Sebastian ran through the list of names, dates, and times. Most of the Bishop’s appointments over the past week appeared to be routine meetings with church functionaries or parishioners. Sebastian found the appointment with William Franklin on Monday. Although late in the afternoon, it appeared to have been the Bishop’s first scheduled appointment of the day, and it was followed immediately by the meeting with Lord Quillian. Interestingly, the Bishop had also met with his nephew, Sir Peter Prescott, at four o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, the day of his death. For what purpose was not made clear.
Rising thoughtfully to his feet, Sebastian glanced through the previous week’s schedule again, but only one other name caught his attention: Miss Hero Jarvis.
In addition to her six-o’clock appointment on Tuesday, she had met with the Bishop of London no fewer than three times in the previous week.
Sebastian’s dreams took him many places.
Sometimes he dreamt of cannonballs that whistled through the air to explode in bloody geysers of mud and horseflesh and torn men. Sometimes he dreamt of the sharp stench of burned timbers and a child’s pale cheeks, brown eyes wide and sight-less. And then there were those dreaded nights when he dreamt of a woman with blue St. Cyr eyes, who touched her fingertips to his and then slipped away, lost to him forever.
She came to him again that night, as a storm blew in off the North Sea, bringing with it the bite of an unseasonably cool wind. He felt her soft lips tremble against his. Felt her tear-slicked cheek, warm and wet against his neck. Beneath his touch, her body shivered. . . .
And he knew a start of horror that brought him instantly, heart-poundingly awake.
He lay for a moment, his breath coming harsh and ragged. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to fill a glass with brandy.
He drank it down, shuddering. Setting aside the empty glass, he jerked open the drapes and threw up the sash. The growing wind scuttled heavy clouds across the dark sky and bathed his hot skin with the cool air of the night. In the street below, the oil lamp at the corner flickered, went out.
But Sebastian had the keen eyesight of a creature of the night. Resting his palms on the sill, he leaned forward, his attention caught by the figure of a man crouched in the pool of shadow cast by the front steps of the house opposite.
As Sebastian watched, the man raised a cheroot to his lips and drew deeply, the glowing embers illuminating his bony features and narrowed eyes.
“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian. Shoving away from the window, he snatched up his breeches and the small pistol with an ivory handle and double barrels he kept primed and ready, and turned toward the door.
Obadiah Slade had the lit cheroot halfway to his mouth when Sebastian pressed the muzzle of his flintlock against the man’s broad temple and drew back both hammers.
“Do the world a favor,” said Sebastian, “and give me an excuse to blow your brains out.”
For the briefest instant, the other man froze. Then he rested the cheroot against his lower lip and inhaled sharply. “What? A fine, moral gentleman like yerself, committing murder on the streets of London?” The former corporal exhaled a blue stream of smoke, his lips pursing insolently. “I don’t think so.”
Sebastian kept his arm extended, the muzzle biting into the flesh of the other man’s forehead. “Why are you watching my house?”
“Ain’t no law sayin’ an Englishman can’t stand on the street smoking a cheroot, now, is there?”
“Depends on the Englishman, and the street.”
Obadiah took another drag on his cheroot. “Took me a while, after I seen ye in Aldersgate today. But I finally figured it out. Me da told me ye were at ’im over the Bishop. He thought ye was a constable. He don’t know what ye did in the Army. How ye could pass yerself off as everythin’ from a Spanish peasant to a French general.”
“Is that why you’re here? Because of Jack Slade?”
“Nah.” Obadiah took a final drag on his cheroot and let it fall to the footpath. “Ye know why I’m here.”
Sebastian stepped back, the pistol still held at full cock. “Come around here again and I’ll call the watch on you.”
Moving deliberately, Obadiah brought the heel of one massive boot down on the glowing tip of the cheroot. “Know what a hundred lashes do to a man’s back?”
“If it had been up to me, you would have hanged.”
Obadiah’s teeth glowed white in the darkness. “Takes a long time to lay a hundred lashes on a man’s back. Ye know how I survived it?”
When Sebastian remained silent, the other man ground his boot back and forth, pulverizing the cheroot beneath the heel. “There’s lots o’ different ways to kill a man. The one I picked for ye, ye’re gonna wish ye’d pulled them triggers.”
Sebastian felt his finger tighten against the cold metal in his hand, then willed himself to relax. “You’re not worth it.”
Obadiah smiled and turned away, his gait a languid, contemptuous threat. “Ye say that now.”
Chapter 17
FRIDAY, 10 JULY 1812
Arising early the next morning, Hero Jarvis took one look at the platters of eggs and sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms set out on the buffet in the breakfast parlor, and turned away to order her horse brought around.
The previous night’s wind had brought a heavy cover of angry clouds to hang low over the city. As she trotted her big bay up and down the Row in Hyde Park, her groom following at a tactful distance, the first drops of rain began to fall. She ignored them.
It had occurred to her at some point in the middle of a long, sleepless night that by focusing all her thoughts and energy on the murder of Bishop Prescott she had been avoiding dealing with the disastrous effect of his death on her own future. Yet every time she tried to think about it, she found her mind shying away.
The thunder of approaching hooves drew her attention to the gate. Looking up, she saw the lean figure of Viscount Devlin cantering toward her. She checked for the briefest instant, then trotted on.
“It’s raining,” he said, bringing his Arab in beside her bay. “Or didn’t you notice?”
“If one doesn’t ride in the rain in England, one seldom rides.”
His eyes narrowed with amusement. “True.”
“I assume you’ve sought me out for a reason,” she said bluntly, anxious to have him gone. “What is it?”
“Several things, actually. First of all, I’m wondering why you failed to mention your father’s opposition to Prescott’s translation to Canterbury during our discussion yesterday.”
She let out a huff of breath that fell somewhere between a laugh and a genteel expression of derision. “What, exactly, are you imagining? That my fat
her played the role of Henry the Second to Bishop Prescott’s Thomas Becket?”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
He was startled into a sharp burst of laughter. A silence fell, filled with the creak of saddle leather, the squishing thunder of their horses’ hooves. Once again, she was the one to break it.
“You said ‘several things.’ What else?”
He kept his gaze on the distant treetops. “I fear, Miss Jarvis, that you have been less than honest with me about the purpose of your recent visit to Bishop Prescott. Or should I say visits?”
She kept her hands and seat relaxed. But some inner agitation must have communicated itself to the bay, for it began to sidle. She corrected it immediately.
After a moment, he said, “No comment?”
She turned her head to study his fine-boned, handsome face, but she could detect no sign that he had discovered her secret. “The Bishop is dead. How, pray, do you presume to know what passed between us?”
The rain began to fall harder, slapping the leaves of the chestnuts along the Row, drumming on the turf. The Viscount readjusted his hat. “A remark the Bishop made about an old friend in need of counseling.”
Inside, her stomach did an unpleasant flip-flop. But she had herself well in hand now. “There is obviously some sort of confusion,” she said evenly.
“Perhaps. Although I can’t help but wonder: three visits? Over one speech?”
The rain was coming down now in buckets. Water ran down the Viscount’s cheeks, found its way down the back of Hero’s collar. She said, “Perhaps we should continue this conversation at some future date in a less damp environment.” Signaling her groom, she turned the bay’s head toward home. “Good day, my lord.”
She was aware of his gaze upon her, of him watching her, as she left the park.
She did not look back.
Returning home to Berkeley Square, Hero dismissed her maid, stripped off her riding habit, and went to stand in front of her dressing room mirror.
