He rose to his feet. She still lay as he had found her, awkwardly curled on one side. Reaching out, he gently rolled her body toward him.
The disarrangement of her satin gown had left her back essentially bare. There was something violently sexual, almost intimate, about the way the dagger’s blade disappeared into her dark, livid flesh. Sebastian drew a quick breath.
Beside him, Jarvis was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Good God. She appears to have been badly beaten.”
Sebastian shook his head. “That’s not bruising. I’ve seen it happen before, with soldiers left on the battlefield. It’s as if all the blood in a body collects at its lowest points after death.”
“But she was lying on her side, not her back.”
“It would be difficult to do anything else with that dagger in her,” said Sebastian. Gently lifting the blue-black hair that tumbled around her neck, Sebastian released the necklace’s clasp and eased the thick, intricate chain away from her throat. “There’s a surgeon of my acquaintance who has made a study of these things—an Irishman by the name of Paul Gibson. He has a surgery near the base of Tower Hill. I want him sent for right away.”
“You want to bring a surgeon all the way down from London?” Jarvis laughed. “But it’ll be ten hours or more before he gets here. Surely we can find someone locally.”
Sebastian glanced at the man beside him. “To give us the same opinion as His Highness’s personal physicians?”
Jarvis said nothing.
“It’s important that no one else be allowed to enter this room until Gibson arrives. Can you arrange that?”
“Naturally.”
Sebastian turned in a slow circle, his gaze covering the chamber. “Do you notice something else strange?”
Jarvis regarded him with vague animosity. The earlier winning smile was long gone. “Should I?”
“That dagger was well aimed. It would have pierced her heart. Wounds of that nature typically bleed profusely.”
“Good God,” said Jarvis, his gaze lifting from the young Marchioness’s livid bare back to Sebastian’s face. “You’re right. There’s no blood.”
Chapter 6
Half an hour later, Sebastian walked into the private parlor of his father’s rooms at the Anchor on the Marine Parade. In a tapestry-covered chair beside the empty hearth, the Earl of Hendon sat with an open book on his lap, his head nodding to one side as he dozed.
“You shouldn’t have waited up,” said Sebastian.
His head jerking, Hendon quietly closed his book and set it aside. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Sebastian leaned against the doorframe, one hand absently fingering the bluestone necklace in his pocket. “Tell me about the Marquis of Anglessey.”
Hendon rubbed his eyes with a spread thumb and index finger. “He’s a good man. Steady. Honorable. He does his duty in the House of Lords, although he has no special interest in government.” He paused. “Surely you don’t think Anglessey had anything to do with what happened tonight?”
“I don’t know what to think. How well did you know Lady Anglessey?”
Hendon let out his breath in a long sigh. “Such a beautiful young woman, Guinevere. They married three—maybe four years ago now. There was considerable talk at the time, of course, given the difference in their ages. Some considered it a scandal, a sick old man taking such a young woman to wife. But the marriage was understandable.”
“How’s that?
“Anglessey is desperate for an heir.”
“Ah. And was he successful in getting one?”
“I heard just last week that Lady Anglessey was with child.”
“Jesus.” Sebastian pushed away from the door and walked into the room. “She was discovered in a decidedly compromising position this evening. Yet you say such behavior was not typical of her?”
“No. There has never been a whisper of scandal attached to her name.”
“What do you know of her family?”
“Nothing reprehensible there. Her father was the Earl of Athelstone. From Wales. I believe her brother, the new Earl, is still a child.” Hendon let his head fall back against the tapestry of the chair as he looked up at his son. “What has any of this to do with you?”
“Jarvis thought I might find the circumstances of Lady Anglessey’s death interesting.”
“Interesting?” Hendon shook his head. “You? But…why?”
Sebastian drew the silver-and-bluestone necklace from his pocket and dangled it in the air between them. “Because she was wearing this around her neck when she died.”
Hendon’s face went suddenly, completely white. But he made no move to take the necklace or even touch it. “That’s impossible.”
Bringing up his other hand, Sebastian dropped the necklace neatly into his palm. “I would have said so, yes.”
Hendon sat quite still, his hands gripping the upholstered arms of his chair. “Surely they don’t mean to accuse you of any involvement in this death.”
A slow smile curled Sebastian’s lips. “Not this one.” He went to stand with one arm braced against the mantel, his head bowed as he stared down at the empty grate. “It has occurred to me that an eleven-year-old’s memories of his mother’s death might easily be distorted,” he said slowly. It was not something they had ever spoken of, that long-ago summer day. Not that day, or the endless, pain-filled days that followed. “Her body was never found, was it?” Sebastian looked around.
“No. Never.” Hendon worked his jaw back and forth in that way he had. “She wore the necklace often. But I honestly couldn’t say if she had it on the day she died.”
“She was wearing it. Of that I am certain.”
Hendon pushed up from his chair and went to where a tea service and cups rested on a nearby table. But made no move to pour the tea. “There is a logical explanation. Her body must have washed up somewhere along the coast.”
“To be found by some desperate soul who stripped the corpse of everything valuable and sold the necklace for his next meal?” Sebastian kept his gaze on his father’s broad, tight back. “That’s one explanation.”
Hendon swung around again, his fleshy face dark with emotion. “Good God. What other explanation could there be?”
Their gazes met across the room, father and son, startling blue eyes clashing with strange yellow ones. It was Hendon who looked away first.
“What do you mean to do?” he asked, his voice oddly strained.
Sebastian’s fist tightened around the necklace. “Talk to Anglessey, for one thing. See if he knows how his wife came by this. Although that hardly seems the most important issue at the moment, now does it?”
Hendon’s mouth went slack. “You’re not seriously taking it upon yourself to uncover this killer?”
“Yes.”
Hendon digested this in silence. Then he said, “What does Prinny say happened?”
“He’s been sedated. I intend to talk to him first thing in the morning.”
Hendon let out a derisive grunt. “Jarvis won’t let you anywhere near the Prince. Not if you’re intending to ask something he might potentially find disturbing.”
“I think he will.”
“Why should he?”
Sebastian pushed away from the hearth and turned. “Because this dynasty is one step away from disaster, and Jarvis knows it.”
Chapter 7
Jarvis was annoyed.
He wasn’t entirely certain how Devlin had managed to coerce him into agreeing to this early-morning meeting with the Prince, but somehow the Viscount had succeeded. Even under the best of circumstances, the Regent was rarely coherent before noon. As it was, last night’s shock had come close to oversetting him entirely.
The Prince lay sprawled in silk-dressing-gowned splendor against the tufted velvet cushions of a sofa placed close to his bedchamber’s roaring fire, his pupils narrowed down to pinpoints by laudanum, his lower lip trembling with petulance. The heavy satin drapes at the windows were drawn fast against
the morning sun.
“You think I don’t hear what people are saying, but I do. I do! They’re actually suggesting that I might have killed Lady Anglessey. Me.” The fat princely fingers tightened around his vial of smelling salts. “You must do something, Jarvis. Make them understand they’re wrong. Wrong!”
Jarvis kept his voice soothing but firm. “We’re trying, sir. Which is what makes it vital that you tell Lord Devlin precisely what happened last night.”
Swallowing hard, the Prince glanced over to where the Viscount stood with his flawlessly tailored shoulders resting negligently against the Chinese papered wall, his arms folded at his chest, his attention seemingly focused on the highly polished toes of his Hessians. George might not understand precisely why Devlin had agreed to be drawn into this nasty little affair; he might even half believe the young Viscount to be guilty of murder himself. But Jarvis knew the Prince was shrewd enough to understand that the attempts by his doctors and the magistrate to portray the Marchioness’s death as suicide had done him more harm than good. George needed help, and he recognized it.
Covering his eyes with one hand, the Prince let go a shaky breath. “God help me, I don’t know.”
Devlin looked up, his expression one of mild interest rather than the irritation Jarvis had expected. “Think back to earlier in the evening, sir,” said the Viscount, pushing away from the wall. “How did you happen to be in the cabinet with the Marchioness?”
George let his hand fall limply to his side. “She sent me a note, suggesting I meet her.”
Jarvis knew a quiet flare of surprise, but Devlin—unaware of the implications of this statement—simply asked, “Do you still have the note?”
The Prince’s face went blank. He shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. Why would I keep it?”
“Do you remember precisely what it said?”
The Regent had a reputation for telling tall tales, for boasting of imagined feats on the hunting field and entertaining guests at his table with fanciful accounts of leading troops into battle when the only uniforms he’d ever worn were ceremonial ones. But for all his practice, George remained an appallingly bad liar. Now, his lips threatening to curve into a betraying smile, the Prince stared back at Devlin and said baldly, “Not precisely, no. Only that she wished to meet me in the Yellow Cabinet.”
Impossible for Jarvis to tell whether Devlin read the lie or not. The young man had a rare ability to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. He said, “So you found her there? In the Yellow Cabinet?”
“Yes. She was lying on the sofa before the fire.” The Prince sat forward almost eagerly. “I’m certain of that. I remember admiring the gleam of the firelight over her bare shoulders.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“Yes. Of course.” A note of regal impatience crept into the Prince’s voice. “Surely you don’t expect me to remember precisely what I said?”
“Do you remember if she answered you?”
The Prince opened his mouth, then closed it. “I’m not certain,” he said after a moment. “I mean, I don’t remember her answering me. But she must have done so.”
“One would think so,” said Devlin. “Unless she were already dead when you entered the room.”
The Prince’s normally ruddy cheeks paled. “Good God. Is that what you think? But…how is that possible? I mean, surely I would have noticed. Wouldn’t I?”
Devlin had his keen gaze fixed on the Prince’s face. And for one sliver of a moment Jarvis knew a rare whisper of misgiving, a brief questioning of the wisdom of his decision to draw the Viscount into this investigation.
“How long between the time you entered the chamber and when Lady Jersey threw open the door from the music room?” said Devlin, his voice deceptively casual.
The Prince plucked peevishly at the edge of his dressing gown. “I think…I rather think I might have fallen asleep.”
The implications were damning. A flicker of something showed in the younger man’s eyes. “Then you do have reason to be quite certain that the lady was not already dead when you first entered the room.”
The Prince’s cheeks flushed from unnaturally pale to sudden dark crimson as he realized the conclusion Devlin had inevitably drawn. “No, no,” he said in a rush. “It’s not what you think. I never touched her. I’m certain I didn’t. My ankle gave way as I was crossing the room toward her, and I sat down on one of the chairs.”
“And fell asleep?”
“Yes. I do sometimes. After a heavy meal.”
Devlin chose—wisely, Jarvis thought—not to respond to that. Pausing before a faux bamboo étagère tucked inside an arched niche, the Viscount ran his gaze over the artfully displayed collection of delicate ivory carvings. “How well acquainted were you with the Marchioness?” he asked, his attention all seemingly for the carvings.
George’s jaw jutted out mulishly. “I barely knew the woman.”
Devlin glanced over at the Prince. “Yet you weren’t surprised to receive a note from her, asking to meet you privately?”
The Prince’s massive torso jerked with his suddenly agitated breathing. “What are you suggesting? It’s Anglessey people should be suspecting, not me! I mean, it is usually the husband who’s found to be the culprit in this sort of thing, is it not?” His moist lips parted, his nostrils flaring as one beringed hand fluttered up to clutch at his chest. “Good heavens. I’m having palpitations. Where is Dr. Heberden?”
Jarvis took a hasty step forward as the doctor appeared suddenly from a curtained embrasure. “That’s enough questions for now, Lord Devlin. If you’ll excuse us, please?”
For one sharply tense moment, Devlin hesitated. Then he bowed curtly and swung away.
“You will, of course, be looking into the Marquis’s possible involvement in all of this?” Jarvis asked in an undervoice as he walked with Devlin to the door.
Devlin kept his expression bland. “It had occurred to me to do so,” he said, then added, “In the meantime, you might ask the Prince’s man to go through the pockets of the coat the Prince was wearing last night. It would help if that note could be found.”
“Of course,” said Jarvis.
Pausing at the entrance to the library that served as an antechamber to the Regent’s bedroom, the Viscount looked around. A tight smile curled his lips, a smile that told Jarvis he knew bloody well the note would never be found. “And perhaps when the Prince has recovered sufficiently, you might ask if he remembers exactly who handed him the note from the Marchioness?”
“When and if Dr. Heberden considers it safe to bring up the subject again, yes. You understand, of course, that protecting the Prince’s delicate sensibilities is of paramount importance.”
“More important than discovering the truth about who killed Lady Anglessey?”
Jarvis held the younger man’s hard stare. “Don’t ever doubt it for a moment.”
LEAVING THE PRINCE’S SUITE, Sebastian paused in the overheated corridor, one hand idly fingering the necklace in his pocket. Some of what the Prince had told him, Sebastian knew, was probably the truth. The trick would be to separate the reality from the layers of invention and sheer obstreperousness.
He was about to turn toward the stables when someone nervously cleared his throat and said, “My lord?”
Sebastian looked around to find a young, pale-skinned man with dark bushy eyebrows and gaunt cheeks hovering nearby, a man Sebastian recognized as one of Jarvis’s secretaries. “Yes?”
The man bowed. “The surgeon has arrived from London, my lord. He’s been shown directly to the Yellow Cabinet, as you requested.”
Chapter 8
Sebastian found Paul Gibson on the floor beside the couch in the Yellow Cabinet, his wooden leg thrust out awkwardly to one side.
“Ah, there you are, Sebastian me lad,” he said, his eyes creasing into a smile as he glanced around at Sebastian’s entrance.
They were old friends, Sebastian and this dark-haired Irishman with the merry g
reen eyes and a roguish dimple in one cheek. Theirs was a bond forged in blood and mud, and tested by suffering and want and the threat of death. Once, Gibson had been a surgeon in the British Army, a man whose fierce determination to help those in need often took him into harm’s way. Even after a French cannonball took off the lower part of his left leg, Gibson had remained in the field. But continuing ill health—and an accompanying weakness for the sweet relief to be found in poppies—had forced him to leave the army two years ago and set up a small surgery in the City, where he devoted much of his energy to research and the teaching of medical students, and to providing the authorities with his expert opinion in criminal cases.
“You made good time,” said Sebastian.
“Dead bodies don’t share their secrets for long,” said Gibson, returning his attention to what was left of Lord Anglessey’s beautiful young wife, Guinevere. “And this one has some interesting stories to tell.”
He had rolled the body so that it lay fully facedown on the floor. In the harsh light of day, the skin at the back of her neck could now be seen to have turned a greenish red. A faint odor like that of rotting meat permeated the chamber, although the heavy drapes had been pulled back and the long windows thrown open to flood the room with enough fresh air and sunlight to give the Prince Regent an apoplexy.
Sebastian went to stand beside the open windows, his gaze on the gulls wheeling and calling against the vivid blue sky above the Strand. “When would you say she died?”
“It’s difficult to be precise, but I think early yesterday afternoon is more likely than yesterday morning.”
Sebastian swung around. “Not last night?”
“No. Of that there is no doubt.”
“You know what this means, don’t you? The servants would have come in this room to build up the fire before last night’s performance. There’s no way the body could have lain here undiscovered for so long. She must have been killed someplace else and brought here just before the Prince discovered her.”
When Gods Die Page 3
