by C. S. Harris
The Baron gave a delicate shudder and moved on. “Who, pray tell, has not? The description in the Morning Post nearly brought on my spasms—not that I ever had anything but the utmost contempt for the man himself, but still. Violence of any sort is so . . . crude.”
“Yet I’ve heard it said you fought two duels yourself, when you were younger.”
Quillian gave a tight smile, the sleepy eyes suddenly looking considerably less lazy. “Surely you don’t mean to conflate what happened to Prescott with a duel conducted under the gentleman’s code? I mean, to have one’s head bashed in is so, well, plebeian, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not to mention fatal.”
“I suppose.” Quillian sniffed. “Although it’s Prescott’s own fault, really. He should have thought of the consequences before.”
“Before . . . what?”
“Why, before he set about putting up the backs of half the men in town, of course.”
“I hear you quarreled rather publicly with the Bishop yourself. Last Saturday, was it not? In Hyde Park,” Sebastian added, when the exquisite continued to stare at him blankly.
“Oh, that.” Quillian waved the incident away with the flap of one slim hand gloved in snowy white kid.
“Yes, that. Over abolition, I assume?”
Quillian sniffed. “The bloody, righteous idiot was trying to push a Slavery Abolition Act through Parliament. If you ask me, even to suggest such a measure in time of war is tantamount to treason. The financial repercussions from that kind of foolishness would be ruinous.”
“For you.”
“For England.”
“I suppose the Bishop believed he labored in the service of a higher power.”
“The man was a fool.”
Sebastian watched the Baron’s hand tighten around the silver head of his walking stick. Sebastian owned a similar piece; the ornate handle unscrewed to reveal a long, slim dagger.
He said, “I’ve heard speculation that someone may have been trying to blackmail Prescott. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Blackmail? Truly?” Quillian’s lips stretched into a thin, tight smile, but his eyes were hard. “Are you suggesting there was something in His Righteousness’s past that could have left the man open to blackmail? How very . . . entertaining. If only one had known of this sooner, one might have made use of it.”
Sebastian studied the exquisite’s carefully powdered face. “You’re saying you don’t know of anything in the Bishop’s past that might have made him vulnerable to blackmail?”
“Blackmail is so . . . sordid. Don’t you agree?”
“Like murder,” said Sebastian.
“Exactly. If you want my opinion—and I take it you must, since you have obviously sought me out to discuss this dreadful matter—the authorities could do worse than to look into the movements of that horrid Colonial.”
“Colonial? You mean an American?”
“That’s right. Franklin, I believe his name is. I understand he used to be governor of New Jersey or some such place, before the recent unpleasantness.”
“You mean William Franklin? Benjamin Franklin’s son?”
“Yes, that’s the one. He was leaving the Bishop’s chambers just as I arrived on Monday afternoon.”
“You saw the Bishop this past Monday?”
“I did,” said the dandy, swinging his walking stick by the handle. “It was my hope to persuade the Bishop of the advisability of giving up his intention of delivering an impassioned attack on slavery before the Lords this Thursday.”
“By appealing to his better nature?”
“Hardly. By threatening to have him blackballed from his clubs.” Quillian sniffed. “You’ll agree, I assume, that there is considerable difference between threatening to blackball a man and threatening to blackmail him? Hmmm?”
Actually, threatening to blackball a man struck Sebastian as a form of blackmail, but all he said was, “And Franklin?”
“As I said, the man was leaving as I arrived. Their exchange had obviously been heated, for as I entered the antechamber, I heard the Bishop say it would be a dark day in hell before he ever had dealings with a traitor’s son. To which Franklin replied . . .” Here the exquisite hesitated, as if suddenly overcome by an eleventh-hour attack of scruples at the realization that he might be implicating a man in murder.
Sebastian dutifully prompted, “Yes?”
“To which Franklin replied, ‘Hell is where men such as yourself belong.’ ” Quillian glanced over at Sebastian expectantly.
Sebastian said, “You’re suggesting, I take it, that Franklin meant it as a threat?”
“Well, it could certainly be construed as such, could it not?”
“Perhaps. You wouldn’t have any idea what their exchange was about?”
“I’m afraid not.” Quillian brought the back of one hand to his forehead. “Merciful heavens. I do believe I am in danger of beginning to perspire. This is all your fault, you know. Expecting me to walk down the street like some milkmaid making deliveries.” He raised his voice. “Chair! Chair, I say!”
A couple of chairmen lounging before a nearby public house jerked to attention and rushed toward him. “Carlton House,” said Quillian, settling back against the sedan chair’s quilted squabs.
“One more thing,” said Sebastian, resting a hand on the chair frame to delay him. “Exactly where were you last night?”
Quillian’s eyes widened in a show of indignation. “Why, with the Prince.”
“All evening?”
“Of course,” he snapped, and nodded to the chairmen to move on.
Sebastian took a step back, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun as he watched the chairmen trot away.
Chapter 11
One hand wrapped tightly around her kite’s spar, the young girl raced down the grassy slope at the edge of Green Park, knees kicking against the muslin of her simple gown. She was a plain child, somewhere between twelve and fourteen years of age, with the nondescript brown hair and plump cheeks of her famous forebear, Benjamin Franklin. As Sebastian watched, the breeze filled the kite’s red sails, flapping the silk. She held tight, shouting with delight to the small, rotund man who loped ahead of her.
William Franklin held a stout stick wound with the kite’s line in one hand, the other hand playing out the twine as he ran. He was dressed in the frock coat and buckled breeches of an earlier age, his stocking-clad calves flashing in short, rapid steps as he hollered, “Now!”
The girl leapt up, releasing the kite. For a moment it dipped, threatening to crash to earth. Then the wind caught the sails and it soared high, a crimson splash against the clear blue sky.
“Take the line, quickly,” shouted William Franklin, holding out the stick. She snatched it with a gay laugh, her skirts swirling around her as she raced across the park, the kite sailing above her.
Breathing heavily, Franklin bent to rest his hands on his knees. His plump cheeks were flushed and damp, but his small eyes danced with merriment as his gaze followed the plain, brown-haired girl with the kite.
“Your granddaughter?” said Sebastian, walking up to him.
The old man straightened. “Ellen. I’ve raised her myself from the time she was a wee babe.” His eyes narrowed. “I know you, don’t I?”
“Yes, although I’m surprised you remember me. The name’s Devlin,” said Sebastian, shaking the elderly gentleman’s hand. “I came to one of your lectures on the Gulf Stream, many years ago.”
William Franklin nodded to the girl with the kite. “It was Ellen’s father—my son, Temple—who helped my father chart the stream, you know. On a voyage between London and America.”
“I know.”
“You’ve an interest in water currents?”
They turned to walk together across the grass. “I believe a man should strive to remain aware of the scientific advances of his day, yes.”
“Hmm. Yet somehow, I don’t think you’ve sought me o
ut to talk about water temperatures, have you, Lord Devlin?”
At the use of his title, Sebastian shifted to face the small American.
Franklin smiled. “I knew your father many years ago—although I doubt he ever told you of our acquaintance.”
“No. He didn’t.”
Franklin’s head turned as he followed his granddaughter’s progress across the park. “We shared a ship’s voyage together, once. Lord Hendon had been visiting the Colonies, while I . . . I was beginning my life of exile.”
He was silent a moment. The humor that had briefly animated his features had gone, leaving his face bleak and sorrowful. “I’d just lost my first wife. She died while I was being held in a rebel prison.” He let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “I must beg your pardon for sounding maudlin. The older I get, the more the memory of those days lies heavily upon my heart.”
They stood together, heads thrown back as they watched the kite dip and soar above them. After a moment, Franklin said, “You’re here because of Bishop Prescott, I assume?”
Sebastian glanced over at him. “How did you know?”
Franklin tapped one snuff-stained finger against his temple. “I’m not in my dotage yet. You might have a passing interest in science, but your real passion is murder. It’s not difficult to infer that someone told you I exchanged heated words with the Bishop of London recently.”
“It’s true then?”
“Oh, yes. Just because I’m not in my dotage doesn’t mean I can’t be foolish.”
Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I run an informal school for some local children—nothing fancy, just a small group of lads who gather in my parlor for an hour or so in the evening to learn the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic. Ever since my Mary died, I’ve been finding it more and more difficult to keep the sessions going. I knew Prescott was an advocate of education for the poor, so I was hoping he might be able to find a place for a couple of the brighter boys in one of the city’s charity schools.” His lips tightened into a thin line. “I should have known better.”
“He refused?”
“He wouldn’t even hear me out. Became abusive, really—as I’ve no doubt you’ve heard.”
They turned to walk together down the hill. “Ironic, isn’t it?” said Franklin. “My own father disowned me as a traitor because I chose to remain loyal to the king he raised me to serve. But Prescott? As far as he was concerned, my father’s loyalty to the land of his birth makes me a traitor.”
Sebastian was silent, trying to reconcile two seemingly ir reconcilable portraits of the Bishop: the dedicated philanthro pist, and the narrow-minded bigot.
A faint smile rekindled in the depths of the American’s eyes. “I see by your expression you don’t believe me. You think, How could a man who fought for everyone from the poor slaves of the West Indies to the downtrodden Catholics of Ireland be so unreasonable in his dealings with an old man?”
“I suppose we all have our prejudices,” said Sebastian.
“We do indeed. Prescott may have been a reformer, but he was no radical. As far as he was concerned, France and America were ungodly places, united by revolution and a dangerous philosophy he considered a threat to the future of civilization.”
“But your own loyalty to England never wavered.”
“It didn’t matter. Prescott looked at me, and he saw my father. For him, that was enough.”
“The war with America ended nearly thirty years ago.”
Franklin shrugged. “For some, the passage of time means little.” He swung to face Sebastian again, his pale, watery eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. “If you want my advice, my lord, you’ll look at more than the past few days if you want to find out who killed the Bishop of London. Some men keep their friends for a lifetime. But Francis Prescott, he preserved his enemies. Forever.”
“Do you have any idea who some of those enemies might have been?”
“Me? No.”
Franklin’s granddaughter was beginning to reel in her kite, the crimson silk dancing against the clear blue sky. He watched it, eyes squinted against the light, his features set in troubled lines. After a moment, he said, “There is one rather curious aspect of my meeting with the Bishop.”
“Yes?”
“When I arrived at London House, I found the Bishop paused on the footpath in conversation with a tradesman. A butcher. Prescott said the man was simply there over an account, but . . .”
“You didn’t believe him?”
“When was the last time you dealt with your butcher over an account?”
Sebastian smiled. “I daresay I wouldn’t recognize the man if I passed him on the street.”
“Precisely.”
“Had you ever seen the man before?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I recognized him. He’s a fellow by the name of Slade. Jack Slade. He has a shop near Smithfield.”
“Smithfield?”
Franklin nodded. “Near the cathedral, although I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you his exact direction. I remembered the incident because it was obvious the encounter troubled the Bishop. Deeply troubled him. I suspect it does much to explain why he reacted so angrily to my own request.”
The wind gusted up, then suddenly died. Tipping back his head, Sebastian watched the kite falter, red wings vivid against the blue sky. Ellen Franklin let out a squeal as the kite plummeted downward, silk flapping, to land upside down in the branches of an elm tee, a torn scarlet splash against a sea of green.
“I want you to find someone for me,” Sebastian told his tiger. “A Smithfield butcher by the name of Jack Slade.”
Tom’s eyes brightened. “Aye, gov’nor. Any idea what part o’ the area ’e ’ails from?”
Sebastian gathered the gray’s reins. “No.”
Tom gave a cheery laugh and hopped down from his perch at the rear of the curricle. “I’ll find ’im, gov’nor. Ne’er you fear!”
Chapter 12
Hero spent what was left of the day prowling the big Jarvis townhouse on Berkeley Square and awaiting the arrival of Bishop Prescott’s appointment schedule from London House.
The discovery that the Archbishop of Canterbury had asked Viscount Devlin to investigate Prescott’s death filled her with a driving sense of urgency. She knew Devlin, which meant she knew it was only a matter of time before he discovered the truth behind her recent visits to the Bishop. And once he knew that, she had no doubt he would be relentless in his determination to “do the honorable thing” and marry her. Wild and unorthodox Devlin might be, but he was still an officer and a gentleman. And in affairs of this nature, the gentleman’s code was inflexible.
Of course, he could not compel her to marry him. Normally, Hero would have laughed at the suggestion that she might find it difficult to resist him. But she was discovering that pregnancy had the disconcerting effect of making even the strongest of females weak and—God help her—weepy. There were times, particularly in the dark, sleepless hours just before dawn, when she found herself actually considering such a solution. Which made it vitally important that the Bishop’s murder be solved. Quickly. Before it was too late.
That evening, when the papers from London House had still not arrived, she pleaded a headache (which was real enough) and stayed home from a dinner at the Austrian ambassador’s. She was convinced the schedule from the Bishop’s chaplain would arrive at any moment.
But it never did.
That night, Sebastian dressed in a white silk waistcoat, black tails and knee breeches, and silk stockings, and directed his carriage toward Covent Garden.
He arrived late, after the fashionable crush of chattering society members had settled in their private boxes, and after the less-than-fashionable stampede of those taking advantage of the theater’s practice of selling off all empty gallery seats at half price after the second interval.
For the better part of a year, Sebastian had carefully avoided the theater. Now, as he walke
d through the dim corridors and up the candlelit staircase, he breathed in the familiar scent of oranges and imagined for one painful moment that he caught the distant echo of a woman’s sweet laughter, like a ghost from the past.
There’d been a time when Kat Boleyn, the most famous actress of the London stage, had been Sebastian’s mistress and the love of his life. Then came the devastating revelations of the previous autumn, when Hendon rediscovered a previously unknown illegitimate daughter, and Sebastian . . . Sebastian lost forever the woman he’d hoped to make his wife.
He knew that painful truth should change the way he felt about Kat, and in many respects, it had. But over the last months he’d been forced to acknowledge that a part of his heart would forever be hers, no matter how damned that might make him in the eyes of God and man.
The boxes, although private, were as brilliantly lit as the stage, for one attended the theater to see and be seen as much as to actually watch the production below. He was aware of heads turning, of whispers behind raised fans as he slipped, alone, into his box. His many months’ absence from the theater had naturally been marked and speculated upon—coinciding as it did with the precipitous marriage of his longtime mistress to a gentleman of dubious reputation and questionable sexuality.
Sebastian kept his gaze on the stage below.
Resplendent in the red velvet robes of Portia in The Merchant of Venice, Kat was as beautiful as ever, her cheekbones exquisitely high and flaring, her dark hair touched with fire by the gleam of candlelight, her blue St. Cyr eyes flashing. He watched, his heart aching with need and want, late into the final act. Then he quietly left his seat and headed for the private dressing room he knew so well.
He was waiting for her when she swept in after the final curtain call, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed with triumph. Then she saw him and froze.
“I’m sorry for coming here,” he said, his shoulders braced against the far wall, his arms crossed at his chest. “But I couldn’t see presenting myself at your new husband’s house, and I need to talk to you.”