What Remains of Heaven sscm-5

by C. S. Harris

  “You bloody bastard,” swore Sebastian, swiping the sleeve of his rough coat at the warm wetness spilling into his eyes.

  The jarvey lashed at him again. But Sebastian was already moving in on him. Throwing up his left arm, Sebastian caught the blow on his forearm, the lash wrapping around his wrist like a hot wire as he pivoted to drive the blade of his dagger deep into the jarvey’s chest.

  Eyes wide with bewilderment, blood spilling from his mouth as his jaw sagged, the driver dropped heavily to his knees, then pitched forward onto his face in the mud before Sebastian had time to yank his dagger free.

  “Lost yer knife, have ye?” Obadiah gave a harsh, ringing laugh. “What ye gonna do now? Hmm, Captain Viscount?” He slapped the cudgel against his palm, lips peeling back from his teeth in a grin.

  Sebastian still had the lash of the driver’s whip wrapped around his left arm. Now, his gaze on the other man’s rawboned, scarred face, he closed his right fist on the thong some three feet closer to the handle and took two quick loops of the leather around his wrist.

  Obadiah hawked up a mouthful of spittle and spat it into the mud at Sebastian’s feet. “By the time I’m done wit’ ye, yer own da ain’t gonna recognize ye.”

  Stepping forward, he swung the cudgel at Sebastian’s face, the heavy wood whistling through the air. Sebastian jerked the whip up, the leather thong held taut between both fists. The blow bounced off the whiplash, sending shock waves down Sebastian’s arms and throwing Obadiah off balance.

  Kicking out, Sebastian knocked the big man’s lead foot out from beneath him. Obadiah went down hard, his right hand reflexively letting go of the cudgel to break his fall. Sebastian kicked again and the club went spinning through the rain to land with a plop in the muddy water of the pond lapping at the grassy verge beside the lane.

  “Ye bastard,” spat Obadiah. Wrapping his arms around Sebastian’s legs, he brought him down like a roped calf.

  Sebastian hit the muddy ground with a painful grunt. Scrabbling around, he kicked out to free himself from the other man’s hold. Obadiah grabbed fistfuls of Sebastian’s coat, and the two men rolled together across the grassy verge and down a gentle incline to hit the murky surface of the pond with a splash. Sebastian felt the cold water closing over him and barely had time to suck in one last breath before his head went under.

  He fought his way to the surface, feet scrabbling for purchase on the silty, shifting bottom. He swung around, breath coming in quick gasps, eyes filmed with water and mud and blood as he scanned the churning, rain-pocked surface of the pond, its far banks obscured by a haze of mist mingling with steam from the pounding engines of the waterworks.

  He swiped his wet sleeve across his face and heard Obadiah rise up behind him with an angry roar. Before he could spin around, a massive arm clamped around Sebastian’s neck to slam him back against a chest as hard as one of the sides of beef hanging from a hook in Jack Slade’s butcher shop.

  Sebastian could hear his own blood surging in his ears, feel the meaty strength of the other man’s forearm crushing his windpipe. He tried to pitch forward, but couldn’t. With his last strength he lurched backward and felt the big man’s feet shoot out from beneath him as his stance shifted on the treacherous, slippery bottom.

  They both went under, the impact breaking them apart. Coming up fast, Sebastian staggered back toward the shore. He was about hip-deep in the water when Obadiah broke the surface, sputtering. Swinging around, Sebastian charged into him. Grabbing the lapels of the other man’s coat, Sebastian pushed him back and down again, and watched with grim satisfaction as the muddy water closed over the massive, hard-jawed face, the man’s eyes open and startled.

  From somewhere he heard a shout, the sound of men splashing through mud and rain. Sebastian tightened his hold on Obadiah’s coat and held him beneath the cold, muddy surface of the pond.

  “Let him go!”

  Rough hands closed on Sebastian’s shoulders, loosening his grip. A red-bearded man with a wildly disordered neckcloth shoved his face into Sebastian’s line of vision. “Wot the ’ell ye doin’ there? Ye’re gonna kill ’im.”

  Sebastian felt Obadiah slip from his grasp. Sebastian lurched after him, but two more men had appeared by now to lay hold of Sebastian. They dragged him back toward the shore, where the silent form of the jarvey lay stretched out in the mud beside the hackney.

  The rain fell from the sky in a roar that mingled with the droning thunder of the steam engines. Breaking free of the men’s hold, Sebastian swung around to look back at the pond. A white mist swirled across the still, empty water.

  Obadiah had disappeared.

  “The hackney belongs to a man by the name of Miles Buckley,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy. He was standing in the doorway of Sebastian’s dressing room, watching Sebastian wince as Calhoun applied a clean sticking plaster to the cut above Sebastian’s eye. “A small, bandy-legged Liverpudlian of some sixty years of age.”

  “What does he have to say?” asked Sebastian, stretching to his feet. He was dressed in black evening knee breeches, black silk stockings, and a white silk waistcoat. Outside, the rain had finally begun to clear, the sun peeking from beneath the heavy clouds as it slipped below the horizon.

  “Very little. He was found insensible from a blow to the head, in a lane behind the White Horse Inn, in Church Street.”

  Sebastian reached for a snowy white neckcloth. “Will he recover?”

  “Oh, yes. A slight dent in his crown is all. He’s a tough old codger.”

  Sebastian grunted, his chin held aloft as he adjusted the folds of his cravat.

  Lovejoy said, “I believe your assailants must have followed you to Chelsea, then availed themselves of Mr. Buckley’s hackney, leaving him incapacitated while they shadowed you from Cheyne Walk and waited until you were ready to depart for London.”

  “A scheme into which I stepped like a regular Johnny Flat.” Lovejoy cleared his throat. “Not exactly. The individual who was driving the hackney won’t be waylaying any more fairs. You killed him.”

  “Good.”

  “A coroner’s inquest will be held, of course, but there’s no doubt his death will be found a simple case of self-defense. We’ve set the local constables to searching the ponds of the waterworks and the riverbank beyond, but Mr. Obidiah Slade appears to have made good his escape.”

  “He’ll be back,” said Sebastian, reaching for his coat.

  Lovejoy cleared his throat again. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  That night, Sebastian prowled the playgrounds of the haut ton. Moving purposefully from the theaters of Covent Garden to the glittering ballrooms and drawing rooms of Mayfair, he scanned the throngs of men in black silk and white linen, of women in sparkling jewels and shimmering evening gowns that slipped enticingly from bare shoulders. But the one woman he sought was not to be found.

  He was in the flower-decked ballroom of a house on Cav endish Square belonging to the Duke of Isling, his gaze narrowed against the haze of hundreds of beeswax candles, when he heard a woman’s familiar voice say, “Good heavens, it is you, Devlin. Bayard swore he’d seen you, but I’d hoped he was simply suffering the effects of too much of Isling’s punch.”

  Sebastian turned to meet his sister’s icy blue stare. “Hello, Amanda.”

  Amanda, Lady Wilcox, was a tall woman, thin and fair like their mother, although she looked too much like Hendon to have ever been pretty, even when she was young. Twelve years Sebastian’s senior, she was in her early forties now. Even when they were children, she had never made the least effort to disguise her acute dislike of her youngest brother. Now, watching her lip curl, her nostrils flare with disdain, Sebastian found himself wondering if she had always known—or at least suspected—the ugly secrets swirling around his conception.

  “I hear you’re at it again,” she said, her head turning as she let her gaze scan the crowded dance floor. She could bear to look at him for only a limited amount of time. “Involving yourself in the s
ordid details of a murder investigation, like some grubby little Bow Street Runner.”

  Following her gaze, Sebastian watched his niece, Stephanie Wilcox, coming down the set of the country dance on the arm of Lord Smallbone. Just finishing her first London Season at the age of eighteen, Stephanie was everything Amanda had never been: delicate and winsome and breathtakingly beautiful . . . and so much like Sebastian’s long-vanished mother, Sophie, that it made his chest ache just to look at her.

  Earlier in the Season there’d been talk of a match between the young Miss Wilcox and Smallbone. But no announcement had as yet been forthcoming, and Sebastian knew Amanda was growing anxious. “What’s the matter, Amanda?” he said gently. “Worried I’ll somehow scuttle my niece’s chances of landing a good catch?”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing an angry flush touch his sister’s cheeks. “Don’t be vulgar,” she snapped. “Although I don’t suppose you can help it.”

  “Oh? Why’s that, Amanda?”

  Her lips tightened into a thin line. Rather than answer, she simply turned and left him staring after her, and wondering what she knew, and how she knew it.

  “An interesting display of sibling affection,” said Miss Hero Jarvis, walking up to him. “Or lack thereof.”

  She wore a stunning sapphire blue gown of satin trimmed with velvet ribbons, and was regarding him with her frank, faintly amused gray eyes.

  “Definitely a ‘lack thereof,’ ” he said dryly. The country dance came to an end with a flourish, disgorging a wave of flushed and perspiring dancers upon them. “Here,” he said, cupping a hand beneath her elbow to draw her away from the crush.

  “I thought you made it a practice to avoid these functions,” she said, gently removing her arm from his grasp.

  “Actually, I was looking for you.”

  “Then you’re fortunate to have found me. I’m here only because I was looking for Lord Quillian. The Duchess of Isling is his sister. Or didn’t you know?”

  “No,” said Sebastian, who relied on his aunt Henrietta to remind him of the intricate familial ties that bound one member of the Upper Ten Thousand to the next. “And precisely why, Miss Jarvis, were you searching for Lord Quillian?”

  “Did you never find it something of a coincidence that Reverend Earnshaw should have decided to demolish the charnel house on the north side of St. Margaret’s and discovered Sir Nigel’s body at just this moment?”

  “No,” Sebastian admitted. “But you’re right; it is something of a coincidence that it should all happen now, just when the Bishop was being considered for elevation to the Archbishopric of Canterbury—and preparing to present a Slavery Abolition Act to Parliament.”

  “You told me once that when it comes to murder, you don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “I did?”

  “You did. So I decided to drive out to Tanfield Hill this afternoon, to offer my condolences to Mrs. Earnshaw on the sad loss of her husband.”

  Sebastian turned to stare at her. “Really? And did she believe you were sincere?”

  “She did. You’re not the only one who can playact, you know.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know full well what I mean, Mr. Taylor. The woman was upset, obviously, but not disconsolate. I had no difficulty encouraging her to talk about the construction work on the church.”

  “And?”

  “She said the Reverend had been wanting to make the changes for years, only he’d been frustrated by a lack of funds—and by a lack of cooperation from the Bishop himself.”

  “Interesting. But not exactly damning.”

  “No, but listen to this: According to Mrs. Earnshaw, the Reverend was very excited because he was able to secure a private donor. After much wrestling with his conscience, he decided to simply go ahead with the construction without informing London House.”

  “Let me guess. The private donor was Quillian.”

  Her face fell. “You knew?”

  “No. But it was the obvious conclusion, given that you’re here looking for him.” He studied the dark, full sweep of her lashes, the graceful line of her long neck and bare white shoulders. “Tell me, Miss Jarvis: Why have you involved yourself in the Bishop’s death?”

  She looked away. “I told you. He was my friend.”

  “Are you certain that’s the only reason?”

  She gave a polite laugh. “What other reason could there be?”

  “I thought it might have something to do with the interesting interview I had this afternoon with Dr. Daniel McCain and his wife.”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing her blanch, although she recovered almost immediately. Miss Jarvis, it seemed, was very good at what she called “playacting.” Lifting one eyebrow in an expression that was hauntingly evocative of her father, she said airily, “Dr. McCain? You mean from the Chelsea Royal Hospital? What, pray tell, is your interest in him?”

  “I’ve discovered the Bishop of London called upon Dr. McCain and his wife the afternoon before his death.” Sebastian paused, watching her reaction. “Did you know?”

  “No,” she said smoothly. “Although I’m not surprised, given that it was Bishop Prescott who first encouraged me to look into the dreadful situation at the Royal Hospital—and who introduced me to Dr. McCain.”

  “Really? That’s interesting. Because it seems the good Bishop traveled down to Chelsea last Monday on a different errand entirely.”

  “Oh?” Her smile was that of someone who was politely puzzled. But there was a shadow of something that looked very much like fear glittering in her eyes. “And what was that, my lord?”

  He met her gaze and held it, his voice pitched low. “I think you know, Miss Jarvis.”

  Chapter 34

  She held herself very still, her lips parting as she drew in a quick, steadying breath. But her awe-inspiring composure never slipped. “I can’t think what you mean, my lord Devlin.”

  “Perhaps we should continue this conversation someplace more private,” he suggested. “May I escort you down to dinner, Miss Jarvis?”

  “I think not.” She cast a significant glance about. “We do, however, seem to be attracting an inordinate amount of attention. It might be better if you were to invite me to dance.”

  “Dance?” he repeated in something between shock and horror.

  “Why, yes.” She gave him an icy smile and extended her hand. “Thank you, my lord.”

  There was nothing for it but to escort her onto the floor, where two long lines were forming.

  They faced each other across a space of perhaps six feet, he in the gentlemen’s line, she in the ladies’. She said, “You are entirely wrong in your supposition, you know.”

  The chamber orchestra struck up, the sweet notes of the violin barely filtering through the chattering roar that filled the ballroom. The row of gentlemen bowed. The ladies sank into gracious curtsies. Sebastian had to wait until it was their turn to come together in the center of the line to whisper, “I hardly think the dance floor is the place to be having this conversation.”

  Her smile widened. “Actually, I find the setting quite appropriate, under the circumstances.”

  They circled each other back-to-back, turning counterclockwise on the jeté. He said, “You know I cannot speak freely.”

  “Really?” She threw him an evil smile over her shoulder as she swayed away. “And what would you say if you could, my lord?”

  He was forced by the movement of the dance to swing away from her, a stout man in exaggerated shirt points hissing in warning when Sebastian would have turned clockwise rather than counterclockwise. He could only glare at her from across the floor until the dance brought them together again.

  He said, “You told me there were no repercussions.”

  She slid her foot daintily to the right, bending and then rising as she drew the other up to it in a graceful glissade dessous.

  “So I did.”

  He moved behind her in the chassé. “Would you have m
e believe that your”—he broke off, searching for an appropriate word—“situation was not the subject of the Bishop’s visit to the McCains?”

  They passed, right shoulders together, her brows drawing together in mock confusion. “My ‘situation’? Whatever do you mean, my lord Devlin?”

  “Do not play the fool with me, Miss Jarvis. I know you are anything but.”

  She spun around, foot pointing straight down in an elegant sissone. “Then you should have known better than to approach me in such a milieu, shouldn’t you?”

  He needed to be moving on. The stout idiot in the high shirt points was hissing at him again. Sebastian gritted his teeth. “Do you ride in Hyde Park tomorrow morning?”

  She swayed away from him. “I think not.”

  “Then when may we continue this conversation?”

  She dipped gracefully, moving sideways. “I see no reason to continue it at any time. Your supposition—if I understand you—is incorrect.”

  He had to wait until they came together again to growl, “Would you tell me if it were correct?”

  She swung around with a curving ronde de jambe. “Of course not.”

  The music ended, Miss Jarvis sinking with the other ladies into a deep curtsy. “Good evening, my lord,” she said, and left him there, at the edge of the dance floor, feeling frustrated and angry and deeply disquieted.

  Lord Quillian was parting from a group of friends in what was known as the Jerusalem Chamber of Brooks’s gentlemen’s club when Sebastian came upon him.

  “Lord Devlin,” said the aging exquisite, resplendent in a silk evening cape and chapeau bras. “If you’ve come to join in the fleecing of this poor repentant sinner, you’re too late. I’ve decided to retire for the evening while my estates are still unencumbered.”

  There was a chorus of good-natured ribaldry from his friends. Sebastian said, “Bad round of luck at the tables?”