by C. S. Harris
The edge of the oar’s blade caught the boatman just below the ear, the impact making a dull thwunk. With a sharp cry he pitched sideways. His body hit the water with a splash that sprayed through the air and set the scull to tipping violently.
The sharp movement brought Sebastian to his knees again. He freed one of the scull’s oars and brought it up, driving the tip of the handle like a blunt lance into the second boatman’s chest, just as he swung again.
The oar’s tip caught the man at the junction of his ribs. He was a small man, with longish blond hair and the thin, effete face of a gentleman. For one brief instant, his gaze met Sebastian’s. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled off the scull’s prow with a splash.
His breath coming in quick gasps, Sebastian fit the oar back into place. They were near enough by now to Westminster Bridge that he could see its lights reflected in the black waters of the river. He heard the voice of the scull’s oarsman, raised in panic. “Help! I cain’t swim.”
The worn wood of the oars felt smooth beneath his hands as Sebastian settled into place. Pausing, he glanced over at the oarsman’s bobbing head. “Who hired you?”
“Bloody ’ell. Throw me a line. I cain’t swim.”
“Then I suggest you save your breath,” said Sebastian, leaning into his oars.
Swearing loudly, the boatman called after him, “The yellow-headed bloke in the greatcoat. ’E ’ired me. I dunno who he is.”
Sebastian scanned the gently heaving waters. The blond-headed man in the dark greatcoat had disappeared.
The boatman’s voice came again. “Oy. Ye gonna throw me a line?”
“Here.” Sebastian nudged the dinghy’s floating oar toward the floundering man. “I suggest you use it to remove yourself from the vicinity. The Thames Patrol doesn’t tend to look kindly on boatmen who try to murder their fares.”
Chapter 52
Kat watched Devlin peel off his shirt, the soft light from the brace of candles beside her bedroom washstand glazing the skin of his neck and back with gold as he bowed his head to study the smears of foul-smelling muck on the fine cloth of his evening coat. “Bloody hell. If this keeps up, my valet is going to succumb to a fit of the vapors. Or quit.”
Coming up behind him, Kat ran her hand across his bare shoulders, her fingertips gentling as she traced a long bruise there, just beginning to show purple. “It’s taking a toll on your body, as well.”
Tossing the ruined coat aside, he pivoted to draw her into his arms. “At least nothing vital has been damaged,” he said with a hint of laughter.
“They meant to kill you tonight.”
He nibbled at the tender flesh behind her ear. “I think the idea was to have my body wash ashore somewhere around Greenwich.”
She drew back so that she could look up at him. “But why? Why do these people want you dead?”
He shrugged. “They obviously think I know more about this conspiracy than I do.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps they’re simply afraid of what you might learn.” She pulled away and went to get him a brandy. “Who’s behind it, do you think?”
“Even Jarvis doesn’t know.” He poured water from the pitcher into the bowl and bent to splash his face. “It’s bigger than any one man—or even a score. Something like this needs a broad base of support if it’s to have any chance of success.”
“Yet someone must be at its core.”
He nodded. “The Whigs would seem the most likely candidates. They spent the last twenty years expecting Prinny to sweep them back to power, only now he’s been made Regent and the Tory government is still firmly in place. The problem is, I can’t see the more radical Whigs risking their lives simply to replace one dynasty of spoiled, crowned fools with another. Why not do away with the monarchy altogether?”
“You mean like the French?” said Kat with a wry smile.
“I was thinking more about the American model.” He straightened and reached for a towel. “The Tories would make better suspects, except that they’re already in power, and will likely stay there for another twenty years or more. So why would they want to get rid of Prinny?”
“Especially when moving against the Hanovers might very well set in motion precisely the kind of popular movement the Tories fear the most,” said Kat, thinking about what Aiden O’Connell had said that morning in Chelsea.
He glanced over at her. “You mean a revolution?”
“Or a civil war.”
“I doubt they’d see the danger. Not men with the kind of hubris required to plot to overthrow a dynasty. It’s probably never occurred to them just how easily they could lose control of everything.”
“But what does any of this have to do with the death of Lady Anglessey?”
“I wish I knew.” Devlin tossed the towel aside. “I suppose she might simply have stumbled across something, the way Tom did in the alley behind the Norfolk Arms. Or…’’ He hesitated.
“Or she could have been involved in it herself,” said Kat, handing him the brandy.
He took a sip and looked up to meet her gaze. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”
Kat was thoughtful for a moment, remembering what else Aiden O’Connell had said, about a Stuart restoration leading to peace with France. Alain Varden was half-French.
“The Chevalier de Varden,” she said suddenly. “What are his political inclinations?”
“As far as I can tell, he has none—or at least none he’s made known. His brother-in-law, Portland, is obviously a Tory, as is Morgana’s husband, Lord Quinlan. But then, most men of birth and property are Tories—including Anglessey. And my own father.” Devlin went silent for a moment, the glass of brandy held forgotten in his hand.
“What is it?”
“When I saw Varden this afternoon at Angelo’s, he told me Guinevere wanted to leave Anglessey. That she was afraid of him.”
“Afraid? Why?”
“He said Anglessey killed his first wife.”
“Is that possible?”
“I’d heard his first wife died in childbirth. I was on my way to Mount Street to ask him about it when Lovejoy caught up with me this afternoon.”
“What are you suggesting? That Guinevere somehow found out about her husband’s involvement with the Stuarts and was afraid he’d kill her to keep her quiet? But…surely she wouldn’t betray her own husband. Would she?”
Devlin brought up one hand to rub his forehead, and she realized just how tired he was. Tired and frustrated. “Obviously, I’m still missing something. Something important.”
Slipping her arms around his waist, Kat pressed her body close to his. She would never be his wife, but she could know the joy of holding him, of loving him and being loved by him. She told herself that was enough. For his sake, it would have to be enough. “You’ll find it,” she said, her voice low and husky. “If anyone can, you will. Now come to bed.”
SHE AWOKE BEFORE DAWN to find the place beside her cold and empty. She turned her head, her gaze searching the room.
He was standing beside the window, one of the heavy drapes pulled back so that he could look out upon the gradually lightening street. He was turned half away from her so that all she could see was his profile, and he had his head bent, as if he gazed not at the street below but at something he held in his hand. It wasn’t until she slipped from beneath the covers and went to curl her arms around his shoulders that she realized he held his mother’s bluestone necklace, the silver chain threaded through the fingers of one hand.
“What is it?” she asked, nuzzling his neck. “What’s wrong?”
He reached back his free hand to cup her head in his palm and draw her around to him. “Amanda came to see me last night.”
“Lady Wilcox?” said Kat in surprise. As far as Kat knew, Devlin’s sister hadn’t spoken to him since February.
“She’s concerned that my unusual activities might harm her daughter’s chances of contracting a successful alliance. She wanted to know what had possessed me to
do something so plebian as to take part in a murder investigation.”
“You told her about the necklace?”
“Yes.” He held up the necklace so that the triskelion swung slowly on its chain, tracing a short arc through the darkness. “She was puzzled, but not surprised.”
Kat studied the shadowed lines and angles of his profile, but he had all his emotions locked away someplace where she couldn’t see them. “Perhaps the implications escaped her.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a tight smile. “Oh, no. Amanda is nothing if not quick. She might have been puzzled that my mother would give up something she’d always held dear, but it never occurred to her to question what happened that day off the coast of Brighton.”
Kat drew in a deep breath. “What are you saying, Sebastian?”
He turned his head to look directly at her, and for one unguarded moment she saw it all—the bewildered mingling of anger and hurt, confusion and pain. “Amanda knows. She’s always known.” He let out a soft huff of laughter that held no humor. “That pleasure outing—the sinking of the yacht—it was all for show. My mother didn’t drown that summer. She simply left. She left my father and she left me. But she didn’t die.”
His hand closed over the necklace, his knuckles showing white in the first light of dawn. “She didn’t die.”
Chapter 53
Amanda was seated at her breakfast table, the Morning Post spread out beside her plate, when her brother strolled unannounced into the room. She didn’t look up.
The Countess of Hendon’s silver-and-bluestone necklace hit the newsprint beside her, the unexpected slap startling her enough that it was only with effort that she avoided flinching.
Holding herself composed, she lifted her gaze to Devlin’s. The blaze of emotion she saw there was so raw and powerful that her gaze veered away again before she could quite stop it.
“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” he said.
Amanda drew in a deep, steadying breath and defiantly stared into his terrible yellow eyes. “Yes.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since that summer.”
He nodded, as if she’d only confirmed what he’d already suspected. “And Hendon?”
“He knows, of course. He has known from the very beginning. He helped to arrange it.”
She saw a flicker of—what? Surprise? Pain?—in the depths of those strange, animalistic eyes. “And why wasn’t I told?”
Amanda gave him a wide, malicious smile. “I suggest you ask Hendon.”
IT WASN’T OFTEN Sebastian allowed his thoughts to drift back to that long-ago summer, the summer before he turned twelve. It had been hot, days of unrelenting blue sky and a sizzling golden sun that turned the crops to dust in the fields. Wells that had never failed in a hundred years or more ran dry.
The Countess of Hendon had spent most of that spring and summer at the family’s principal seat in Cornwall. His mother loved London, loved the excitement and mental stimulation of the political salons as much as the endless round of balls, breakfasts, and shopping expeditions that occupied most women. But Hendon considered London an unhealthy place for women and children, especially when the streets turned dry and dusty and the air hung close. His involvement in affairs of state might keep Hendon himself tied to Whitehall and St. James’s Palace, but that year he insisted that his wife retire to Cornwall, and that Sebastian and his brother Cecil join her there when they came down from Eton.
Sebastian tried to recall how Sophie had occupied herself that summer, but his memories were of tramping the fields and woods with Cecil and swimming in the forbidden cove below the cliffs. In his recollections, she was an atypically distant figure seen riding out each morning on her neat bay hack. He had one clear image of an afternoon’s tea served on the sun-splashed terrace, Sophie’s smile bright yet still somehow…distant. And then, in July, the family had gone to spend the month in Brighton.
Sophie adored Brighton, reveling in the concerts on the Steyne and the balls at the Castle and Ship. But that year, even Brighton was hot and dusty, and crowded with those anxious to escape from the stifling, unhealthy interior. Hendon grumbled that Brighton had grown as foul and noisome as London, and threatened to send the Countess and their sons back to Cornwall. The Countess alternately stormed and wept, begging to be allowed to stay.
And so they had stayed, until the morning in mid-July when Sebastian’s brother Cecil awoke flushed and feverish. By nightfall he had become delirious. The best doctors were called in all the way from London. They shook their heads and prescribed bloodletting and calomel, but Cecil’s fever continued to climb. Two days later he was dead, and Sebastian found himself the new Viscount Devlin, his father’s only surviving son and heir.
There followed tense weeks filled with loud voices and angry accusations. But whenever he was around Sebastian, Hendon kept a strange, tight silence. It was as if he couldn’t comprehend why Fate had taken his first- and second-born sons and left him only the youngest, the one least like their father.
For Sebastian, those days remained a painful blur. But he could remember quite clearly the sunny morning Sophie Hendon sailed away on what was supposed to have been a simple day’s outing with friends.
And never came back.
THE PAIN OF THAT SUMMER fueled Sebastian’s anger now as he took the steps to his father’s house on Grosvenor Square.
He found Hendon in the entrance hall, headed for the stairs. The Earl was dressed in breeches and top boots, his crop in one hand, and it was obvious he’d only just come in from his morning ride. “What is it?” he asked, his gaze on Sebastian’s face.
Sebastian crossed the hall to throw open the door to the library. “This is a conversation we need to have in private.”
Hendon hesitated, then came away from the stairs. “Very well.” He walked into the room and tossed his crop on the desk as Sebastian closed the door. “Now, what is it?”
“When were you planning to tell me the truth about my mother?”
Hendon swung around, his expression guarded and wary. “Which truth is that?”
“Bloody hell.” Sebastian let out his breath in a sharp, humorless laugh. “Are there so many lies? I mean the truth about what happened seventeen years ago in Brighton. Or should I say, what didn’t happen. Is she still alive today? Or do you even know?”
Hendon held himself very still, as if carefully considering his answer. “Who told you?”
“Does it matter? You should have told me yourself—long before I asked you about the necklace.”
Hendon blew out a long, slow breath. “I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
The Earl drew his pipe from a drawer, his movements slow and deliberate as he filled the bowl with tobacco and tamped it down with his thumb. “She’s still alive,” he said after a moment. “Or at least she was as of last August. Every year she delivers to my banker a letter briefly detailing the major political and military events of the previous twelve months. Once we have proof she still lives, I send her annual stipend.”
Sebastian was aware of a fine trembling going on inside him. He couldn’t have said if the discovery Sophie still lived, after seventeen years of his thinking her dead, brought him relief or only fueled his rage. “You pay her? Why? To stay away?”
“It’s not such an unusual arrangement. Couples who can no longer live together frequently agree to live apart. Look at the Duke and Duchess of York.”
“The Duchess of York didn’t fake her own death.”
Hendon went to kindle a taper and hold it to his pipe. “Your mother…she was involved with another man. For her to have lived with him openly here in England would have ruined my standing in the government. She agreed to go abroad in return for my granting her an annual stipend.”
Sebastian was silent for a moment. Had there been a man that summer—a special man? Impossible to remember. There were always men around Sophie Hendon. “Why didn’t you simply divorce her?” he said aloud
, searching his father’s heavily featured face. “What does she have on you?”
Hendon met his gaze and held it. “Nothing I intend to tell you.”
“My God. And the necklace?”
“I honestly don’t know how Guinevere Anglessey came to be wearing that necklace. I suppose it’s possible your mother gave it to someone over the years.”
Sebastian doubted it. Sophie Hendon had never been a particularly superstitious woman, but she had believed in that necklace and in its power. “Where is she now?”
Hendon sucked on his pipe, kindling the tobacco. “Venice. Or at any rate, that’s where I send the money. The acquaintances she went out with that day—the ones who helped coordinate the accident—they were Venetians.”
The air filled with the sweet smell of burning tobacco. Sebastian stood at one of the long windows overlooking the square. “All those years,” he said, half to himself, “all those years of missing her, of mourning her…and it was all a lie.” He was aware of his father coming to stand behind him, although he didn’t turn his head.
“If she could have taken you with her,” said Hendon, his voice gruff, “I think she would have. Of all her children, I always thought her love for you was the most intense.”
Sebastian shook his head, his gaze on the scene outside the window. A boy and a girl of ten or twelve were running with a hoop, their laughing voices carrying lightly on the morning breeze. He’d had that sense himself, growing up. Sophie Hendon had loved all her children, but until today Sebastian would have said he’d held a special place in her heart. Yet she had left him.
He was aware of a yawning inner ache that twisted his guts and brought a bitter taste to his mouth. A heavy silence stretched between them, a silence Sebastian ended by slamming one hand down on the sill and swinging away from the window to face his father again. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me the truth? You let me think she was dead. Every day, I went up on those cliffs looking for her. Hoping it was all a mistake and I’d see her come sailing home. But in the end I gave up. I believed what you had told me. And it was all a bloody lie!”