by C. S. Harris
`You mean, a Roman mosaic?'
`That's it. Picture of a naked fat man holding a bunch of grapes in one hand and riding a dolphin.'
`You expect me to believe you threatened a woman over a mosaic?'
Knox's lips curved into a smile, but the glitter in his eyes had become hard and dangerous. He looked to be a few years older than Sebastian, perhaps as much as thirty-three or -four. `I didn't threaten to kill her. I just told her she'd be sorry if she didn't back off. Last thing I need is some bloody bluestocking sniffing around the place. Not good for business.'
`Especially if she's sniffing around your cellars.'
Knox laughed. `Something like that, yes.'
The rifleman let his gaze drift around Sebastian's drawing room, the amusement slowly dying out of his expression. By Mayfair's standards, the Brook Street house was not large; the furnishings were elegant but neither lavish nor opulent. Yet as Sebastian watched Knox's assessing eyes take in the room's satin hangings, the delicate cane chairs near the bow window overlooking the street, the gently faded carpet, the white Carrara marble of the mantelpiece, he had no doubt that the room must appear quite differently to a rifleman from the wilds of Shropshire than it did to Sebastian, who was raised in the sprawling splendor of Hendon House in Grosvenor Square and the halls and manors of the Earl's various estates across Britain.
`Nice place you got here,' said Knox, his accent unusually pronounced.
`Thank you.'
`I hear you got married just last week.'
`I did, yes.'
`Married the daughter of Lord Jarvis himself.'
`Yes.'
The two men's gazes met, and held.
`Congratulations,' said Knox. Setting aside his empty glass, he reached for the black hat he had rested on a nearby table and settled it on his head at a rakish angle. Then he gave a faintly mocking bow. `My lord.'
Sebastian stood at the bowed front windows of his drawing room and watched Jamie Knox descend the front steps and stroll off down the street. It was like watching a shadowy doppelganger of himself.
Or a brother.
Sebastian was still standing at the window some moments later when a familiar yellow-bodied carriage drew up. He watched Hero descend the coach steps with her usual grace and then enter the house.
She came into the room pulling off a pair of soft yellow kid gloves that she tossed on one of the cane chairs. `Ah, good,' she said. `You're finally up.'
`I do generally try to make it out of bed before nightfall,' he said.
He was rewarded with a soft huff of laughter.
Today she wore an elegant carriage gown of emerald satin trimmed with rows of pintucks down the skirt and a spray of delicate yellow roses embroidered on each sleeve. She yanked at the emerald ribbons that tied her velvet hat beneath her chin and tossed the hat onto the chair with her gloves. `I've just come from an interesting conversation with Mary Bourne.'
`Who?'
`Mrs. Bourne. She's sister to both Charles Tennyson d'Eyncourt and the Reverend Tennyson, the father of the two missing boys.'
Sebastian frowned. He had a vague recollection of d'Eyncourt mentioning a sister staying with him. `Is she like her brother d'Eyncourt?'
`Oh, no; she's far worse. She's a saint, you know.'
Sebastian laughed out loud.
`No, it's true; I mean that quite literally. She's a Calvinist. You can have no notion of the misery it brings her, knowing that she alone can look forward to the joys awaiting her in heaven whilst the vast majority of her family is doomed to suffer the everlasting torments of hell.'
`She actually told you that?'
`She did. Personally, I suspect she derives enormous satisfaction from the comfortable conviction that she is one of the chosen elite while everyone around her is doomed to burn. But then, self-perception is not one of her strong suits.'
Sebastian leaned back against the windowsill, his arms crossed at his chest, his gaze on his wife's face. Her eyes were sparkling and a faint flush rode high on her cheekbones. He found himself smiling. `So why did you go see her? Or were you looking for d'Eyncourt?'
`No. I knew d'Eyncourt would be at Westminster. I wanted to talk to Mary Bourne alone. You see, I've been puzzled by the arithmetic.' Hero sank into one of the chairs beside the empty hearth. `D'Eyncourt told you he is his father's heir, right? Except, d'Eyncourt is only twenty-eight, while little George Tennyson, the elder of the missing boys, is nine years old. That means that if d'Eyncourt's brother were indeed a younger son, he would need to have sired his own son at the tender age of seventeen. Obviously possible, but unlikely, given that he is in holy orders.'
`So what did you discover?'
`That the boys father is actually thirty-four years old.'
Sebastian pushed away from the window. `You're certain?'
`Are you suggesting the woman might have mistaken the ages of her own brothers? D'Eyncourt is the baby of the family. He's younger than his brother by a full six years.'
The bells of the abbey were tolling seven when d'Eyncourt emerged from Westminster Hall and turned toward Parliament Street. The setting sun soaked the ancient buildings with a rich tea-colored light and cast long shadows across the paving.
Sebastian fell into step beside him.
The MP cast a quick look at Sebastian, then glanced away without slackening his pace. There was neither surprise nor puzzlement on his smoothly handsome features. `I've just received a note from my sister Mary, telling me she enjoyed a visit from Lady Devlin this afternoon. My sister is an earnest but guileless woman. As such she is frequently slow to see the subterfuge in others. It wasn't until some time after Lady Devlin's departure that my sister began to ponder the direction their conversation had taken.'
Sebastian showed his teeth in a smile. `Ah, yes; Lady Devlin is quite practiced in the arts of guile and subterfuge, is she not?'
D'Eyncourt pressed his lips together and kept walking.
Sebastian said, `And once Mrs. Bourne realized the indiscretions of her talkative tongue, she immediately sat down and dashed off a note to her baby brother warning him... What, exactly? That you were about to be caught out in a very telling lie?'
D'Eyncourt drew up at the edge of the Privy Gardens and turned to face him, a slim, elegant man with a smug air of self-assurance. `I never claimed to be my father's firstborn. I simply told you that I am his heir. And that is the truth.'
`His only heir?'
`Yes.'
`How can that be?'
D'Eyncourt's thin nostrils quivered with indignation. `That is none of your affair.'
Sebastian advanced on him, backing the dandified parliamentarian up until his shoulders slammed against the rough stone wall behind him. `Gabrielle Tennyson's death made it my affair, you god damned, pompous, self-congratulatory son of a bitch. A woman is dead and two innocent little boys are missing. If you know anything anything that can help make sense of what has happened to them...'
`I am not afraid of you,' said d'Eyncourt, his Adam s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed.
`You should be.'
`You can't accost me in the streets! What are you imagining? That those two children stand between me and my father's wealth? Well, you are wrong. My father disinherited my older brother and made me his sole heir when I was six years old. Why else do you suppose my brother took holy orders and now serves as a rector? Because that is his future! Everything my father owns - the estates, the investments - all will in due time pass to me.'
`I can think of only one reason for a man to disinherit his twelve-year-old son and make his youngest child his sole heir.'
Two bright spots of color appeared on d'Eyncourt's cheeks. `If you are suggesting that my brother was disinherited because he is... because he is not my brother, then let me tell you right now that you are sadly mistaken. My brother was disinherited because by the time he reached the beginnings of puberty it had become obvious to our father that his health and temperament were totally unsuited
for the position which would be required of him.'
`But not unsuited to his becoming a rector?'
D'Eyncourt stared back at him. `The requirements of the two callings are utterly dissimilar.'
`So tell me,' said Sebastian, `how has your brother adjusted to having a fortune of some half a million pounds wrested from his grasp?'
`He was, naturally, somewhat aggrieved...'
`Aggrieved?'
`Aggrieved. But he has with time grown more accustomed to his situation.'
`As an impoverished rector at Somersby?'
`Just so.'
Sebastian took a step back.
D'Eyncourt made a show of adjusting his cravat and straightening the set of his coat. `I can understand how it might be difficult for someone of your background to understand, but you must remember that my family's wealth while substantial is only recently acquired. Hence the rules of primogeniture do not apply. My father is free to leave his property as he sees fit.'
`True,' said Sebastian. `But it occurs to me that if your father could change his will once, he is obviously free to do so again - in favor of his two grandsons, this time.'
D'Eyncourt stiffened. `If you mean to suggest...'
`The suggestion is there, whether it is put into words or not,' said Sebastian, and turned away.
Sebastian arrived back at Brook Street to be told that Lady Devlin had already departed for a musical evening in the company of her mother, Lady Jarvis.
`However,' said Morey, bowing slightly, `I believe Calhoun has been most particular to have a word with you.'
`Has he? Then send him up,' said Sebastian, heading for the stairs.
`Well?' asked Sebastian when Calhoun slipped into the dressing room a few minutes later. `Find anything?'
`Not as much as I had hoped, my lord,' said Calhoun, going to lay out Sebastian's evening dress. `From what I have been able to ascertain, Mr. Knox arrived in London just three years ago. He used to be with the 145th Rifles but was discharged when his unit was reduced after Corunna.'
`So he actually was a rifleman.'
`He was, my lord. In fact, he's famous for having killed some bigwig Frenchy by shooting the man off his horse at some seven hundred yards. And I'm told he can shoot the head off a running rabbit at more than three hundred yards.' Calhoun paused a moment, then added, `In the dark.'
Sebastian looked up from unbuttoning his shirt. `How did he end up in possession of the Black Devil?'
`Reports differ. Some say he took to the High Toby for a time before he either won the tavern at the roll of the dice or killed the previous owner.' Taking to the High Toby was slang for becoming a highwayman. Or perhaps both.
`He seems very sensitive about his cellars.'
`That's not surprising, given the nature of some of his associates.'
`Oh? And who might they be?'
`The name that came up most frequently was Yates. Russell Yates.'
Chapter 22
Sebastian waited beyond the light cast by the flickering oil lamp at the head of the lane. The theater was still closed for the summer, but rehearsals for the upcoming season were already under way. The dark street rang with the laughter of the departing troupe.
He kept his gaze on the stage door.
The night was warm, the wind a soft caress scented by oranges and a thousand bittersweet memories. He heard the stage door open, watched a woman and two men walk toward the street. The woman paused for a moment beneath the streetlight, caught up in conversation with her fellow players. The dancing flame from the oil lamp glinted on the auburn highlights in her thick, dark hair and flickered seductively over the familiar, beloved planes of her face. She had her head thrown back, lost in laughter at one of her friends remarks. Then she stilled suddenly, her head turning, her eyes widening in a useless attempt to probe the darkness. And Sebastian knew she had sensed his presence and that the bond between them that had existed all these years, while weakened, had not broken.
Her name was Kat Boleyn, and she was the most celebrated actress of the London stage. Once, she had been the love of Sebastian's life. Once, he had thought to grow old with her at his side, and to hell with the shocked mutterings of society and the outraged opposition of his father... of the Earl of Hendon, he reminded himself. Then an ugly tangle of lies and an even uglier truth had intervened. Now Kat was married to a flamboyant ex-privateer named Russell Yates, a man with a secret, forbidden passion for his own gender and shadowy ties to the smugglers and agents who plied the channel between England and Napoléon's France.
Sebastian watched her say good night to her friends and walk up to him. She wore an ivory silk cloak thrown over her shoulders, the hood thrust back in a way that framed her face. He said, `You shouldn't walk alone at night.'
`Because of these latest murders, you mean?' She turned to stroll beside him up Hart Street. The pavement was crowded with richly harnessed horses and elegant carriages, their swaying lamps filling the air with the scent of hot oil. `Gibson tells me you have involved yourself in the investigation.' He watched her eyebrows pinch together in a worried frown as she said it, for she knew him well. She knew the price he paid with each descent into the dark world of fear and hatred, greed and despair, that inevitably swirled around a murder. Yet even though she knew, intellectually, what drove him to it, she could never quite understand his need to do what he did.
He said, `Don't worry about me.'
A smile lit her eyes. `Yet you are free to worry about me?' The smile faded as she paused to turn toward him, her gaze searching. She had deeply set eyes, thickly lashed and of a uniquely intense blue that she had inherited from her natural father, the Earl of Hendon. And every time he looked into them, he knew a searing pain that was like a dagger thrust to the heart.
She said, `You're not here for the sake of auld lang syne, Sebastian; what is it?'
`I'm told Yates has dealings with a tavern owner named Jamie Knox.'
She sucked in a quick breath that jerked her chest. It was an unusual betrayal for an actress who could normally control her every look, every tone, her every word and movement.
He said, `Obviously, you know Knox as well. What can you tell me about him?'
`Very little, actually. He is an intensely private person, cold and dangerous. Most people who know him are afraid of him. It's an aura he cultivates.'
`You met him through Yates?'
`Yes.' She hesitated, then asked, `He is involved in this murder? How?'
`He was seen arguing with Gabrielle Tennyson several days before she was killed. He claims it was over a Roman mosaic.'
`You don't believe him?'
`No. But I don't understand how he fits into anything else I've learned, either.'
`I'll see what I can find out.' The door to a tavern near the corner opened, spilling light and voices and laughter into the street. `Has Knox seen you?'
`Why do you ask?'
Her gaze met his. `You know why.'
They had reached the arch where her carriage awaited. Sebastian said, `A few weeks ago, I met a man in Chelsea who told me I reminded him of a highwayman who'd once held up his carriage on Hounslow Heath.'
`You believe that was Knox?'
`I'm told he took to the High Toby for a time after he left the Rifles. I wouldn't want to think there are three of us walking around.'
He said it lightly, but his words drew no answering smile from her. She said, `I know you've had men on the Continent, searching for your mother. Have they found her?'
`No.'
`You can't simply let it go, Sebastian?'
He searched her pale, beloved face. `All those years when you didn't know the identity of your father, if you thought you had the truth within reach, could you have let it go?'
`Yes.' She did smile then, a sweet, sad smile.
`But then, my demons are different from yours.' Reaching up on tiptoe, she brushed her lips against his cheek, then turned away. `Good night, Sebastian. Keep yourself safe.'
&
nbsp; He walked down increasingly empty streets. The sky above was dark and starless, the air close; the oil lamps mounted high on the dark, looming walls of the tightly packed, grimy brick houses and shops flickered with his passing. At one point he was aware of two men falling into step behind him. He tightened his grip on the walking stick he carried tucked beneath one arm. But they melted away down a noisome side alley, their footfalls echoing softly into the night.
He walked on, rounding the corner toward Long Street. He could hear the thin, reedy wail of a babe somewhere in the distance, the jingle of an off-tune piano, the rattle of carriage wheels passing in the next block. And from the murky shadows of a narrow passageway up ahead came a soft whisper.
`C'est lui.'
He drew up just as the same two men burst from the passage and fanned out to take up positions, one in front of him, the other to his rear. Whirling, Sebastian saw the glint of a knife in the hand of one; the other, a big, fair-haired man in dark trousers and high leather boots, carried a cudgel he slapped tauntingly against his left palm.
`Watch!' shouted Sebastian as the man raised the club over his head. `Watch, I say!'
Before the man could bring the club down, Sebastian rushed him, the walking stick whistling through the air toward the assailant's head. The man threw up his left arm, blocking Sebastian's blow at the last instant. The impact shattered the ebony shaft of the walking stick, shearing it off some eight inches from Sebastian's fist. But the shock of the unexpected counterattack was enough to send the man staggering back. He lost his footing and went down.
His companion growled, `Bâtard!
`Watch!' shouted Sebastian again, swinging around just as the second man - smaller, leaner, darker than his companion - lunged, his knife held in an underhanded grip.
Sebastian tried to parry the man's thrust with the broken shaft of the walking stick and felt the blade slip off the wood to slice along his forearm. Then the man on the ground closed his hands around Sebastian's ankle and yanked.
Lurching backward, Sebastian stumbled over the fallen man and went down, bruising his hip on a loose cobblestone as he rolled. Swearing long and hard, he grabbed the cobblestone as he surged up onto his knees.