by C. S. Harris
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Mr. Darcy.”
Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
She let the cat go and smiled as he jumped down in disgust. “Then you must read the book.”
Chapter 22
Wednesday, 24 March
T he next morning, Sebastian was standing on the corner of Henrietta Street, his gaze drifting over the facade of Henry Austen’s bank, when a tall, slim man in a neatly tailored blue coat and high-crowned beaver hat emerged from the bank’s entrance and walked across the street toward him.
He looked to be in his early forties, with a long face and aristocratic nose and a military carriage that lingered still. His small, thin mouth curled up in a pleasant smile that was probably habitual, and he looked enough like his sister that Sebastian had no difficulty identifying him.
“I thought I’d save my clerk the trauma of another visit from you and simply come out,” said Henry Austen, drawing up before him.
“Was he traumatized?” asked Sebastian as the two men turned to walk along Bedford Street, toward the Strand and Fleet Street.
“He likes to pretend he is, at any rate.” Austen threw him a swift, sideways glance. “My sister warned me to expect a visit from either you or Bow Street. Am I a suspect?”
“Bow Street thinks you are.”
Austen pressed his lips together and drew in a deep breath that flared his nostrils. “It’s because of that blasted incident in the pub the other night, is it?”
“Is there another reason Bow Street should suspect you?”
“Good God, no.”
They paused at a side street to allow a collier’s wagon to lumber past.
“Why, precisely, did you quarrel?” Sebastian asked. He’d already listened to Jane Austen’s explanation, but he wanted to hear her brother’s version.
“I don’t know if I’d describe it as a quarrel, exactly. Preston was already furious when he walked into the pub. If you ask me, he was looking for someone on whom to unload some spleen, and I was simply there.”
“What was he angry about?”
“The crushing of his grand ambition of seeing his daughter married to a title, I suppose. Jane told you about Anne, didn’t she?”
“She did. Although I must admit I find it hard to believe Preston would be so enraged simply because your wife expressed regrets over something she said six years ago.”
“Yes, well . . .” Austen put up a hand to scratch his ear. “The thing is, I didn’t exactly tell my sister everything. I mean, Preston was angry because of what Eliza had said. But he was also furious with Jane.”
“For what?”
“For ‘encouraging Anne’s romantic notions,’ was the way he put it. You see, before Captain Wyeth reappeared in town, Anne was on the verge of accepting an offer from Sir Galen Knightly.”
Sebastian was familiar with Sir Galen. A prosperous if somewhat lackluster baronet, he was ten years older than Sebastian—which would make him nearly twenty years older than Anne Preston. “And your sister discouraged the match?”
“Oh, no—at least, not intentionally. It’s just that Anne likes to read romance novels.”
“And Miss Austen gave her novels?”
The banker drew his chin back into his cravat and fiddled self-consciously with the buttons of his coat. “Well . . . yes.”
Sebastian watched Austen’s gaze slide away. The man obviously needed to take lessons in lying from someone with Priss Mulligan’s talents. Although why he should be anything less than honest about his sister’s involvement in Anne Preston’s reading material escaped Sebastian entirely.
Sebastian said, “How well did you know Preston?”
“I’ve known him for years, although the real friendship was between our wives.”
“Any idea what he might have been doing at Bloody Bridge on a rainy Sunday night?”
“I suppose it’s possible he decided to go for a walk after leaving the pub. He’d worked himself up into quite a rage. Perhaps he realized he needed to cool off.”
“I understand he had something of a temper.”
“He did, yes. Although I’ve known worse. Much worse, actually. He was a man of strong passions who sometimes allowed his emotions to override his sense. But there was no real harm in him.”
There was no real harm in him. Austen’s words almost exactly echoed those of his sister. And Sebastian found himself wondering why both Austens had felt compelled to make such similar observations.
He said, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”
“No. But then, as I said, we weren’t exactly intimates.”
“Did you ever hear him mention a man named Oliphant?”
“Who?”
“Sinclair, Lord Oliphant. He was until recently the governor of Jamaica.”
Austen thought about it, but shook his head. “Sorry. You might try talking to Sir Galen Knightly. He owns plantations in Jamaica too, you know. And unlike Preston, he’s quite a steady fellow. My sister Jane calls him Colonel Brandon.”
“Colonel Brandon? Why?”
Austen glanced down, his eyes crinkling as if at a private joke. “I suppose you’ve never read Sense and Sensibility?”
“By the author of this new novel everyone is talking about? No.”
“Ah. Well, there’s a character in it—a Colonel Brandon—a staid, older man in love with a much younger woman, who herself prefers a younger, more romantic figure.”
“And Sir Galen Knightly reminds your sister of this character?”
“He does, yes. I don’t think Sir Galen was ever dashing, even when young.”
“Unlike Captain Wyeth.”
The amusement faded from Austen’s face, leaving him looking serious and troubled. “Jane worries that Wyeth may well be another Willoughby or Wickham.”
“Excuse me?” said Sebastian.
“The dastardly fellows in Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice.”
“She thinks Wyeth is dastardly?”
“Not exactly; it’s more that she worries he could be. Have you met him? He’s quite handsome and charming.”
“I didn’t realize such attributes were considered a bad thing.”
Austen gave a soft laugh. “Jane would tell you that handsome, charming young men without fortune should always be considered suspect, particularly when showering attentions on fair maidens of good family.”
“I’m told Miss Preston is not well dowered.”
“I suppose that depends on your standards. She’s no great heiress, certainly. But she has a small portion from her mother in addition to what she’ll get from Preston.”
“I was under the impression Preston had entailed his estates to the male line.”
“He did, yes; but I believe Anne stands to inherit some five thousand pounds invested in the Funds.”
“Now that Preston is dead,” said Sebastian.
Austen drew up and swung to face him. “Surely you don’t think Wyeth—” He broke off, as if unwilling to put the suggestion into words.
Sebastian paused beside him. “If not Wyeth, then who? Who do you think killed Preston?”
Austen shook his head. “I would hope I don’t number amongst my acquaintances anyone capable of such barbarity.”
“Yet Preston obviously did. Whether he realized it or not.”
Austen puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled a long breath. “You’re right, of course. Although I must admit, it’s troubling even to think about.” He looked out over the wide gray expanse of the river cut by the newly constructed arches of what would eventually be the Strand Bridge. “Try talking to Sir Galen. They’d been friends since Knightly was a lad. He’d be far more likely to know if the man had recently acquired a dangerous enemy. You’ll find him in his club�
��s reading room, this time of day.”
“Which club?”
“White’s, of course. He’s there every day from four until five. And he dines at Stevens every Wednesday and Sunday at half past six. He’s quite the creature of habit.”
Sebastian studied the banker’s long, scholarly face. That gentle, good-humored smile was firmly back in place. Yet there was an evasiveness, a lack of directness to his gaze, that was hard to miss. And Sebastian couldn’t escape the feeling that, like his sister, Henry Austen was hiding something.
He thanked the banker and started to turn away, only to pause and say, “Was Preston carrying anything when he came into the pub that night?”
Austen looked puzzled. “Such as what?”
“A strip of thin, old lead, about eighteen inches long. Or perhaps a larger, wrapped package or satchel of some kind?”
Austen thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “No, he couldn’t have been.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. I remember quite clearly; he came in with his arms held stiffly at his sides and his fists clenched. He couldn’t have been carrying anything.”
Chapter 23
S ir Galen Knightly was seated in one of the red bucket chairs in White’s reading room when Sebastian walked up to him. A cup of tea rested on the table beside him, and he was engrossed in his newspaper’s account of the previous evening’s session at the House of Lords.
Sebastian doubted anyone had ever described Sir Galen as dashing, or even handsome. But he was not an unattractive man, despite his angular, somewhat bladelike features. Although he was now in his early forties, his frame was still strong and solid, his dark hair little touched by gray. His clothes were those of a prosperous country gentleman, tailored for comfort rather than style, as sober and serious as the man himself.
According to gossip, Knightly’s father had been a notorious rake, a member of the infamous Hellfire Club well-known about London for his drunken excesses and addiction to deep play. It often seemed to Sebastian that Sir Galen lived his life as if determined to prove to the world that his character was not that of his scandalous father. Where the father had been profligate and intemperate, boisterous and careless, the son was steady, sober, and serious. Eschewing gaming hells, the track, and London’s ruinously expensive highfliers, he devoted himself to scholarship and the careful management of his estates, in both Hertfordshire and Jamaica. He had married, once, when young. But his wife died in childbirth, leaving him heartbroken and—if possible—more serious than ever.
At Sebastian’s approach, he looked up, his features set in grave lines.
“Do you mind?” asked Sebastian, indicating the nearby chair.
“No; not at all.” Sir Galen folded his newspaper and set it aside. “I take it you’re here about Preston?”
Sebastian settled into the chair and ordered a glass of burgundy. “I’m told you knew him well.”
“I did, yes. His largest plantation in Jamaica lies between the land I inherited from my great-uncle and that of my mother’s family.”
“Have you spent much time there? In Jamaica, I mean.”
Sir Galen reached for his tea and took a small sip. “I have, yes. After the death of my grandfather, I was sent to the island to live with my uncle. I find I miss it if I’m away from it too long.”
Something of Sebastian’s thoughts must have shown on his face, because Sir Galen said, “I’m told you’re a rather outspoken abolitionist.”
“Yes.”
Sir Galen stared down at the delicately patterned china cup in his hands, then set it aside. “It’s a dreadful institution. I don’t care what the Bible says; I can’t believe we were meant to own our fellow beings as if they were nothing more than cattle and horses.”
“Yet you do.”
“I do, yes; by the hundreds. I inherited them, the same way I inherited Knightly Hall in Hertfordshire and the money my grandfather invested in the Funds. I suppose I could sell them, but while that might soothe my conscience, it wouldn’t do anything to improve their situation, now, would it? At least while they’re under my care, I can see they’re treated well.”
“You could always free them.”
“And so I would—if I could. But the law requires me to post bond guaranteeing their support for the rest of their lives. All five hundred of them. It would bankrupt me. If I were a better man, I suppose I’d do it anyway. But . . .” He shrugged and shook his head.
Sebastian studied the Baronet’s sun-darkened, broad-featured face. Sebastian had heard of a woman who, upon inheriting an estate in the West Indies, loaded all of the plantation’s slaves on a ship and transported them to Philadelphia, where she was able to set them free without posting a bond. But all he said was, “Did Preston feel the same way?”
“Stanley? Good God, no. He was convinced slavery was instituted by God to enable the superior European race to care for and shepherd the benighted souls of Africa. He genuinely believed that manumission was a misguided evil and contrary to God’s plan.”
“How often did he visit Jamaica?”
“He used to go out there quite regularly. But since his son, James, has taken over the management of the plantations, he’s been more content to adopt the role of an absentee landlord.”
“What can you tell me about his dealings with Governor Oliphant?”
“Oliphant?” Knightly pressed his lips together in disgust, as if the name tasted foul on his tongue. “He was extraordinarily unpopular with the planters, you know. Governors frequently are, but . . . Let’s just say that Oliphant went far beyond what was proper.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Not really. Anything I could say would be all speculation and hearsay, and I have a healthy respect for England’s slander laws—and no desire to fall afoul of them.”
“Could Preston have had something to do with Oliphant’s rather sudden, unexpected return to London?”
“He never boasted of it, if that’s what you’re asking. But—” Sir Galen cast a quick glance around and grimaced suggestively. “Well, his cousin is the Home Secretary, now, isn’t he?”
“Miss Preston tells me her father was afraid of Oliphant.”
“I’ve heard he has a reputation for being someone you don’t want to cross. Unfortunately, Stanley Preston wasn’t the kind of man to let that stop him.” Knightly shook his head. “He was a brilliant man, well educated and learned in a number of subjects. But he was not always wise.”
The waiter delivered Sebastian’s wine, and he paused to take a deliberate sip before saying, “I understand Preston was also upset because of his daughter.”
A faint band of color appeared high on the older man’s cheekbones. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“He was disturbed, was he not, by the reappearance in London of a certain hussar captain?”
“I take it you mean Wyeth?”
“Yes.”
Sir Galen shifted his gaze to the large, gilt-framed battle scene on the far wall. “I’m afraid Anne—Miss Preston—has a generous nature, which combined with a warm and trusting heart can sometimes lead her to misjudge those she meets, especially when a friendly manner and a graceful address create the appearance of amiability.”
“You believe Wyeth’s amiability to be merely an appearance?”
“I fear it may be. But then, as you are doubtless aware, I am not exactly a disinterested party. When she was younger, the difference in our ages seemed insurmountable. It was only recently I’d begun to think perhaps I might have some chance, but then—” He broke off and shifted uncomfortably with all the embarrassment of a painfully reserved man in love with a younger woman who has given her heart to another.
“Do you think Preston would have forbidden a match between his daughter and Captain Wyeth?”
“He was certainly determine
d to do all within his power to prevent them from marrying. He had a younger sister, you know, who married an Army officer and died a hideous death at the hands of the natives at a fort in the wilds of America.”
“No, I didn’t know that. Yet Anne Preston is of age, is she not?”
“She is, yes.”
“Would she have married without her father’s blessing, do you think?”
“If she believed his blessing unfairly withheld, I suspect she would, yes.”
“And would he have disinherited her, if she married against his wishes?”
“He certainly swore he intended to do so. But would he have actually carried through with the threat?” Knightly tipped his head to one side, then shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”
Sebastian stared at him. “You’re saying Preston threatened to disinherit Anne if she married Captain Wyeth?”
“He told me the day before he was killed that he would cut her off without a farthing if she did. But I can’t say whether or not he ever threatened Anne herself. He was like that, you know—full of bluster and passion, saying he was going to do things he would later realize were folly—once he calmed down.”
“Men of that nature frequently accumulate enemies.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Can you think of any—apart from Oliphant and Wyeth?”
Sir Galen studied his empty teacup, as if lost for a moment in thought. Then he shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t, no. As I said, his passions sometimes ran away with him, leading him into careless or hasty speech better left unsaid. He doubtless alienated more people than he realized. But can I think of anyone else angry enough to kill him and cut off his head? No.”
“Any idea what Stanley Preston might have been doing at Bloody Bridge that night?”
“No. I hadn’t actually given it much thought, but you’re right; it is odd for him to have been there so late, is it not?”
“He didn’t often walk at night?”
“Only to the pub and back. There was a time not so long ago when Bloody Bridge had a well-deserved reputation for violence. I can’t imagine him going there alone, at night.”