by C. S. Harris
“And Camlet Moat?”
“Precisely.”
Sebastian frowned. “So where does Mr. Childe live?”
“I believe he has rooms in St. James’s Street.”
“He’s unmarried?”
“He is, yes. Gabrielle told me several weeks ago that he had become quite vocal in his disparagement of her conclusions about Camlet Moat. And Childe himself says that they quarreled over the issue again just last Friday. But he also made some rather vague references to Gabrielle’s ‘secrets’ that I found disturbing.”
“Secrets? What secrets?”
“He declined to elaborate.”
They had reached her carriage. Sebastian shook his head at the footman who was about to spring forward; the man stepped back, and Sebastian opened the carriage door himself. “Any chance Childe could have been referring to a certain French prisoner of war with whom Miss Tennyson was apparently friendly?”
Hero turned to face him, her expression one of mingled surprise and puzzlement. “What French prisoner of war?”
“She never talked about him?” Pausing with one elbow resting on the carriage’s open window, he gave her a brief summary of what he’d learned from the servants in the Tennyson household. “You’re certain she never mentioned such a man to you?”
“Not that I recall, no.”
Sebastian let his gaze rove over the shadowed features of her face, the smooth curve of her cheek, the strong, almost masculine angle of her jaw. Once, he would have said she was telling him the truth. But he knew her well enough by now to know that she was keeping something back from him.
He said, “When Bow Street brought word this morning of Gabrielle Tennyson’s death, I was surprised that you had no wish to accompany me to Camlet Moat. In my naivety, I assumed it was because you knew Lovejoy would be discomfited by your presence. But you had another reason entirely, didn’t you?”
She furled her parasol, her attention seemingly all for the task of securing the strap. Rather than answering him, she said, “We agreed when we married that we would respect each other’s independence.”
“We did. Yet your purpose in this is the same as mine, is it not? To discover what happened to Gabrielle Tennyson and her young cousins? Or is something else going on here of which I am not aware?”
She looked up at him, the light falling full on her face, and he saw there neither guile nor subterfuge, but only a tense concern. “You’ve heard the authorities discovered the boys are missing?”
Sebastian nodded silently.
“When I asked Childe who he thought killed Gabrielle, he said that rather than focusing on Gabrielle’s associates, I ought to consider who would benefit from the elimination of the children.”
Sebastian was silent for a moment, remembering a boy’s flowing copperplate and armies of tin soldiers marching silently across a sunlit nursery floor. He refused to accept that the two little boys were dead too. But all he said was, “You’ve met them?”
“Her cousins? Several times, yes. I’m not one of those women who dote mindlessly on children, but George and Alfred are something special. They’re so extraordinarily bright and curious and full of enthusiasm for learning about the world around them that they’re a delight to be with. The thought that something might have happened to them too—” She broke off, and he saw the rare glaze of unshed tears in her eyes. Then she cleared her throat and looked away, as if embarrassed to be seen giving way to her emotions.
“‘Something that’s done and more undone,’” he quoted softly. “‘Are only the dead so bold?’”
Hero shook her head, not understanding. “What?”
“It’s from a poem George Tennyson wrote.” He showed it to her. “Does it mean anything to you?”
She read through the short stanza. “No. But George was always writing disjointed scraps of poetry like that. I doubt it means anything.”
“I’m told the boy’s father has been ill for a long time. Do you have any idea with what?”
“No. But then, I don’t know that much about Miss Tennyson’s family. Her parents died before I knew her. Her brother is a pleasant enough chap, although rather typically preoccupied with his legal practice. He has a small estate down in Kent, which is where he is now. It has always been my understanding that he and Gabrielle were comfortably situated, although no more than that. Yet I believe there may be substantial wealth elsewhere in the family. Recent wealth.”
“Good God,” said Sebastian. “Was Miss Tennyson in some way related to Charles Tennyson d’Eyncourt?”
“I believe they are first cousins. You know him?”
“He was several years behind me at Eton.”
His tone betrayed more than he’d intended it to. She smiled. “And you consider him a pretentious, toadying a—” She broke off to cast a rueful glance at the wooden faces of the waiting servants.
“Bore?” he suggested helpfully.
“That too.”
For one unexpectedly intimate moment, their gazes met and they shared a private smile. Then Sebastian felt his smile begin to fade.
For the past fifteen months, d’Eyncourt had served as a member of Parliament from Lincolnshire. A fiercely reactionary Tory, he had quickly managed to ingratiate himself with the block of parliamentarians controlled by Hero’s own father, Lord Jarvis.
Sebastian said, “Why do I keep getting the distinct impression there’s something you’re not telling me?”
She took his offered hand and climbed the step into the waiting carriage. “Would I do that?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She gave a throaty chuckle and gracefully disposed the skirts of her dusky blue walking dress around her on the seat. “Will you tell the coachman to take me home, please?”
“Are you going home?”
“Are you?”
Smiling softly, he closed the door and nodded to the driver. He stood for a moment and watched as her carriage rounded the corner onto Tottenham Court. Then he went in search of the pretentious toadying bore who called himself Tennyson d’Eyncourt.
Chapter 12
Charles Tennyson d’Eyncourt was lounging comfortably in one of the leather tub chairs in the reading room of White’s when Sebastian walked up to him.
The MP was considerably fairer than his cousin Gabrielle, slim and gracefully formed, with delicate features and high cheekbones and lips so thin as to appear nearly nonexistent. He had a glass of brandy on the table at his elbow and the latest copy of the conservative journal The Courier spread open before him. He glanced up, briefly, when Sebastian settled in the seat opposite him, then pointedly returned his attention to his reading.
“My condolences on the death of your cousin, Miss Gabrielle Tennyson,” said Sebastian.
“I take it Bow Street has involved you in the investigation of this unfortunate incident, have they?” asked d’Eyncourt without looking up again.
“If by ‘unfortunate incident’ you mean the murder of Miss Tennyson and the disappearance of the young children in her care, then the answer is yes.”
D’Eyncourt reached, deliberately, for his brandy, took a sip, and returned to his journal.
“I’m curious,” said Sebastian, signaling a passing waiter for a drink. “How close is the relationship between you and Miss Tennyson?”
“We are—or I suppose I should say were—first cousins.”
“So the two missing boys are…?”
“My nephews.”
“Your brother’s sons?”
“That is correct.”
“I must confess that, under the circumstances, I am rather surprised to find you lounging in your club calmly reading a journal.”
D’Eyncourt looked up at that, his thin nose quivering. “Indeed? And what would you have me do instead, I wonder? Go charging into the countryside to thrash the underbrush of Enfield Chase like a beater hoping to flush game?”
“You think that’s where the children are liable to be found? At Camlet Moat?”
Sebastian studied the other man’s pinched profile. He couldn’t recall many of the younger boys at Eton, but Sebastian remembered d’Eyncourt. As a lad, d’Eyncourt had been one of those ostentatiously earnest scholars who combined shameless toadying with nauseating displays of false enthusiasm to curry favor with the dons. But to his fellow students he was ruthless and vindictive, and quickly acquired a well-deserved reputation as someone who would do anything—and say anything—to get what he wanted.
In those days he’d simply been called “Tennyson,” the same as his cousin and missing nephews. But several years ago he had successfully petitioned the Home Secretary to have his name changed to the more aristocratic d’Eyncourt, the extinct patronym of one of his mother’s ancestors, to which his claims were, to say the least, dubious. It was well-known that his ambition was to be made Lord d’Eyncourt before he was forty.
“You seem oddly unconcerned about their fates,” said Sebastian.
“It is the stuff of tragedy, to be sure. However, none of it alters the fact that my brother and I have never been close. His life is narrowly focused on his benefices in Somersby, whereas I live most of the year in London, where I take my duties at Parliament very seriously indeed. I doubt I would recognize his children if I passed them in the street.”
“Is that why they’ve been staying with Miss Tennyson, their cousin, rather than with you, their uncle?”
D’Eyncourt sniffed. “My wife is not fond of London and chooses to remain in Lincolnshire. I do currently have my sister Mary with me, but I could hardly ask her to undertake the management of two wild, poorly brought-up boys, now, could I?”
“Are they wild and poorly bought up?”
“They could hardly be otherwise, given their parentage.”
“Really?” Sebastian settled more comfortably in his seat. “Tell me about the boys’ father—your brother. I hear he’s not well. Nothing serious, I hope?”
A curious hint of color touched the other man’s high cheekbones. “I fear my brother’s health has never been particularly robust.”
“Can you think of anyone who might benefit from the death or disappearance of his sons?”
“Good heavens; what a ridiculous notion! I told you: My brother is a rector. He holds two livings, which together provide him with a respectable income. But he has always been a hopeless spendthrift, and the foolish woman he married is even worse, with the result that my father is forever being forced to tow them out of the river tick.”
D’Eyncourt’s father was a notorious figure known irreverently as “the Old Man of the Wolds,” thanks to his extensive landholdings in the Wolds, an area of hills and wide-open valleys in the northeast of England. His fortune, while of recent origins, was reportedly huge, deriving largely from a series of astute land purchases and the old man’s ruthless manipulation of anyone unfortunate enough to drift into his orbit.
Sebastian said, “You are your father’s sole heir?”
D’Eyncourt’s thin nostrils flared with indignation. “I am. And may I take leave to tell you that I resent the inference inherent in that question? I resent it very much.”
“Oh, you have my leave to tell me anything you wish,” said Sebastian, stretching to his feet. “Just one more question: Can you think of anyone who might have wished Miss Tennyson harm?”
D’Eyncourt opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it and shook his head.
“You do know of someone,” said Sebastian, watching him closely. “Who is it?”
“Well…” D’Eyncourt licked his thin lips. “You are aware, of course, that my cousin fancied herself something of a bluestocking?”
“I would have said she could more accurately be described as a respected antiquary rather than as a bluestocking, but, yes, I am aware of her scholarly activities. Why?”
D’Eyncourt pulled a face. “Most women who indulge in such unsuitable activities have enough regard for the reputations of their families to adopt a male nom de plume and keep their true identities a secret. But not Gabrielle.”
“My wife also chooses to publish under her own name,” said Sebastian evenly.
D’Eyncourt gave an uncomfortable titter and looked faintly unwell. “So she does. No offense intended, I’m sure.”
Sebastian said, “Are you suggesting that Miss Tennyson’s investigations into the history of Camlet Moat might have contributed in some way to her death?”
D’Eyncourt gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know nothing of this latest start of hers. I was referring to a project she undertook some two or three months ago; something to do with tracing the original line of London’s old Roman walls or some such nonsense. Whatever it was, it involved venturing into several of the more unsavory districts of the city. Not at all the proper sort of undertaking for a lady.”
“You say this was two or three months ago?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“So what makes you think it could have anything to do with her recent death?”
“Last week—Thursday, to be precise—I was on my way to meet with a colleague in the Strand when I happened to see Gabrielle arguing with a very rough customer near the York Steps. Thinking her in some sort of difficulty, I naturally approached with the intention of intervening. Much to my astonishment, she was not at all appreciative of my attempts on her behalf. Indeed, she was quite curt. Insisted there was no need for me to concern myself—that the individual I had seen her with was someone she had encountered when she discovered that the foundations of his tavern incorporated some extensive vestiges of the city’s original Roman walls.”
“Did you happen to catch the man’s name?”
D’Eyncourt shook his head. “Sorry. But it shouldn’t be that difficult to discover. I believe she said the tavern was called the Devil’s Head or the Devil’s Tower or some such thing. The man was a most unsavory-looking character—tall, with dark hair and sun-darkened skin, and dressed all in black except for his shirt. I thought at the time he reminded me of someone I know, but I couldn’t quite place the resemblance.”
“What makes you think he was a threat to her?”
“Because of what I heard him say, just before they noticed me walking up to them. He said”—d’Eyncourt roughened his voice in a crude imitation of the man’s accent—“‘Meddle in this and you’ll be sorry. Be a shame to see something happen to a pretty young lady such as yourself.’”
Chapter 13
Sebastian was silent for a moment, trying to fit this incident into everything else he’d been told.
“Of course she tried to deny it,” said d’Eyncourt. “Claimed he’d said no such thing. But I know what I heard. And it was obvious she was more than a little discomfited to be seen talking to this individual.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s narrow, effete features. But d’Eyncourt had spent a lifetime twisting incidents and conversations to serve his own purposes; his face was a bland mask.
Sebastian said, “What do you think it was about?”
D’Eyncourt closed his journal and rose to his feet. “I’ve no notion. You’re the one who dabbles in murder, not I. I have far more important tasks with which to concern myself.” He tucked The Courier beneath his arm. “And now you must excuse me; I’ve a meeting scheduled at Carlton House.” He gave a short bow nicely calculated to convey just a hint of irony and contempt. Then he strolled languidly away, leaving Sebastian staring after him.
“Your drink, my lord?”
The waiter standing at Sebastian’s elbow needed to repeat himself twice before Sebastian turned toward him. “Thank you,” he said, taking the brandy from the waiter’s silver tray and downing it in one long, burning pull.
It was when he was leaving White’s that Sebastian came face-to-face with a familiar barrel-chested, white-haired man in his late sixties. At the sight of Sebastian, the Earl of Hendon paused, his face g
oing slack.
For twenty-nine years Sebastian had called this man father, had struggled to understand Hendon’s strangely conflicted love and anger, pride and resentment. But though the world still believed Sebastian to be the Earl’s son, Sebastian, at least, now knew the truth.
Sebastian gave a slow, polite bow. “My lord.”
“Devlin,” said Hendon, his voice gruff with emotion. “You…you are well?”
“I am, yes.” Sebastian hesitated, then added with painful correctness, “Thank you. And you?”
Hendon’s jaw tightened. “As always, yes, thank you.”
Hendon had always been a bear of a man. Through all his growing years and well into his twenties, Sebastian had been aware of Hendon towering over him in both height and breadth. But as the moment stretched out and became something painful, Sebastian suddenly realized that with increasing age, Hendon was shrinking. He was now the same height as Sebastian, perhaps even shorter. When had that happened? he wondered. And he felt an unwelcome pang at the realization that this man who had played such a vital role in his life was growing older, more frail, less formidable.
For one long, intense moment, the Earl’s fiercely blue St. Cyr eyes met Sebastian’s hard yellow gaze. Then the two men passed.
Neither looked back.
Sebastian found Hero seated at the table in his library, a pile of books scattered over the surface.
She had changed into a simple gown of figured muslin with a sapphire blue sash and had her head bent over some notes she was making. He paused for a moment in the doorway and watched as she caught her lower lip between her teeth in that way she had when she was concentrating. He’d often come upon her thus, surrounded by books and documents at the heavy old library table in her father’s Berkeley Square house. And for some reason he could not have named, seeing her here at work in the library of their Brook Street home made their marriage seem suddenly more real—and more intimate—than the long hours of passion they’d shared in the darkness of the night. He found himself smiling at the thought.