by C. S. Harris
“What time was this?” said Sebastian sharply.
“Shortly before Lady Sefton’s breakfast. I’d say sometime in the early afternoon.”
Amongst the fashionable set, breakfasts were held in the afternoon, just as morning visits were held after three o’clock. Sebastian knocked back the rest of his brandy and set the glass aside. “Where might I find Lord Jarvis this evening?”
“Jarvis?” She paused a moment, thinking. “Well, there is Lady Crue’s ball. But I believe I heard something about the Dowager Lady Jarvis making up a party for Vauxhall. Sebastian,” she called after him as he headed for the stairs. “Where are you going?”
“Vauxhall.”
Chapter 50
Pressing a coin into the wherryman’s callused palm, Sebastian stepped onto the quay at Vauxhall. Beside him, a link torch flared against the dark sky to fill the moist, sultry air with the scent of hot pitch.
The earlier rain had brought little relief from the heat. As he entered the gardens through the Water Gate, he found the gravel of the wide main path still showing wet in the shimmering light cast by row after row of glowing oil lanterns. Around him, the thick expanses of lush vegetation steamed.
At the Grove he paused, his gaze sweeping the colonnades. The sweet strains of Handel’s Water Music drifted through the trees from the orchestra’s pavilion in the center, the melody punctuated with maidenly shrieks from the darker recesses of the gardens.
It didn’t take him long to locate Jarvis’s party in a supper box near the center of the Colonnade. The fierce, hawk-nosed old Dowager was there, as was Lady Jarvis, her once pretty face vacant and slack. Sebastian recognized the baron’s two stout, middle-aged sisters, one kneading her hands in silent, endless worry, the other as harsh and irascible-looking as her brother. It had all the appearance of a typical family outing, Sebastian thought—until one remembered that the Dowager had once tried to have her daughter-in-law committed to a lunatic asylum, or that Jarvis had several times offered to have the wastrel husband of his sister Agnes quietly killed.
Jarvis himself, however, was absent, as was his daughter, Hero; the presence of two empty chairs suggested they had stepped out for a brief stroll. Glancing at his pocket watch, Sebastian suspected that father and daughter had escaped the family gathering by going to watch the playing of the fountains. Sebastian kept walking.
He came upon them near the Hermitage. They stood half turned away, their attention caught by the spectacle of dancing water so that they remained unaware of Sebastian’s approach. He was struck, as before, by the similarity between father and daughter. Sebastian had sometimes heard Miss Hero Jarvis referred to as a handsome woman, for she had large gray eyes and a fine, Junoesque build. But he doubted anyone had ever called her pretty, even when she was a child. Her chin was too square, her nose too close an echo of her father’s. She was also far too tall. Sebastian himself stood just over six feet, and she could nearly look him in the eye.
It was she who saw Sebastian first, her gaze lighting on him as she turned, laughing at something Jarvis had just said. She froze, the laughter dying on her lips.
Sebastian sketched an easy bow. “Miss Jarvis,” he said, smiling sardonically as Jarvis himself swung about. “If you will excuse us?”
She hesitated, and Sebastian thought she meant to refuse. The last time they’d met, he’d broken into her house, held a gun to her head, and essentially kidnapped her. But all she said was “Very well.”
She swept past him, pausing only to lean in close and say quietly, “If he fails to return safe and unharmed in five minutes, I shall set the guards after you.”
Sebastian watched her walk away, her head held high, her back straight. “Your daughter seems to fear I mean you some harm.”
“My daughter thinks you ought to be locked up.”
Sebastian turned his gaze to the King’s cousin. “It has recently been brought to my attention that His Royal Highness the Prince Regent was visiting Lady Benson in London the day the Marchioness of Anglessey was murdered. What time did he make it back to Brighton? Four? Six? Or later?”
Jarvis’s fleshy face remained impassive. “I beg your pardon? The Prince never left Brighton that day. There must be some mistake.”
Sebastian held the baron’s hard stare. “The mistake was yours.”
It was Jarvis who glanced away, his jaw tightening as he gazed out over the darkened gardens. “Who told you?” he said at last. “Very few people knew.”
“He was seen.”
They turned to walk together, the gravel crunching beneath their feet, the distant strains of the music drifting to them through the trees. After a moment, Jarvis said, “What, precisely, are you suggesting? That the Prince killed Lady Anglessey in London, and then hauled her lifeless body back to Brighton with him? Don’t be absurd.”
“Not exactly. But perhaps someone else brought her to the Pavilion, someone who knew what the Prince had done and was determined not to allow the Regent to get away with murder the same way his brother Cumberland did.”
Jarvis faced him, the gravel spraying out from under his heels. “You are supposed to be finding a way to scotch these ridiculous rumors. Not start new ones yourself.”
Sebastian calmly held his ground. “It’s what everyone will be saying when the Prince’s presence in London that day becomes known. And it will become known, have no doubt of that. These sorts of things always do.”
Wordlessly, Jarvis turned and continued up the walk.
After a moment Sebastian remarked almost conversationally, “Did you know the Stuart dagger is back in its rightful place in His Highness’s collection? But, of course, you knew. You’re the one who put it there, aren’t you?”
Jarvis swiped one hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. “Enough of this. I have decided your assistance in this matter is no longer required. You are to have nothing further to do with it.”
Sebastian smiled. “You should have hired the Bow Street Runners after all. Them, you could have dismissed. Not me.”
They were passing through a long, arched passage open at the sides and illuminated by dozens of brilliantly hued lanterns. Two young women strolling arm in arm glanced their way in passing, and Jarvis significantly dropped his voice. “If you understood—”
Sebastian cut him off. “How vulnerable the Prince’s position is at the moment? Ah, but I rather think I do.” A rocket exploded overhead, showering the darkened gardens with a rain of light as the fireworks exhibition began. “Tell me what you know about the Stuart threat to the dynasty.”
“There are no more Stuarts,” said Jarvis blandly. “They died out with Henry four years ago.”
“But there are still those with a better claim to the English throne than King George and his sons. And you’ll never convince me you don’t know their supporters have become active.”
His hands clasped behind his back, Jarvis turned again to walk toward the Colonnade. After a moment, he said, “How did you come to know of this? Has it something to do with Lady Anglessey’s death?”
“Possibly. It would help if I knew who is involved.”
Sebastian didn’t expect an answer. But to his surprise, Jarvis pursed his lips and blew out a long breath. “We don’t know who’s involved. Oh, we’ve managed to get our hands on a few individuals, but they’ve all been at the lowest levels and they’ve known nothing of any real importance. Whoever these people are, they’re very clever, and very well organized.” Jarvis dropped his voice even lower. “There are suggestions that they have managed to attract supporters in the army as well as in the highest reaches of the government, but no one seems to know precisely who.”
It was disquieting information. “I find it difficult to believe anyone could seriously expect a scheme of this type to succeed,” said Sebastian. “It wasn’t that long ago that the people of London reacted to the Catholic Relief Act with the Gordon Riots. They’d never accept a Catholic monarch.”
“Ah. But you see the cur
rent claimant, the King of Savoy, has a daughter, Anne, married to a prince of Denmark. She’s a Protestant. If Savoy were to resign his claim to the throne in her favor…”
“Is that likely to happen?”
“There has been some suggestion of it, yes. The Prince of Denmark has a claim of his own to the English throne. It’s weak, of course, but not much weaker than that of William in 1688.”
A second rocket exploded overhead, filling the night sky with a cascade of colored light. Jarvis paused to look up, his head tilting back. “The times are unsettled,” he said as another rocket burst into clusters of fire. “One rip in the fabric of tradition and legitimacy, and who knows where it might end? Killing is always much easier to start than it is to stop.”
Sebastian watched the colored stream of fire pour back to earth. “If the Prince truly is mad, you would do better to admit it now, while the damage might still be contained and a new Regent named. If you leave it too long, when he does go down, he might very well take the entire monarchy with him.”
“The Prince is not mad,” said Jarvis in a low, steady tone. Then he said it again, as if by repeating it he might make it so. “He is not mad, and he did not kill that woman.”
“Guinevere,” said Sebastian. “Her name was Guinevere.”
Jarvis brought his gaze to Sebastian’s face. “Leave it, my lord. I’m warning you—”
Sebastian took a hasty step toward him, only to draw himself up short. “Don’t. Don’t even think about threatening me.”
SEBASTIAN WAS CROSSING THE GROVE with long strides when his gaze fell on another party seated at a table snuggled beneath the elms, a party consisting of Lord Portland, his wife, Claire, and his wife’s mother, the widowed Lady Audley. Sebastian hesitated, then turned his steps toward them.
As he drew nearer, he could hear Portland complaining about the cost of Vauxhall’s famous ham, sliced so thin that some claimed one could read a newspaper through it. “Look at this,” he said, hefting a sliver of ham on his fork. “A shilling’s worth of sliced ham weighs an ounce here. Which means the proprietors are selling this stuff for sixteen shillings a pound. Now, if you figure a thirty-pound ham can be bought for ten shillings, they’re making twenty-four pounds on every ham.”
Lady Portland laughed and laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Do give over, Portland. You sound like a merchant in his counting house. When one is out for pleasure, what signifies a few shillings one way or the other?” She smiled at Sebastian as he approached. “Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Sebastian, sketching the ladies a bow. He turned to Lady Audley. “How does your collie bitch?”
A soft smile touched her lips and shone in her eyes. “Well, thank you. She’s the proud mother of six fine pups.”
“Varden does not accompany you tonight?”
He caught the quickest of exchanged glances between mother and daughter before Lady Portland said laughingly, “I’m afraid there aren’t many young men who would choose to make one of a party with their mother and sister, when there are livelier amusements to be had.”
It was true, of course. When men of the Chevalier’s set came to Vauxhall, it was typically to dance beneath the stars with courtesans and steal kisses and more in the dark, secluded alleys of the gardens. But while that might explain the Chevalier’s absence, it did nothing to explain the look Sebastian had intercepted between Lady Audley and the Chevalier’s half sister, Lady Portland.
“Do you go to the Prince’s fete tomorrow night?” asked Lady Audley, drawing his attention.
“Of course,” said Sebastian. “But with two thousand guests expected, I must admit I am tempted to outrage all notions of propriety and simply walk, rather than risk spending an hour or more caught up in a snarl of carriages.”
“Perhaps we should do the same,” said Lady Portland with another laugh.
“Perhaps we’ll start a fashion,” said Sebastian, withdrawing with a bow just as the whizzing bang of another rocket split the night with fire.
Chapter 51
Catching a scull from Vauxhall’s quay, Sebastian directed the boatman toward the steps near the Westminster Bridge, then settled on the thinly cushioned thwart with his long legs thrust out in front and his arms crossed at his chest.
The night lay heavy and dark around them, the thick cloud cover holding in the day’s muggy heat while hiding the light of both moon and stars. He kept thinking about the woman who had handed Portland that note. What if there had been no mysterious woman in green? What if Portland’s part in the evening’s charade had been less accidental? Less innocent?
A faint breeze skimmed across the prow, carrying with it the sounds of men’s laughter. Looking up, Sebastian saw a livery company barge, its lights reflecting in the dark waters of the Thames as it swept past. He could feel the scull rocking gently with the barge’s passing, hear its wake slap against the scull’s sides, the sound mingling with the gentle splash of his boatman’s oars.
In the pale light thrown by the scull’s lantern, Sebastian studied the man at the oars. He had a thick shock of dark, almost black hair tucked beneath a beaten felt cap, his broad-featured face weathered and toughened by years of sun and wind and rain. With every thrust of his oars the cords in his thick neck bulged, the muscles of his shoulders and arms straining the worn fustian of his coat. But his movements were slow, almost laconic. Sebastian was about to lean forward and tell the man to put his back into it when he caught the faint slap of another set of oars coming up fast behind them.
Sebastian glanced again at his boatman’s closed, lined face. There was something about his posture, something watchful, even anxious, that gave Sebastian pause. It was as if the man were waiting for something. Someone.
The sound of the second set of oars drew nearer. In itself, that was in no way unusual. The river was full of wherries transporting passengers from one bank to the other. Given his boatman’s slow progress, a more energetic oarsman could easily overtake them. And yet…
Shifting his weight, Sebastian threw a quick glance over one shoulder. He saw the prow of a dinghy appear out of the gloom, its hull painted black, its oarsman a dark shadow. A man with less acute hearing and eyesight would have remained oblivious to its presence. Deliberately, Sebastian turned his back on the approaching boat.
It was the perfect place for an attack, Sebastian thought. Here he had no place to run, no hope of any assistance from chance passersby. His options were strictly limited. The shore was a distant line of black against black. They were just over midway between the banks, in a river that ran a quarter of a mile wide. The livery barge with its gaily reflected lights and laughing crew was long gone. If Sebastian could extinguish the scull’s lamp, it might be possible for him to go over the side and strike out for shore beneath the cover of darkness. Yet the tide was running strong, and a lamp could be relit. He decided to take his chances here, now.
The dip and pull of the second set of oars came closer, mingling with the gurgle of the river washing against the approaching dinghy’s bow. He could feel the closing boat as a looming presence, a thing of darkness materializing out of the night.
Holding himself tense and still, Sebastian heard the dinghy part the waters directly behind them. He heard its oars slip, heard the telltale shift of timbers as the unknown second boatman rose.
The scull’s oarsman paused in his stroke, his jaw clenched as he stared intently straight ahead. Sebastian waited until the last possible instant, until he heard the whistle of wood sweeping through the thick, sultry air. Then he threw himself forward, flattening himself against the wet, mud-smeared bottom of the scull just as the dark-coated man in the dinghy swung the flat edge of his oar at the space where Sebastian’s head had been.
The momentum of the oar’s weight carried the man’s body around and opened up an expanse of black water between the two boats, the dinghy lurching as the boatman struggled to regain his balance.
Rolling onto his back on the scull
’s wet, grimy planks, Sebastian saw his own boatman ship his oars and rise, his lips pulled back in a grimace, a knife clutched in his left hand. Thrusting up his right arm, Sebastian broke the man’s forward lunge and caught his wrist in a hard grip. Beneath them, the scull pitched dangerously. Sebastian lurched up onto his knees.
“Ye bloody bugger,” swore the boatman, his breath foul against Sebastian’s face.
Struggling up, Sebastian felt the scull shudder as the second boat bumped against its side again. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw the shadow of the dinghy’s oar raised to strike. Pivoting quickly, he swung the scull’s boatman around, using the man as a shield just as the oar came whistling through the air toward them.
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.”