The Prince’s massive torso jerked with his suddenly agitated breathing. “What are you suggesting? It’s
Jarvis took a hasty step forward as the doctor appeared suddenly from a curtained embrasure. “That’s enough questions for now, Lord Devlin. If you’ll excuse us, please?”
For one sharply tense moment, Devlin hesitated. Then he bowed curtly and swung away.
“You will, of course, be looking into the Marquis’s possible involvement in all of this?” Jarvis asked in an undervoice as he walked with Devlin to the door.
Devlin kept his expression bland. “It had occurred to me to do so,” he said, then added, “In the meantime, you might ask the Prince’s man to go through the pockets of the coat the Prince was wearing last night. It would help if that note could be found.”
“Of course,” said Jarvis.
Pausing at the entrance to the library that served as an antechamber to the Regent’s bedroom, the Viscount looked around. A tight smile curled his lips, a smile that told Jarvis he knew bloody well the note would never be found. “And perhaps when the Prince has recovered sufficiently, you might ask if he remembers exactly who handed him the note from the Marchioness?”
“When and if Dr. Heberden considers it safe to bring up the subject again, yes. You understand, of course, that protecting the Prince’s delicate sensibilities is of paramount importance.”
“More important than discovering the truth about who killed Lady Anglessey?”
Jarvis held the younger man’s hard stare. “Don’t ever doubt it for a moment.”
LEAVING THE PRINCE’S SUITE, Sebastian paused in the overheated corridor, one hand idly fingering the necklace in his pocket. Some of what the Prince had told him, Sebastian knew, was probably the truth. The trick would be to separate the reality from the layers of invention and sheer obstreperousness.
He was about to turn toward the stables when someone nervously cleared his throat and said, “My lord?”
Sebastian looked around to find a young, pale-skinned man with dark bushy eyebrows and gaunt cheeks hovering nearby, a man Sebastian recognized as one of Jarvis’s secretaries. “Yes?”
The man bowed. “The surgeon has arrived from London, my lord. He’s been shown directly to the Yellow Cabinet, as you requested.”
Sebastian found Paul Gibson on the floor beside the couch in the Yellow Cabinet, his wooden leg thrust out awkwardly to one side.
“Ah, there you are, Sebastian me lad,” he said, his eyes creasing into a smile as he glanced around at Sebastian’s entrance.
They were old friends, Sebastian and this dark-haired Irishman with the merry green eyes and a roguish dimple in one cheek. Theirs was a bond forged in blood and mud, and tested by suffering and want and the threat of death. Once, Gibson had been a surgeon in the British Army, a man whose fierce determination to help those in need often took him into harm’s way. Even after a French cannonball took off the lower part of his left leg, Gibson had remained in the field. But continuing ill health—and an accompanying weakness for the sweet relief to be found in poppies—had forced him to leave the army two years ago and set up a small surgery in the City, where he devoted much of his energy to research and the teaching of medical students, and to providing the authorities with his expert opinion in criminal cases.
“You made good time,” said Sebastian.
“Dead bodies don’t share their secrets for long,” said Gibson, returning his attention to what was left of Lord Anglessey’s beautiful young wife, Guinevere. “And this one has some interesting stories to tell.”
He had rolled the body so that it lay fully facedown on the floor. In the harsh light of day, the skin at the back of her neck could now be seen to have turned a greenish red. A faint odor like that of rotting meat permeated the chamber, although the heavy drapes had been pulled back and the long windows thrown open to flood the room with enough fresh air and sunlight to give the Prince Regent an apoplexy.
Sebastian went to stand beside the open windows, his gaze on the gulls wheeling and calling against the vivid blue sky above the Strand. “When would you say she died?”
“It’s difficult to be precise, but I think early yesterday afternoon is more likely than yesterday morning.”
Sebastian swung around. “Not last night?”
“No. Of that there is no doubt.”
“You know what this means, don’t you? The servants would have come in this room to build up the fire before last night’s performance. There’s no way the body could have lain here undiscovered for so long. She must have been killed someplace else and brought here just before the Prince discovered her.”
Gibson settled back on his sound heel and frowned. “You think this was set up to deliberately cast suspicion upon the Prince?”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” Sebastian wandered the room, searching for something—anything—that he might have missed. The cabinet’s walls were hung with linen painted with a tracery of apple green foliage against a delicate yellow background. A series of giant arches, each containing a life-sized gilt figure of a Chinese woman, encircled the room. The oriental motif here was strong, with tables and chairs of a pale wood carved to resemble bamboo, and a large lacquered chest decorated with painted dragons that stood between two of the arches. “The Prince claims to have received a note from Lady Guinevere,” said Sebastian, inspecting one of the gilded ladies. “A note arranging a rendezvous with him here. Only, how could she have sent him a note if she was already dead?”
“She could have written the note earlier in the day.”
“I suppose it’s possible. Unfortunately, His Royal Highness doesn’t recall precisely when or how the note came
