When Gods Die

“No. But I would imagine you do.”

He studied the young nobleman’s lean, handsome face. “Why are you involving yourself in this?”

Devlin widened his eyes in a feigned expression of innocent surprise. “If I remember correctly, you’re the one who suggested I might be of assistance in such delicate matters.”

“And you told me you were motivated to investigate last January’s murderers by pure self-interest. So what is your interest in the death of Lady Anglessey?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Huh. That’s what worries me.”

Ducking his head to hide a smile, the Viscount started to turn away, then paused to glance back and say, “You take an interest in scientific inquiries, do you not?”

It was something Lovejoy prided himself upon, his diligent determination to stay abreast of current scientific developments. But he wasn’t sure how Devlin had come to know of it. “Yes. Why?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where there’s to be a balloon ascension today, would you?”

THE BALLOON ASCENSION WAS SCHEDULED for eleven o’clock that morning in St. George’s Fields on the south side of the Thames.

“It’s unnatural, it is,” said Tom as they neared the fields, and the rippling sheets of red and yellow silk could be seen taking shape just above the treetops. “Men weren’t meant to sail through the clouds.”

Sebastian laughed and handed the chestnuts’ reins to the boy. “Keep the curricle well back from the crowd. I’ve heard tales of these things catching fire and causing a panic.”

Tom nodded solemnly. “No need to worry about that, yer lordship. I’ve no intention of gettin’ anywhere near that contraption.”

Continuing on foot, Sebastian pushed his way onto the field. A motley throng had assembled to watch the balloon ascension, gentlemen in top hats and ladies with parasols mingling with tradesmen in their Sunday best and the usual assortment of thieves and cutthroats and pickpockets. The cool morning breeze had withered away, leaving the day still and hot. The beer peddlers were doing a brisk trade, the rich malty odor from their barrels rising up to mingle with the scents of grass and hot gas and warm, closely pressed bodies.

He found Guinevere Anglessey’s half sister, Morgana, not far from where a roaring furnace was slowly filling the silk sheath with gas. A tall, angular woman with a long, sharp-featured face and skin that was inclined to freckle, she had none of her sister’s soft curves or winning ways. She’d brought along a hatchet-faced abigail as a nod to the proprieties, although Morgana Quinlan struck Sebastian as the type of woman who was more than capable of taking care of herself.

“Excuse me, but it’s Lady Quinlan, isn’t it?” Sebastian said, lifting his hat. “I was wondering if you could tell me the name of the gentleman undertaking today’s ascension.”

“The ‘gentleman’ is actually a woman,” said Lady Quinlan, indicating the tiny birdlike creature in a feathered cap and narrow skirts who was darting about the balloon’s wicker cage and inspecting the cables that held the apparatus moored to the ground. “The famous French aeronaut Madeleine-Sophie Blanchard. But you’ve no need to dissemble, my lord. I know you’re looking into the circumstances surrounding my half sister’s death.” She smiled with a grim kind of satisfaction at his temporary discomfiture before adding, “Lady Portland told me.”

Sebastian tipped back his head, his eyes narrowing against the sun as he watched the balloon swell with hot air from the fire, the red-and-yellow silk brilliant against a deep blue sky. Guinevere was a childhood friend of my wife, Claire, Portland had said. It made sense that Lady Portland would be in contact with Guinevere’s sister, as well.

“I can’t imagine how you might think I could help,” Lady Quinlan continued, her gaze, like Sebastian’s, on the billowing silk above them. “Guinevere and I were never close, even as children.”

He glanced over at her. “Were there so many years between you?”

She shrugged. “Three. Which can be significant when one is dealing with children. But even if we had been born nearer together, I doubt we would have been close. We had little in common. I was always interested in my studies, whereas Guinevere…” She hesitated, then ended dryly, “Guinevere was not.”

“What interested Lady Guinevere?”

“The cliffs above the sea. My father’s horses. The workings of the abandoned mines in the hills behind Athelstone Hall…in short, everything but the information that could be found between the covers of a schoolbook. She roamed the countryside as freely as if she were some cotter’s child.”

“Or a boy.”

Morgana turned her head to meet his gaze. “Or a boy. She was always headstrong. I suppose it was easier for our governesses to simply let her go than to try to fight with her.”

Of course it would be easier, Sebastian thought. But what of the Earl of Athelstone, her father? Hadn’t he cared that his eldest daughter was left to run wild? Or had he been content to delegate the rearing of his daughters to their governesses and to that sad procession of stepmothers doomed to die one after the other in childbirth?

“I’m afraid she grew accustomed to it,” Morgana was saying. “Accustomed to doing as she pleased and thinking she could order her life as she chose. Marry as she liked.”

“Whom did she wish to marry?”

Morgana let out a huff of scornful laughter. “Someone most unsuitable. Such a fit she threw, when she learned Papa meant to send her to spend the Season with our aunt here in London. Guinevere swore she’d never speak to him again, and she didn’t, either. Even when Papa lay dying and was asking for her, she refused to go to him.”

“Because he forced her into marriage with Anglessey?”

“No one forced her. Anglessey was her own choice.” Lady Quinlan gave the black skirt of her mantua walking dress a little shake. “She always claimed she couldn’t forgive Papa for refusing to allow her to marry where she wished. But if truth were told, I think what she really couldn’t forgive him for was favoring Gerard over her.”