Nowhere near as clever as Jarvis, of course, but clever enough to be difficult.
“Why are you doing this?” demanded Portland, the candles in the wall sconces gleaming on his auburn head as his long-legged stride carried him across the room again. “The magistrate has cleared the Prince of all involvement. Let that be the end of it! The longer this thing drags out, the harder it will be on the Prince. The doctors have already had to sedate him.”
Jarvis lifted a delicate pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. The Prime Minister, Perceval, had taken himself off to the chapel to pray, content to leave the sordid affair in Jarvis’s hands. But not Portland. The man was becoming more than a nuisance; he was becoming a problem.
“The magistrate is an imbecile,” said Jarvis, closing his snuffbox with a snap. “As is anyone who seriously thinks the people will believe Lady Anglessey committed suicide by stabbing herself in her back.”
Portland had unusually fair skin, nearly as fair as a woman’s, with a faint dusting of cinnamon-colored freckles across his high cheekbones. His skin often betrayed him as it did now, flushing with annoyance. “It is theoretically possible. If she positioned the dagger just so and then fell on it—”
“Oh, please,” Jarvis shot back. “Half the people out there tonight already believe the Prince killed that woman. If we let the magistrate release this finding, all we’ll do is convince the other half.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one could actually believe the Regent capable of…” Portland’s eyes widened as if on a sudden thought, and his voice trailed away.
“Precisely,” said Jarvis. “Everyone will be reminded of Cumberland’s valet. The inquest on his death returned a verdict of suicide as well, if you’ll remember. Only how many people do you suppose actually believe the poor sod slit his own throat? From left to right. When he was left-handed.”
“Cumberland is a dangerous man with a violent temper. No one could deny that. But whatever else you can say about Prinny, he’s nothing like his brother.”
Jarvis lifted one eyebrow in silent incredulity.
Again, that faint flush of color showed beneath Portland’s pale skin. “Very well. Your point is taken. But why send for Devlin? He was cleared of all suspicion in those ghastly murders last winter.”
“Officially,” said Jarvis, turning as his footman appeared in the doorway and bowed.
“Viscount Devlin, my lord.”
Jarvis could see him now: a tall, lean young man with dark hair and strange, almost animalistic eyes that reputedly had the power to see in the night with the uncanny penetration of a cat. Jarvis knew a moment of quiet satisfaction. He’d half expected Devlin not to come. He was a most unpredictable man, this Viscount; wild and dangerous and utterly, intriguingly brilliant.
Jarvis cast a meaningful glance at the Home Secretary. “If you will excuse us, Lord Portland?”
Portland hesitated, as if tempted to insist he stay. Then he bowed and said curtly, “Of course.”
He strode toward the door, his lips pressed together into a thin line. But Jarvis caught the unexpected, speculative gleam in the man’s eyes before he nodded his head and said curtly, “Lord Devlin.”
“Do come in, my lord,” said Jarvis, sweeping one arm through the air in an expansive gesture. He’d been blessed with a charming smile that was both disarming and often amazingly effective, and he used that smile now as the Viscount paused just inside the chamber’s doorway. “You’re surprised, doubtless, by the invitation. If I remember correctly, the last time we met, you held a gun to my head. And abducted my daughter.”
Devlin stood very still, his face inscrutable. “I trust she suffered no lasting ill effects.”
“Hero? Hardly. The maid, however, has never been the same since.” Lifting the crystal decanter from its tray, Jarvis held it aloft. “Brandy?”
Devlin’s eyes narrowed. He had inhuman eyes, this young Viscount: as yellow and feral as a wolf’s. “I think we can dispense with the civilities.”
Jarvis set aside the decanter. “Very well, then. Let’s not skirt around the issue. We’ve asked you here because the Regent needs your help.”
“My help.”
“That’s right. He’d like you to discover exactly what happened in the Pavilion tonight.”
The Viscount laughed, his amusement short and sharp and faintly bitter.
Jarvis kept his voice pleasant. “It’s not our intention to see you framed for this murder, if that’s what you fear.”
“How reassuring. Mind you, it would be rather difficult, given that I never left the music room this evening.”
“Yet there are those who whisper that your presence at tonight’s soiree was…shall we say, suggestive?”
“Ah, I see. It’s in my own best interest to find this killer—is that what you’re saying?”
“Something like that.”
The Viscount wandered the room, pausing for a moment to inspect one of the mythical creatures rendered in gold on the wall cloth. “If I cared what people thought of me, I might be tempted,” he said without looking around. “Fortunately, I don’t.”
Jarvis smoothly shifted tactics, the smile fading, his voice becoming stentorian and grave. “I fear this murder comes at a critical moment in our nation’s history. Our armies are not doing as well as one might wish on the Peninsula, and there are distressing signs that this year’s harvest may fail. The people are restless. Have you any idea what a scandal of this nature might do to the country?”
