set of initials. J. S.
The engraving was old—not as old as the necklace itself, but still worn with the passage of the years. It had been well over a century and a half since Addiena Cadel had marked the necklace with her initials and those of her lover, James Stuart—the same James Stuart who later assumed the British throne as James II.
Sebastian sat back on his heels, his splayed hands gripping his thighs. “How did you know?” he asked after a moment. “How did you know my mother once owned this necklace?”
“She showed it to me one day when I happened to admire it. Its story is an intriguing one. Not the sort of thing you forget.”
“And did you know she was wearing it the day she died?”
A faint widening of the eyes was Jarvis’s only sign of reaction. “No. No, I didn’t. How…curious.”
The memory of that cold brush of dead flesh against his hand nagged at Sebastian. Curious, he leaned forward to study the woman before him. Her fingertips were already turning blue, the muscles of her neck stiff with the rigor of death. Yet the skin of her face seemed unnaturally pink. “How long has it been?” he asked Jarvis.
“How long since what?”
“Since the Prince was found with the Marchioness in his arms. Two hours, would you say? Less?”
“Less, I’d say. Why?”
Reaching out, Sebastian rested his palm against Lady Anglessey’s smooth young cheek. It was cool to the touch. “She’s cold,” said Sebastian. “She shouldn’t be this cold.”
He glanced over at the glowing coals on the hearth. His years in the army had taught him only too well what the passage of time does to a dead body. Heat could accelerate the processes of death, he knew. But it should at least have kept the body warm.
Jarvis took a step closer. “What are you suggesting?”
Sebastian frowned. “I’m not certain. Have either of the Prince’s physicians seen her?” The Regent had two personal physicians, Dr. Heberden and Dr. Carlyle. They were rarely far from his side.
“Naturally.”
“And?”
A derisive smile twisted the other man’s full lips. “Both supported the magistrate’s conclusion that she committed suicide.”
Sebastian let out a humorless huff that was not quite a laugh. “Of course.”
He rose to his feet. She still lay as he had found her, awkwardly curled on one side. Reaching out, he gently rolled her body toward him.
The disarrangement of her satin gown had left her back essentially bare. There was something violently sexual, almost intimate, about the way the dagger’s blade disappeared into her dark, livid flesh. Sebastian drew a quick breath.
Beside him, Jarvis was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Good God. She appears to have been badly beaten.”
Sebastian shook his head. “That’s not bruising. I’ve seen it happen before, with soldiers left on the battlefield. It’s as if all the blood in a body collects at its lowest points after death.”
“But she was lying on her side, not her back.”
“It would be difficult to do anything else with that dagger in her,” said Sebastian. Gently lifting the blue-black hair that tumbled around her neck, Sebastian released the necklace’s clasp and eased the thick, intricate chain away from her throat. “There’s a surgeon of my acquaintance who has made a study of these things—an Irishman by the name of Paul Gibson. He has a surgery near the base of Tower Hill. I want him sent for right away.”
“You want to bring a surgeon all the way down from London?” Jarvis laughed. “But it’ll be ten hours or more before he gets here. Surely we can find someone locally.”
Sebastian glanced at the man beside him. “To give us the same opinion as His Highness’s personal physicians?”
Jarvis said nothing.
“It’s important that no one else be allowed to enter this room until Gibson arrives. Can you arrange that?”
“Naturally.”
Sebastian turned in a slow circle, his gaze covering the chamber. “Do you notice something else strange?”
Jarvis regarded him with vague animosity. The earlier winning smile was long gone. “Should I?”
“That dagger was well aimed. It would have pierced her heart. Wounds of that nature typically bleed profusely.”
“Good God,” said Jarvis, his gaze lifting from the young Marchioness’s livid bare back to Sebastian’s face. “You’re right. There’s no blood.”
Half an hour later, Sebastian walked into the private parlor of his father’s rooms at the Anchor on the Marine Parade. In a tapestry-covered chair beside the empty hearth, the Earl of Hendon sat with an open book on his lap, his head nodding to one side as he dozed.
“You shouldn’t have waited up,” said Sebastian.
