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 current 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.
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
