Jarvis was annoyed.
He wasn’t entirely certain how Devlin had managed to coerce him into agreeing to this early-morning meeting with the Prince, but somehow the Viscount had succeeded. Even under the best of circumstances, the Regent was rarely coherent before noon. As it was, last night’s shock had come close to oversetting him entirely.
The Prince lay sprawled in silk-dressing-gowned splendor against the tufted velvet cushions of a sofa placed close to his bedchamber’s roaring fire, his pupils narrowed down to pinpoints by laudanum, his lower lip trembling with petulance. The heavy satin drapes at the windows were drawn fast against the morning sun.
“You think I don’t hear what people are saying, but I do. I do! They’re actually suggesting that I might have killed Lady Anglessey.
Jarvis kept his voice soothing but firm. “We’re trying, sir. Which is what makes it vital that you tell Lord Devlin precisely what happened last night.”
Swallowing hard, the Prince glanced over to where the Viscount stood with his flawlessly tailored shoulders resting negligently against the Chinese papered wall, his arms folded at his chest, his attention seemingly focused on the highly polished toes of his Hessians. George might not understand precisely why Devlin had agreed to be drawn into this nasty little affair; he might even half believe the young Viscount to be guilty of murder himself. But Jarvis knew the Prince was shrewd enough to understand that the attempts by his doctors and the magistrate to portray the Marchioness’s death as suicide had done him more harm than good. George needed help, and he recognized it.
Covering his eyes with one hand, the Prince let go a shaky breath. “God help me, I don’t know.”
Devlin looked up, his expression one of mild interest rather than the irritation Jarvis had expected. “Think back to earlier in the evening, sir,” said the Viscount, pushing away from the wall. “How did you happen to be in the cabinet with the Marchioness?”
George let his hand fall limply to his side. “She sent me a note, suggesting I meet her.”
Jarvis knew a quiet flare of surprise, but Devlin—unaware of the implications of this statement—simply asked, “Do you still have the note?”
The Prince’s face went blank. He shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. Why would I keep it?”
“Do you remember precisely what it said?”
The Regent had a reputation for telling tall tales, for boasting of imagined feats on the hunting field and entertaining guests at his table with fanciful accounts of leading troops into battle when the only uniforms he’d ever worn were ceremonial ones. But for all his practice, George remained an appallingly bad liar. Now, his lips threatening to curve into a betraying smile, the Prince stared back at Devlin and said baldly, “Not precisely, no. Only that she wished to meet me in the Yellow Cabinet.”
Impossible for Jarvis to tell whether Devlin read the lie or not. The young man had a rare ability to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. He said, “So you found her there? In the Yellow Cabinet?”
“Yes. She was lying on the sofa before the fire.” The Prince sat forward almost eagerly. “I’m certain of that. I remember admiring the gleam of the firelight over her bare shoulders.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“Yes. Of course.” A note of regal impatience crept into the Prince’s voice. “Surely you don’t expect me to remember precisely what I said?”
“Do you remember if she answered you?”
The Prince opened his mouth, then closed it. “I’m not certain,” he said after a moment. “I mean, I don’t
“One would think so,” said Devlin. “Unless she were already dead when you entered the room.”
The Prince’s normally ruddy cheeks paled. “Good God. Is that what you think? But…how is that possible? I mean, surely I would have noticed. Wouldn’t I?”
Devlin had his keen gaze fixed on the Prince’s face. And for one sliver of a moment Jarvis knew a rare whisper of misgiving, a brief questioning of the wisdom of his decision to draw the Viscount into this investigation.
“How long between the time you entered the chamber and when Lady Jersey threw open the door from the music room?” said Devlin, his voice deceptively casual.
The Prince plucked peevishly at the edge of his dressing gown. “I think…I rather think I might have fallen asleep.”
The implications were damning. A flicker of something showed in the younger man’s eyes. “Then you do have reason to be quite certain that the lady was not already dead when you first entered the room.”
The Prince’s cheeks flushed from unnaturally pale to sudden dark crimson as he realized the conclusion Devlin had inevitably drawn. “No, no,” he said in a rush. “It’s not what you think. I never touched her. I’m certain I didn’t. My ankle gave way as I was crossing the room toward her, and I sat down on one of the chairs.”
“And fell asleep?”
“Yes. I do sometimes. After a heavy meal.”
Devlin chose—wisely, Jarvis thought—not to respond to that. Pausing before a faux bamboo etagere tucked inside an arched niche, the Viscount ran his gaze over the artfully displayed collection of delicate ivory carvings. “How well acquainted were you with the Marchioness?” he asked, his attention all seemingly for the carvings.
George’s jaw jutted out mulishly. “I barely knew the woman.”
Devlin glanced over at the Prince. “Yet you weren’t surprised to receive a note from her, asking to meet you privately?”
