curtained bays and gilded columns, its rich red brocades and massively carved chairs. The Circular Dining Room, with its mirrored walls reflecting a two-hundred-foot table that stretched out into the Conservatory, was sure to be the talk of the town for weeks to come.
At half past two, supper would be announced, and then everyone would marvel at the real serpentine stream he’d had confected to run down the center of his table and meander around the massive silver tureens and serving dishes. Flowing between banks built up from moss and rocks, with real flowers and miniature bridges, the river featured live gold and silver fish and created an amazing spectacle. He just hoped the fish didn’t start dying.
Looking out across a garden filled with flambeaux and Chinese lanterns, George felt a thrill of pride. For those guests not fortunate enough to sit at the Prince’s table, there was an enormous supper tent festooned with gilded ropes and flowers. Then his gaze fell on the tall, dark-haired figure working his way through the crowds, and George’s smile slipped.
Viscount Devlin was correctly, even exquisitely attired in evening dress, with knee breeches and silver-buckled shoes. But heads still turned his way and conversations lagged when he walked past.
“We need to talk,” said the Viscount, coming up to where George’s cousin, Jarvis, stood chatting with the Comte de Lille.
“Good God,” said Jarvis with a laugh. “Not now.”
Devlin’s smile never slipped, but his terrible yellow eyes narrowed in a way that sent a shiver up George’s spine and had him groping for his smelling salts.
“Now,” said Devlin.
“IT WOULD HAVE BEEN CONSIDERABLY MORE CONVENIENT,” said Jarvis, producing an enameled gold snuffbox from his pocket and flipping it open with one practiced finger, “if you could have discovered Lady Anglessey had been killed by a jealous lover. We can hardly tell people this tale, now, can we?”
Sebastian simply stared at him. They were in a small withdrawing room set apart from the main state apartments in Carlton House. But the voices and laughter of the Prince’s two thousand guests, the hurried footsteps of the servants, the clink of fine china and glassware were like a roar around them.
Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril. “We’ll have to place the blame on Varden.”
Sebastian gave a short laugh. “Why not? It worked with Pierrepont. Whatever would we do without the French?”
Jarvis sniffed. “You didn’t, by any chance, come upon the names of the other conspirators?”
“No. But there are others—you can be certain of that.”
“Yes.” Jarvis dusted his fingers. “I doubt they’ll make a move in the immediate future, however. Not after this. Particularly if we shift the regiments around and keep the Prince here in London.”
The Prince wouldn’t be happy with the change of plans, Sebastian knew. His Royal Highness was already fretting, anxious to return to Brighton. The people of Brighton didn’t tend to boo him when he drove down the street the way they did in London.
“And the necklace?” said Jarvis. “Did you ever discover how Lady Anglessey came to be wearing it?”
There was something in the big man’s smile that told Sebastian that Jarvis knew: he knew that Sebastian’s mother still lived, even if he didn’t quite understand how her necklace had come to be clasped around the throat of a murdered woman in Brighton.
Sebastian slipped the triskelion from his pocket. Just the sight of it stirred within him a well of anger and hurt that was suddenly more than he could bear. He held it for a moment, its smoothly polished stone cool against his palm. What had made his mother change her mind all those years ago in France? he wondered. Why had she decided to give it up to Guinevere after all?
“No,” said Sebastian, returning Jarvis’s lying smile with one of his own. “But perhaps you can see that it is returned to her.”
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the necklace onto the table at the big man’s elbow. Then he turned and walked out of the room.
The churchyard of St. Anne’s lay peaceful and quiet, a place of wind-tossed trees and dark shadows trembling over tombstones that loomed pale in the moonlight. But near where he knew Guinevere Anglessey to lie, Sebastian could see a glimmer of light.
Directing his coachman to pull up, Sebastian threaded his way through the trees. The light was too constant to belong to grave robbers. It was a common enough practice for families to hire a watchman to sit through the night beside the grave of a newly buried loved one. In the depths of a cold winter it was sometimes necessary to maintain the vigil for months. The heat of summer usually made a body unusable to the surgeons in a week.
Only, this was no hired guard. The Marquis of Anglessey himself had come to keep watch over the body of his beautiful young wife. He sat beside her tomb in a campaign chair, a rug pulled over his lap despite the warmth of the night. A blunderbuss lay across his knees.
“Devlin here,” Sebastian called in a clear, ringing voice. “Don’t shoot.”
“Devlin?” The old man shifted in his chair, his face contorting as he squinted into the darkness. “What are you doing here?”
Sebastian stepped into the circle of light cast by a brass lantern and hunkered down beside the old man’s chair. “I’ve something to tell you,” he said. And there, beside Guinevere Anglessey’s grave with the night wind soft against his cheek, Sebastian told Guinevere’s husband how she had died, and why.
When Sebastian had finished, the Marquis sat in silence for some moments, his head bowed, his breath coming slow and heavy. Then he lifted his head to fix Sebastian with a fierce stare. “This woman—this Lady Audley. You’re certain she’s dead?”
“Yes.”
