The bay nosed Sebastian’s pockets, looking for a carrot. “What about Barclay Carmichael? Did you know him?”
A muscle twitched along the man’s handsome jawline, his nostrils flaring on a quickly indrawn breath. “I know where you’re going with this.”
“I should rather think you would,” said Sebastian, his attention seemingly all for the horse. “That’s what happens when you acquire a reputation for torture and mutilation. Young men start showing up butchered, and suspicion naturally turns toward you.”
Quail’s chest swelled, the brass on his regimentals gleaming in the late-afternoon light. “I did what I did in Portugal for King and country.”
“And loved every minute of it, didn’t you?” Sebastian turned to study the man beside him. “So what happened? Did you acquire a taste for it, and then find you missed it when you had nothing to do besides parade up and down the Mall and provide an ornamental backdrop for the Prince?”
Quail stared back at him, breathing hard but saying nothing.
The afternoon sun struck the dust in the air, turning it to gold. The smell of expensive horseflesh and manure drifted on the afternoon breeze. “Where were you Saturday night, anyway?” Sebastian asked.
“At home. In bed with my wife.” Quail leaned in close, his blue eyes like ice. “Why? Whose bed were you in?
Sebastian smiled. “Not my wife’s.” He started to turn away.
Quail stopped him, his voice rising. “You’re wrong about this. You hear me, Devlin? You’re wrong. I had nothing to do with either Carmichael or Stanton.”
“Really?” Sebastian gathered the bay’s lead and slapped it against the captain’s chest. “Then why are you lying?”
Sebastian stood in the shadows of the auction yard’s Palladian facade and watched as Quail glanced quickly around, then disappeared into one of the subscription rooms.
“Follow him,” Sebastian told Tom. “I want to know where he goes, whom he sees.”
Tom pulled his hat low enough to shade his eyes and grinned. “Aye, gov’nor.”
Charles, Lord Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to his nostrils and sniffed. He was a big man, tall and fleshy, with large appetites and a power unmatched by any in England.
Although he could claim a distant kinship to the King, Jarvis owed his position of power not so much to his birth as to the nearly incomparable brilliance of his intellect, his shrewd ability to manipulate men, and a fierce dedication to King and country that no one could question. If it weren’t for Jarvis, the Hanovers would have lost their fragile hold on the throne of England long ago, and both the Regent and the old King knew it. Or at least, the King knew it when he was in his right mind, which was seldom these days.
Jarvis kept offices in both St. James’s Palace and Carlton House, although it was at Carlton House that he spent most of his time since the proclamation of the Regency some seven months before. His own house, in Berkeley Square, he visited as seldom as possible. The place was overrun with females, a species for which Jarvis had little patience and even less tenderness. His mother was a foul-tempered, grasping harpy, his wife an idiot, while his daughter, Hero…Jarvis felt his chest burn and rose to pour himself a brandy. At the age of twenty-five, Hero was headstrong and stubborn, forever engaged in a nauseating string of good works and unlikely ever to wed.
Once Jarvis had had a son, a weak-willed namby-pamby named David. But David was dead, which left only Hero. If she’d been born a son, Jarvis would have been fiercely proud of her—except for those radical notions of hers, of course. As it was, she was a sore trial to him.
He took a sip of his brandy. The woman he’d ordered brought to him today was of a sort he understood well. A whore, she used her beauty and the ecstasy to be found between her legs to entice and ensnare men. It mattered not whether she served the French out of conviction or for greed. She would tell Jarvis what he wanted to know and allow herself to be used, or he would crush her. Her and Devlin both, if need be.
The discreet knock at his door brought his head around. He watched Kat Boleyn sweep into his chamber with a regal bearing that Princess Caroline and her horsey daughter, Charlotte, would do well to emulate. She held her head high and was pretending not to be afraid, although he knew she was. Only a fool wouldn’t be afraid, and this little actress was no fool.
She was a beautiful woman, even if she wasn’t his type. Jarvis’s taste ran to delicate, flaxen-haired women, while Kat Boleyn was dark and tall. She fixed him with a fierce blue stare and said, “I understand you wanted to see me.”
“Admirable,” he said, and saw her eyebrows rise in inquiry and surprise. “But unnecessary. We both know why you’re here. I trust you won’t waste either my time or yours with protestations of innocence.”
“It’s difficult to protest my innocence when I don’t know what I’m being accused of.” She had her voice flawlessly under control.
Jarvis took another sip of his brandy. He did not offer her wine; nor did he invite her to sit. “Your association with the French is known. Has been known, actually, for quite some time now.”
“Really? If this is a fishing expedition, I’m not biting.” She turned toward the door. “May I go now?”
He went to lounge in a chair beside the empty hearth, his legs crossed in front of him. “No.”
She hesitated, then swung slowly to face him again.
“We have a report, compiled by two of our agents last winter. A copy of it is there on the table.” He nodded to the black notebook that lay on a nearby ebony side table. “Do take a look at it. I’m convinced you’ll find it fascinating reading.”
She picked up the book with a hand that did not tremble and flipped through the pages. Once or twice she paused, her lips parting on a quickly indrawn breath. When she finished, she set the book aside and looked up at him, her famous blue eyes huge in a pale face.
“I deny it all.”
“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t bring you here to discuss the contents of that most interesting little book.”
“Then why am I here?”
Jarvis folded his hands together and rested them on his broad chest. “As you are no doubt aware, Monsieur Pierrepont’s activities on behalf of Paris were known to us. We left him alone because it suited our purposes. But his hasty departure last February has disrupted what was a nice, tidy situation. Our agents tell us Napoleon has a new spymaster in London. We want his name. You’re going to give it to us.”
She started to say something, but he held up his hand, stopping her. “It’s immaterial if you know his name now or not. But if you do not know it, I suggest you learn it. Quickly. You have until Friday.”
She stared back at him, her head held high, her posture defiant. He knew what she was thinking. He smiled.
“You’re thinking I’ve given you something of a reprieve. That left to your own devices until Friday, you will simply flee the country for France. That would not be wise. You are being watched. If you make any attempt to flee—or to warn the gentleman whose name I seek—you will be seized.” He pushed up from the chair and walked toward her. “I have men in my employ who enjoy hurting people, and they are very good at what they do. It wouldn’t take them long to extract whatever information you might possess. Only, I’m afraid they wouldn’t stop there. Before they finished with you, you would no longer be pretty. Or whole. You would be begging them to kill you, and they would. Eventually.”
Reaching out, he touched her cheek. Before she could stop herself, she flinched.
“And if that still is not enough to convince you of the wisdom of cooperating, then I suggest you give some thought to the consequences for Viscount Devlin, should it become known that his mistress is a French spy. You think you wouldn’t implicate him, but believe me, by the time my men were through with you, you would.”
She stared at him with a cold, murderous fury that almost gave him pause. He dropped his hand from her cheek, but he was careful not to turn his back on her. “You have until Friday.”
