has India to do with my son’s death?”
“Sir Humphrey and Lord Stanton were both return passengers aboard a ship called the
He watched her lips part on a quickly indrawn breath. “You think that’s the connection between the deaths of Dominic Stanton and my son? The
“Considering what happened to Adrian Bellamy on Tuesday night, yes.”
She brought up one hand to press her fingers to her lips. “You mean the young naval lieutenant killed on the docks? That was Captain Bellamy’s son?”
“Yes.”
“But his body wasn’t…” Her voice trailed off.
“No. But there is evidence his death is connected, nevertheless.
She shook her head. “No. I do sometimes travel with my husband, but not on that trip, thankfully.” She turned to continue walking, the soft soles of her shoes whispering over the worn stones. “You’ve heard what happened to them?”
“Yes.”
“Sir Humphrey was ill for months after his return. I sometimes think he’s never entirely recovered from the ordeal.”
“Do you know who else was on that ship besides your husband and Lord Stanton?”
She hesitated, the frown lines between her eyebrows deepening with thought. Then she shook her head. “No. There were some six or seven others, but I don’t recall their names.”
“Was one of them a clergyman?”
“Actually, yes. A missionary and his wife returning from some years’ stay in India. I remember because he annoyed Sir Humphrey excessively.” Her gaze flickered over to Sebastian. “Why?”
“There was a young man murdered down in Kent last Easter, in Avery. The son of one Reverend William Thornton.”
“And this Reverend Thornton was on the
“I don’t know for certain yet, but I suspect so, yes. I do know that he and his wife spent some years on a mission in India.”
They walked along in silence for a time, their footsteps echoing in the stone-vaulted corridor. At last she said, “It makes no sense. Why would someone be killing the children of the
“Someone who wanted revenge, perhaps.”
“Revenge for what?”
Sebastian met her gaze and held it, and the air between them crackled with all that remained unsaid. The desperate, starving men and women of the
Lady Carmichael’s eyes widened. She shook her head fiercely, her throat working hard as if she were forced to swallow a rise of bile. “No. You’re wrong. Nothing like that happened on that ship.”
“Can you be certain?”
Her voice throbbed with emotion. “My husband is a hard man, Lord Devlin. A hard, brilliant man who can be brutal in business if he must. But only in business. He could never, ever have done what you are suggesting. Never.”
Sebastian stared off across the now silent, half-ruined cloister, all that remained of what had once been a thriving community. “Most of us probably think we could never do such a thing,” he said. “Yet when faced with the stark choice between that and death, I suspect we’d all be uncomfortably surprised by how few would choose death.”
“You’re wrong,” she said again. But she was no longer looking at him, and Sebastian suspected she spoke the words in a futile effort to convince herself.
Kat was seated at the elegant little writing table in her morning room, attempting to draft a terse note to the Irishman Aiden O’Connell when she heard Devlin’s rich voice in the hall below, mingling with the desultory tones of her maid, Elspeth. Quickly shoving the note out of sight, Kat stood and turned just as he entered the room.
He was dressed in doeskin riding breeches and top boots, and brought with him the crisp scent of the September morning. He caught her to him for a quick kiss and said, “Come ride with me in the park.”
She held him just an instant too long, then laughed. “I’m not dressed for riding.”
“So change.” He touched his fingers to her cheek, his expression suddenly, unexpectedly serious. “I’ve hardly seen you the last few days, and when I do, I find you looking…tense.”
The urge to confide the truth to him welled up within her, hot and desperate. Yet even more than she feared Jarvis, she found she feared watching the love in Devlin’s eyes turn to hate. And so she kept silent, although the need to confide in him remained, filling her with a bittersweet ache.
She brushed her lips across his and somehow managed to summon up a smile. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?” he said with exaggerated incredulity, then threw up his hands to catch her playful punch.
Some half an hour later, as they trotted side by side through the streets of the city, he told her of Captain Bellamy, his beautiful young Brazilian wife, and little Francesca. Kat knew a pang of fear when he told her of the knife-wielding assassin on the Thames. And then he told her of last night’s meeting with Charles, Lord Jarvis.
She listened to him in silence. “And you believed him?” she asked when Devlin had finished.
He glanced over at her, a light frown touching his forehead. “Sir Henry is checking into the particulars of the ship. But yes, I believe him. It simply fits too well. I suppose even Jarvis must tell the truth at times.”
She made an inelegant sound deep in her throat. “Without an ulterior motive? Never.”
She was uncomfortably aware of him watching her as they turned through the gates of the park and rode in silence for a moment. She could fool all of London from the stage, but she couldn’t fool this man.
He said, “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
She considered trying to laugh the question away, but knew she would never convince him. Forcing herself to meet his fierce yellow stare, she said in a low, strained voice, “I’m sorry. I can’t speak of it.”
He continued to hold her gaze, his face drawn with worry. But he said no more.
She looked away, her attention caught by a small man in a round hat and spectacles hurrying toward them across the park. As she watched, he raised one hand in a discreet attempt to catch their attention.
Devlin reined in and swung to his feet.
“My lord,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, coming up to them. Pivoting, he gave Kat an awkward little bow. “Miss Boleyn. My apologies for the interruption. Your young tiger told me I might find you here, and I thought you would be interested to hear that I’ve been to the Board of Trade.”
“And?” said Devlin.
“Their records of the inquiry into the
Kat heard Devlin utter a soft oath. “You think someone could have taken the records?” she asked.
“Surely not,” said Sir Henry. Reaching into his coat, the magistrate drew forth a slip of paper. “I was, however, able to ascertain the names of the owners of both the ship and the cargo.”
“What was she carrying?” asked Devlin, taking the paper.
“Tea. In an effort to stave off the mutiny, Captain Bellamy was forced to allow the crew to throw the entire shipment overboard in an attempt to delay the ship’s sinking. The owner of the cargo—a Mr. Wesley Oldfield—was ruined. Utterly ruined. He’s in debtors’ prison, at the Marshalsea.”
