“And he believed it? He accepted that she is dead?”
Cedric’s gaze shifted away. “I don’t know. He said he didn’t. I mean, it’s hard to believe, isn’t it, with her body burned like that? But he’s—he’s not himself. I’m worried about him.”
Sebastian felt his lips curl into a wry smile. “You want me to stop asking questions about Rachel. Is that what you’re saying?”
“She’s dead! Dead and buried. Knowing what happened to her isn’t going to bring her back, but it could very well kill our father.” Cedric jerked his head toward the back of the burned-out house. “You want to find out what happened to the women in this house, fine. But leave my family out of it!”
In the sudden silence that followed his outburst, Sebastian could hear the rattle of a shutter being thrust up. He glanced down at his clasped hands, then up at the other man’s tight-lipped face. Cedric Fairchild might have been to war, but he suddenly looked very, very young. Sebastian said, “This man who’s missing . . . Max Ludlow. Did you know him well?”
Cedric frowned, as if confused by the shift in subject. “I’ve met him a few times. But I don’t know him well, no. I never served with him.”
“He was in the hussars?”
“Until he sold out, yes.”
“Was he ever wounded?”
“In Argentina, I believe.” Cedric’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Sebastian was thinking about a dead man in a brothel room with an old scar like a saber slash running diagonally across his belly. But all he said was, “Just wondering.” He glanced across the street at the cheesemonger’s shop.
Pippa had disappeared.
“It don’t make no sense,” said Tom from his perch at the rear of Sebastian’s curricle. “It’s near three o’clock. ’Ow can this Lady Melbourne be ’avin’ a picnic breakfast?”
Sebastian neatly featheredged a corner. They were passing through Putney on their way to Kew, the site of Lady Melbourne’s highly anticipated breakfast. “Breakfasts are like morning calls, which is to say they take place in the afternoon. When you don’t generally get up before midday, it shifts things a bit.”
“You reckon this Mr. Ramsey will be there?”
“He has a sister he’s launching into society. Lady Melbourne’s picnic breakfast is one of the most important events of the Season. He’ll be there.”
They arrived at Kew to find the wildflower-strewn hillside near the pagoda crowded with linen-draped tables set with gleaming silver and crystal. “Gor,” said Tom, practically falling off his perch as he craned around to stare. “ ’Ow’d they get all this out ’ere?”
“The servants brought the tables and trimmings in wagons and set it up before her ladyship’s guests arrived.”
The tiger cast a thoughtful eye toward the clouds above. “And if’n it rains?”
“On Lady Melbourne’s picnic?” Sebastian handed over the reins and jumped down. “It wouldn’t dare.”
Winding his way through liveried servants and ladies with parasols, Sebastian was aware of his sister, Amanda, glaring at him from near the towering, dragon-roofed pagoda. He deliberately avoided her, only to fall into the clutches of the Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Devlin,” said Perceval, hailing him. “Not usually your type of scene, is it?”
“Nor yours, I’d have said.”
The Prime Minister raised his wineglass with a wry grimace. “I have six daughters, which means I’ll be fighting flies and ants for my food for many years to come, I’m afraid. What is it about the concept of alfresco dining that so captivates the fair sex?”
Sebastian nodded to where the Prime Minister’s daughter—a vision in white muslin and chip straw—stood laughing with a friend. “It does show them to advantage, don’t you agree?”
“There is that,” agreed Perceval. He took another sip of his wine and said with feigned nonchalance, “Your father tells me you’ve no interest in politics.”
“No.”
The Prime Minister looked nonplussed. “We could use a man like you in the House of Commons.”
Sebastian hid a smile. “I doubt it.”
“There’s trouble brewing over the Orders in Council, you know. Bloody Americans. They’ve had their sights set on annexing Canada for thirty years now. There are reports they’re planning an invasion and using the Orders in Council as an excuse.”
“You’re expecting a revolt in the Commons, are you?”
“There’s a formal Inquiry scheduled for Monday evening’s session. But it’s not just the Commons. It’s the Lords, too. Fairchild is leading the pack. He’s saying we ought to rescind the Orders. Appease the Americans.”
“There’s no doubt the timing would be bad for another war,” said Sebastian. “We’re already rather occupied with Napoleon.”
“Hence the Americans’ bellicosity. It’s bloody opportunism.”
“They’re learning, aren’t they?” said Sebastian, scanning the open hillside. He spotted Tristan Ramsey’s
