“Like murder,” said Sebastian.
“Exactly. If you want my opinion—and I take it you must, since you have obviously sought me out to discuss this dreadful matter—the authorities could do worse than to look into the movements of that horrid Colonial.”
“Colonial? You mean an American?”
“That’s right. Franklin, I believe his name is. I understand he used to be governor of New Jersey or some such place, before the recent unpleasantness.”
“You mean
“Yes, that’s the one. He was leaving the Bishop’s chambers just as I arrived on Monday afternoon.”
“You saw the Bishop this past Monday?”
“I did,” said the dandy, swinging his walking stick by the handle. “It was my hope to persuade the Bishop of the advisability of giving up his intention of delivering an impassioned attack on slavery before the Lords this Thursday.”
“By appealing to his better nature?”
“Hardly. By threatening to have him blackballed from his clubs.” Quillian sniffed. “You’ll agree, I assume, that there is considerable difference between threatening to
Actually, threatening to blackball a man struck Sebastian as a
“As I said, the man was leaving as I arrived. Their exchange had obviously been heated, for as I entered the antechamber, I heard the Bishop say it would be a dark day in hell before he ever had dealings with a traitor’s son. To which Franklin replied . . .” Here the exquisite hesitated, as if suddenly overcome by an eleventh-hour attack of scruples at the realization that he might be implicating a man in murder.
Sebastian dutifully prompted, “Yes?”
“To which Franklin replied, ‘Hell is where men such as yourself belong.’ ” Quillian glanced over at Sebastian expectantly.
Sebastian said, “You’re suggesting, I take it, that Franklin meant it as a threat?”
“Well, it could certainly be construed as such, could it not?”
“Perhaps. You wouldn’t have any idea what their exchange was about?”
“I’m afraid not.” Quillian brought the back of one hand to his forehead. “Merciful heavens. I do believe I am in danger of beginning to
A couple of chairmen lounging before a nearby public house jerked to attention and rushed toward him. “Carlton House,” said Quillian, settling back against the sedan chair’s quilted squabs.
“One more thing,” said Sebastian, resting a hand on the chair frame to delay him. “Exactly where were you last night?”
Quillian’s eyes widened in a show of indignation. “Why, with the Prince.”
“All evening?”
“Of course,” he snapped, and nodded to the chairmen to move on.
Sebastian took a step back, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun as he watched the chairmen trot away.
Chapter 11
One hand wrapped tightly around her kite’s spar, the young girl raced down the grassy slope at the edge of Green Park, knees kicking against the muslin of her simple gown. She was a plain child, somewhere between twelve and fourteen years of age, with the nondescript brown hair and plump cheeks of her famous forebear, Benjamin Franklin. As Sebastian watched, the breeze filled the kite’s red sails, flapping the silk. She held tight, shouting with delight to the small, rotund man who loped ahead of her.
William Franklin held a stout stick wound with the kite’s line in one hand, the other hand playing out the twine as he ran. He was dressed in the frock coat and buckled breeches of an earlier age, his stocking-clad calves flashing in short, rapid steps as he hollered, “Now!”
The girl leapt up, releasing the kite. For a moment it dipped, threatening to crash to earth. Then the wind caught the sails and it soared high, a crimson splash against the clear blue sky.
“Take the line, quickly,” shouted William Franklin, holding out the stick. She snatched it with a gay laugh, her skirts swirling around her as she raced across the park, the kite sailing above her.
Breathing heavily, Franklin bent to rest his hands on his knees. His plump cheeks were flushed and damp, but his small eyes danced with merriment as his gaze followed the plain, brown-haired girl with the kite.
“Your granddaughter?” said Sebastian, walking up to him.
The old man straightened. “Ellen. I’ve raised her myself from the time she was a wee babe.” His eyes narrowed. “I know you, don’t I?”
“Yes, although I’m surprised you remember me. The name’s Devlin,” said Sebastian, shaking the elderly gentleman’s hand. “I came to one of your lectures on the Gulf Stream, many years ago.”
William Franklin nodded to the girl with the kite. “It was Ellen’s father—my son, Temple—who helped my father chart the stream, you know. On a voyage between London and America.”
“I know.”
“You’ve an interest in water currents?”
They turned to walk together across the grass. “I believe a man should strive to remain aware of the scientific advances of his day, yes.”
“Hmm. Yet somehow, I don’t think you’ve sought me out to talk about water temperatures, have you, Lord Devlin?”
At the use of his title, Sebastian shifted to face the small American.
Franklin smiled. “I knew your father many years ago—although I doubt he ever told you of our acquaintance.”
“No. He didn’t.”
Franklin’s head turned as he followed his granddaughter’s progress across the park. “We shared a ship’s voyage together, once. Lord Hendon had been visiting the Colonies, while I . . . I was beginning my life of exile.”
He was silent a moment. The humor that had briefly animated his features had gone, leaving his face bleak and sorrowful. “I’d just lost my first wife. She died while I was being held in a rebel prison.” He let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “I must beg your pardon for sounding maudlin. The older I get, the more the memory of those days lies heavily upon my heart.”
They stood together, heads thrown back as they watched the kite dip and soar above them. After a moment, Franklin said, “You’re here because of Bishop Prescott, I assume?”
Sebastian glanced over at him. “How did you know?”
Franklin tapped one snuff-stained finger against his temple. “I’m not in my dotage yet. You might have a passing interest in science, but your real passion is murder. It’s not difficult to infer that someone told you I exchanged heated words with the Bishop of London recently.”
“It’s true then?”
“Oh, yes. Just because I’m not in my dotage doesn’t mean I can’t be foolish.”
Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I run an informal school for some local children—nothing fancy, just a small group of lads who gather in my parlor for an hour or so in the evening to learn the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic. Ever since my Mary died, I’ve been finding it more and more difficult to keep the sessions going. I knew Prescott was an advocate of education for the poor, so I was hoping he might be able to find a place for a couple of the brighter boys in one of the city’s charity schools.” His lips tightened into a thin line. “I should have known better.”
“He refused?”
