“But not yours?”
She pulled a face. “You know me; I’ve little patience for earnest clerics.”
Sebastian smiled. “The Archbishop of Canterbury himself being the notable exception.”
A rare bloom of color touched his aunt’s cheeks. “John is different,” she said, and looked away.
Sebastian studied his aunt’s plump, carefully rouged and powdered face. She had been married at the age of eighteen to the heir to the Duke of Claiborne, who assumed the title on the death of his father not long after the wedding. For fifty years she had reigned as one of the acknowledged queens of society, imperious, assured, and seemingly more than content with her lot in life. Odd that it had never occurred to Sebastian, until now, that the onetime Lady Henrietta St. Cyr might have nourished a
She said, “I know the Archbishop had hopes that Prescott would be named his successor. But it never would have happened.”
“Why’s that?”
“In theory, the selection of the new Archbishop of Canterbury will fall to the Prince Regent. But you know as well as I do that when it comes to affairs of state, Prinny doesn’t sneeze without consulting Jarvis first. And Prescott was far too reform-minded to ever find favor with Jarvis. You mark my words: When the time comes, Charles Manners-Sutton will be named Archbishop. Mark my words.”
“Jarvis’s dislike of Prescott was well-known?”
“To anyone who gave it much thought. The two men tangled on everything from slavery in the West Indies to child labor here in England.”
Interesting, thought Sebastian, that Miss Hero Jarvis hadn’t bothered to mention it.
“Not that I’m suggesting,” the Duchess continued, “that Jarvis had anything to do with the Bishop’s death— however convenient that death may be for him.”
“ ‘Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?’ ” quoted Sebastian softly.
The Duchess heaved to her feet with a soft grunt. “I assume your involvement in this affair is the reason you were seen walking with Miss Jarvis at the Chelsea Royal Hospital yesterday afternoon?”
“Good God,” said Sebastian. “Do you have spies everywhere?”
“Not spies. Observant connections. And while I know I have been pressing you of late to set about the business of selecting a wife, I wouldn’t want you to take that as in any way suggesting that you—”
Sebastian gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Never fear, Aunt; I have it on the best of authority that Miss Jarvis considers matrimony under England’s current laws a barbaric institution that gives husbands the same rights over their poor wives as an American master might exercise over his slave.”
“Good heavens; she said that?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” His aunt’s worried frown cleared. “Seeing as how you are here, why not take a moment to meet Lady Christine? She’s—”
“No, Aunt.”
“But she’s—”
“No.” Sebastian opened the door for her, then stopped her by saying, “Was there any connection that you know of between Jarvis and Sir Nigel Prescott?”
She hesitated, her brows drawing together in thought. “I believe there was something. . . .” She let out her breath in a harsh sigh, and shook her head. “I must be getting old. But don’t worry; it will come to me. Eventually.”
Chapter 16
Sebastian returned home that night to be met by his major domo.
“A packet arrived in your absence, my lord. From London House.”
“Thank you,” said Sebastian.
Carrying a branch of candles into the library, he slit the seal on the sheaf of papers and spread them open on his desk. The top sheet proved to be a curt note from the Bishop’s supercilious chaplain, Simon Ashley. Sebastian could imagine the cleric’s nose twitching with disapproval as he wrote it.
My lord Devlin,
It was signed with a single initial: “A.”
The next two pages had obviously been copied from the Bishop’s appointment diary by someone with a painfully neat hand, most likely the diary secretary. The Chaplain’s own annotations were, in contrast, hurried scrawls, although thorough.
Settling back in his chair, Sebastian ran through the list of names, dates, and times. Most of the Bishop’s appointments over the past week appeared to be routine meetings with church functionaries or parishioners. Sebastian found the appointment with William Franklin on Monday. Although late in the afternoon, it appeared to have been the Bishop’s first scheduled appointment of the day, and it was followed immediately by the meeting with Lord Quillian. Interestingly, the Bishop had also met with his nephew, Sir Peter Prescott, at four o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, the day of his death. For what purpose was not made clear.
Rising thoughtfully to his feet, Sebastian glanced through the previous week’s schedule again, but only one other name caught his attention: Miss Hero Jarvis.
In addition to her six-o’clock appointment on Tuesday, she had met with the Bishop of London no fewer than three times in the previous week.
Sebastian’s dreams took him many places.
Sometimes he dreamt of cannonballs that whistled through the air to explode in bloody geysers of mud and horseflesh and torn men. Sometimes he dreamt of the sharp stench of burned timbers and a child’s pale cheeks, brown eyes wide and sight-less. And then there were those dreaded nights when he dreamt of a woman with blue St. Cyr eyes, who touched her fingertips to his and then slipped away, lost to him forever.
She came to him again that night, as a storm blew in off the North Sea, bringing with it the bite of an unseasonably cool wind. He felt her soft lips tremble against his. Felt her tear-slicked cheek, warm and wet against his neck. Beneath his touch, her body shivered. . . .
And he knew a start of horror that brought him instantly, heart-poundingly awake.
He lay for a moment, his breath coming harsh and ragged. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to fill a glass with brandy.
He drank it down, shuddering. Setting aside the empty glass, he jerked open the drapes and threw up the sash. The growing wind scuttled heavy clouds across the dark sky and bathed his hot skin with the cool air of the night. In the street below, the oil lamp at the corner flickered, went out.
But Sebastian had the keen eyesight of a creature of the night. Resting his palms on the sill, he leaned forward, his attention caught by the figure of a man crouched in the pool of shadow cast by the front steps of the house opposite.
As Sebastian watched, the man raised a cheroot to his lips and drew deeply, the glowing embers illuminating his bony features and narrowed eyes.
“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian. Shoving away from the window, he snatched up his breeches and the small pistol with an ivory handle and double barrels he kept primed and ready, and turned toward the door.
Obadiah Slade had the lit cheroot halfway to his mouth when Sebastian pressed the muzzle of his flintlock against the man’s broad temple and drew back both hammers.
“Do the world a favor,” said Sebastian, “and give me an excuse to blow your brains out.”
