and still had anything good to say about him?”
Sebastian returned her smile. “I believe someone said he could be charming.”
“Oh, yes, he could indeed be charming. When he wished to be.” She reached out to pluck a pink hollyhock from the riot of blooms in the border beside them. “Do I shock you?”
“I admire your candor.”
She twirled the hollyhock back and forth between gloved fingers. “Thirty years ago I would not have been so honest. But three decades of living as neither wife nor widow have had their effect.”
She glanced back toward the terrace, to where a gardener in a smock was working manure into an empty flower bed. After a moment, she said, “I’ll be even more frank with you, Lord Devlin. I didn’t care what had happened to him, as long as he was indeed dead so that I would never have to see him again.” She raised her chin, her jaw hardening. “There; I’ve said it. Think of me what you will.”
He studied her pale, strained face. What manner of man, he wondered, could have inspired such passionate, enduring animosity in his gently bred young wife? And yet . . .
And yet, according to Lovejoy, she had wept when shown the evidence that Sir Nigel was, indeed, dead.
Aloud, Sebastian said, “I’m told Sir Nigel’s brother, Francis Prescott, was the priest in residence at St. Margaret’s at the time your husband disappeared.”
“Yes. He was a tremendous comfort to me at the time.” Turning away from the ancient moat, they followed a track that wound toward a distant copse of elms and chestnuts. “Why do you ask?”
“Do you remember the circumstances surrounding his decision to brick up the church’s crypt?”
“Very clearly. Francis had wanted to seal it off for some time. The smell was truly appalling, particularly in the heat of summer. And there were concerns that the air wafting up from the decomposing bodies might expose the congregation to disease. Unfortunately, the Dowager Lady Prescott—my late mother-in-law—was adamantly against the idea. She was determined to be buried in the crypt, beside two daughters who had died as children. She begged him to wait until after she was gone, and he did.”
“When did she die?”
“That June, not long before Sir Nigel disappeared. After her funeral, Francis moved quickly to have the crypt closed.”
“You never connected the sealing of the crypt with the disappearance of your husband?”
She turned to face him, her soft blue eyes wide in a pale face. “No. Why ever would I?”
“Yes.”
“Any idea as to why he might have changed his mind and gone to St. Margaret’s instead?”
She looked at him blankly. “No.”
“You can’t think of any reason he might have decided to visit the crypt?”
She shook her head. “I can’t imagine. It was such a frightful place.”
“What can you tell me of his activities in the days immediately preceding his disappearance?”
“His activities?” She made a vague gesture with one gloved hand. “How much do you remember about a particular point in time thirty years ago?”
“I wasn’t born thirty years ago.”
She gave a soft laugh. “No, I suppose you weren’t. Neither was my son.” She walked on for a moment, lost in memories of the past. Then she said, “As I recall, he was very busy in those last weeks, riding back and forth to London nearly every day for meetings at the Palace and at Whitehall. He was something of a leader in the Commons, you know—allied with Pitt. If he hadn’t died, he would probably have been named foreign secretary when the government was reorganized. I know he wanted the position. It’s one of the reasons he went on the mission to the Colonies.”
Sebastian drew up short. “Sir Nigel was in America?”
“Why, yes; didn’t you know? He’d only just returned.”
Sebastian watched the gardener load his tools in the now empty wheelbarrow and push it back toward the stables. The rattle of his rake and shovel carried clearly on the breeze as he bumped over heavy ground. It seemed oddly inevitable that Sir Nigel had only just returned from the American Colonies. Somehow, everything kept circling back to the Americas.
Sebastian said, “In 1782, we were still at war with the rebels.”
“Yes, but there was growing opposition in Parliament to the King’s determination to continue the war effort. In the end, Lord North and the King agreed to send a mission to evaluate the true state of affairs in the Colonies.”
“Who were the other members of the mission?” Sebastian asked, although somehow, he already knew the answer.
She tipped her head to one side and hesitated, as if wondering how he would receive what she was about to say. “There were three of them: Sir Nigel; Charles, Lord Jarvis; and your own father, the Earl of Hendon.”
Chapter 23
Sebastian found his father at the Horse Guards.
“Walk with me,” said Sebastian, coming upon the Earl in the small circular hall overlooking Whitehall.
Hendon glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel of the vestibule’s empty fireplace. “I’ve a meeting with Channing at—”
“This won’t take long.”
Hendon raised his eyebrows, his jaw working thoughtfully in that way he had as he studied his son’s face in silence. “Very well,” he said, and turned toward the door.
Sebastian waited until they’d reached the gravel path that ran along the canal in St. James’s Park before saying, “Thirty years ago, you were one of three men sent by the King to evaluate the situation in the American Colonies.”
Hendon’s forehead furrowed in a frown. “That’s right. Why do you ask?”
“The other two men were Charles, Lord Jarvis, and Sir Nigel Prescott?”
“Ah. I see. Yes, Sir Nigel was with us. I heard his body had finally been found. Who’d have thought, after all these years?”
“How long after the three of you returned from America did Sir Nigel disappear?”
Hendon’s lips pursed with the effort of memory. “A week. Perhaps less.”
Sebastian frowned. Lady Prescott had spoken of “weeks.” Yet after thirty years, one’s memory might be expected to grow distorted. “Did you think at the time his disappearance might have something to do with your recent mission to America?”
Hendon glanced at him sharply. “No. Why would I?”
Sebastian studied his father’s unexpectedly closed, angry face. “I don’t know. I’m not entirely certain I understand why the three of you were sent to the Colonies in the first place.”
Hendon was silent for a moment, the fingers of his right hand running absently up and down his watch chain. He said, “The King took the Americans’ rebellion against his authority personally. Very personally. He was determined they be punished for it. The problem was, once the French and Spanish entered the war against us, our ability to actually subdue the colonists was seriously compromised. We simply didn’t have the troops to fight the French and Spanish in every corner of the world, and occupy the rebellious colonies, too. We’d send the Army into an area and occupy it, but as soon as the Army left, the rebels would take control of it again.”
“There was opposition in Parliament to continuing the war?”
“That’s right. But the King remained adamant that it could be won. His idea was to concentrate on fighting the French in India and the West Indies while crushing the Americans financially—basically by destroying their maritime trade, burning their coastal towns, and supporting the natives on the frontiers, until the rebels came begging to be taken back under the King’s protection.”
“Even after Yorktown?”
