What Remains of Heaven

“In point of fact, the information was very tightly held.”

“But surely your absence from London would have been remarked upon?”

Jarvis put his fingertips together, wondering how much the Viscount knew, and how much he merely suspected. “Not really. It’s easy to lose track of the movements of one’s acquaintances, is it not? What with house parties and weeks of seclusion in hunting lodges and the need to attend to one’s estates.”

A muscle bunched along the Viscount’s jaw, but he said nothing.

“In Sir Nigel’s case, of course, things were a bit more difficult,” Jarvis continued, “owing to the proximity of his estate to London. I believe he gave it out he was traveling in Ireland.”

There was a tense pause. Jarvis waited for the inevitable query to come. But either Devlin already knew the truth, or he couldn’t bring himself to pose such a question to Jarvis, because all he said was, “Given your opposition to Francis Prescott’s translation to Canterbury, I find your previous association with his dead brother . . .” Devlin hesitated, as if searching for the right word. “Shall we say, suggestive?”

Jarvis pushed to his feet. “I wouldn’t refine too much on it, if I were you. I hardly see how what happened to Sir Nigel thirty years ago could have any bearing on the Bishop’s more recent demise—even if the two men did meet their fate in the same somewhat bizarre locale.”

The Viscount smiled sardonically. “Men whom you oppose do have an unfortunate tendency to turn up dead.”

“True. But I had no quarrel with Sir Nigel.”

“You considered him bad ton.”

“Believe me, if I went around removing men simply because they happened to be bad ton, London would soon be very thin of company.”

“Yet you did oppose Francis Prescott’s translation to Canterbury.”

“True again. However, the situation hardly called for drastic measures. Do you seriously think the Prince would make such an important appointment without consulting me?”

“There’s a difference between consultation and capitulation.”

“You underestimate my powers of persuasion.”

Devlin went to stand at the window overlooking the Mall, his eyes narrowing as he watched the traffic below.

Jarvis studied the younger man’s strained profile. “I hear the priest in residence at St. Margaret’s has been slain, as well,” said Jarvis. “I don’t suppose it has occurred to you that you are allowing a penchant for high drama to cause you to read too much into all this? That perhaps someone in the neighborhood of Tanfield Hill simply does not like priests?”

Devlin glanced over at him, a hint of amusement touching his lips. “And Sir Nigel’s thirty-year-old corpse mummifying in the church’s crypt?”

“Could well be irrelevant to the current murders. Curious, but irrelevant.”

“It could be,” agreed Devlin, pushing away from the window.

“But you don’t believe it is?”

“No,” said Devlin, turning toward the door. “No, I don’t.”

Chapter 30

Sebastian sat, alone, in a leather armchair beside the empty hearth in the library of the St. Cyr townhouse in Grosvenor Square. The dark shadows of evening had long since filled the room. But when one of Hendon’s footmen came to light the candles in the wall sconces, Sebastian waved him away.

Outside, the rain had begun again. Sebastian could hear it drumming on the lime trees in the square, hear the splash of carriage wheels as members of the haut ton left their elegant townhouses for their evening rounds of dinners and card parties, routs and balls. Sebastian raised his glass of brandy and took a slow swallow that burned all the way down.

He was on his third brandy when he caught the approach of familiar footsteps that shifted to climb the front steps. He heard a low exchange of voices in the hall. Then Hendon appeared in the doorway, a taper in one hand.

“I’m told you’ve been looking for me,” said the Earl.

“Yes.”

The golden light from the taper played over the broad, beloved features of the Earl’s face. He stood for a moment, jaw working thoughtfully back and forth before he went to touch his flame to the nearest sconce. “You won’t mind if I light the candles? We don’t all have the night vision of a cat.”

Sebastian settled deeper into his chair, his outthrust boots crossed at the ankles. “A trait I inherited, perhaps, from my real father? Do you even know who he was, I wonder? Or did my mother take that little secret with her when she sailed away the summer I was eleven?”

Hendon froze, his hand extended toward the next sconce. Hot wax dripped, splashing on the polished surface of the table below. He calmly resumed his task, although Sebastian noticed his hand was no longer steady. “I’m not certain I understand what you mean to imply by that statement.”

“Don’t you?” Sebastian thrust up from the chair. “I had an interesting conversation with Lady Prescott this morning. The widow of Sir Nigel Prescott. She tells me the three of you—you, her husband, and Lord Jarvis—sailed for the American Colonies in December of 1781.”

Hendon had given up lighting the sconces and simply stood on the far side of the room, the taper clenched in his hand. “She is mistaken.”

“Don’t.” Sebastian drew in a harsh breath that shuddered his chest. “Don’t . . . lie to me anymore.”

“It’s not a lie. We sailed at the beginning of February. The fifth.”

“From where?”

“Portsmouth.

“The name of the ship?”

“The Albatross,” said the Earl without hesitation.

Sebastian knew a leap of hope at war with a whisper of despair. His voice, when he spoke, was a ragged tear. “Why should I believe you?”

“What are you suggesting? That I deliberately raised a son I knew was not my own?” Hendon swiped his arm through the air before him, as if brushing aside an unwanted presence. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You would hardly be the first peer to do so. Look at the Harleian Miscellany.” The Earl of Oxford’s wife was famous for having taken so many lovers in her life that the resultant brood of bastards was known collectively as the “Harleian Miscellany.”

“No one ever doubted the parentage of Harley’s heir,” said Hendon.

“True. Yet you had no way of knowing what lay ahead when you acknowledged me as your third son.”

A heavy silence fell as the two men’s gazes clashed from across the length of the room. It was Hendon who turned away.

“You have never been much like me,” he said gruffly. “Either in temperament or interests. It made relations between us difficult at times. I won’t deny that. But I never doubted for a moment that you are my son.”

The pressure in Sebastian’s chest was suddenly so great he found it impossible to speak.

Hendon said, “We sailed at the beginning of February, and we returned in the middle of July. If you know when Lady Prescott’s son was born, then you’ll understand that she has her own reasons for obfuscating the exact dates of her late husband’s departure and return.”

When Sebastian still remained silent, the Earl made another jerky, angry gesture and took a step forward. “For God’s sake, Sebastian, think! Jarvis was on that mission. Do you seriously believe that if he had proof my son and heir was not the fruit of my own loins, he wouldn’t have used that information against me years ago?”

Sebastian’s hand tightened around his brandy, reminding him of its existence. He raised the glass to his lips and drained the contents in one long pull. “Perhaps he has his own reasons for leaving the mission cloaked in