And it was obvious she was more than a little discomfited to be seen talking to this individual.'
Sebastian studied the other man's narrow, effete features. But d'Eyncourt had spent a lifetime twisting incidents and conversations to serve his own purposes; his face was a bland mask.
Sebastian said, `What do you think it was about?'
D'Eyncourt closed his journal and rose to his feet.
`I've no notion. You're the one who dabbles in murder, not I. I have far more important tasks with which to concern myself.' He tucked The Courier beneath his arm. `And now you must excuse me; I've a meeting scheduled at Carlton House.' He gave a short bow nicely calculated to convey just a hint of irony and contempt. Then he strolled languidly away, leaving Sebastian staring after him.
`Your drink, my lord?'
The waiter standing at Sebastian's elbow needed to repeat himself twice before Sebastian turned toward him. `Thank you,' he said, taking the brandy from the waiter's silver tray and downing it in one long, burning pull.
It was when he was leaving White's that Sebastian came face-to-face with a familiar barrel-chested, white- haired man in his late sixties. At the sight of Sebastian, the Earl of Hendon paused, his face going slack.
For twenty-nine years Sebastian had called this man father, had struggled to understand Hendon's strangely conflicted love and anger, pride and resentment. But though the world still believed Sebastian to be the Earl's son, Sebastian, at least, now knew the truth.
Sebastian gave a slow, polite bow. `My lord.'
`Devlin,' said Hendon, his voice gruff with emotion. `You... you are well?'
`I am, yes.' Sebastian hesitated, then added with painful correctness, `Thank you. And you?'
Hendon's jaw tightened. `As always, yes, thank you.'
Hendon had always been a bear of a man. Through all his growing years and well into his twenties, Sebastian had been aware of Hendon towering over him in both height and breadth. But as the moment stretched out and became something painful, Sebastian suddenly realized that with increasing age, Hendon was shrinking. He was now the same height as Sebastian, perhaps even shorter. When had that happened? he wondered. And he felt an unwelcome pang at the realization that this man who had played such a vital role in his life was growing older, more frail, less formidable.
For one long, intense moment, the Earl's fiercely blue St. Cyr eyes met Sebastian's hard yellow gaze. Then the two men passed.
Neither looked back.
Sebastian found Hero seated at the table in his library, a pile of books scattered over the surface.
She had changed into a simple gown of figured muslin with a sapphire blue sash and had her head bent over some notes she was making. He paused for a moment in the doorway and watched as she caught her lower lip between her teeth in that way she had when she was concentrating. He'd often come upon her thus, surrounded by books and documents at the heavy old library table in her father's Berkeley Square house. And for some reason he could not have named, seeing her here at work in the library of their Brook Street home made their marriage seem suddenly more real and more intimate than the long hours of passion they'd shared in the darkness of the night. He found himself smiling at the thought.
Then she looked up and saw him.
He said, `So you did come home.'
She leaned back in her chair, her pen resting idle in her hand.
`I did. And did you find Mr. d'Eyncourt?'
`At White's.' He went to rest his palms on the surface of the table and lean into them, his gaze on her face.
`I need to know the route of London's old Roman walls. Can you trace me a map, with references to existing streets and landmarks?'
`Roughly, yes.'
He handed her a fresh sheet of paper. `Roughly will do.'
She dipped her pen in the ink. `What is this about?'
As she began to sketch, he told her of his interview with Gabrielle's cousin. `Do you have any idea what d'Eyncourt may have been talking about?'
`I do, actually. Several months ago, Gabrielle undertook to trace the remnants of the old city walls for a volume on the history of London being compiled by Dr. Littleton.'
Sebastian frowned. `Isn't that the same volume you've been working on?'
`It is. Although I have been looking into the surviving vestiges of London's monastic houses.' She finished her diagram and slid it across to him. `How exactly do you intend to go about finding this tavern owner?'
He stood for a moment, studying her sketch. She'd actually drawn two wall circuits, one older and smaller than the other. The northern stretch of the oldest wall had run roughly along the course of Cornhill and Leadenhall Street, then down along Mark Lane before turning east to Thames Street and Walbrook. The later, larger circuit ran from the Tower to Aldgate and Bishopsgate, before turning westward to St. Giles churchyard and then veering south to Falcon Square. He traced the line to Aldersgate and Giltspur Street, angling over to Ludgate and the Thames, then eastward back toward the Tower again.
`That's a lot of wall,' he said, folding the map. `I'll give it to Tom and see what he can find.'
`You do realize that Gabrielle could have told her cousin a lie to put him off. I don't think they were exactly close.'
`She may have. But I wouldn't be surprised if the part about the tavern and the Roman wall, at least, was true.' He nodded to the books scattered across the table's surface.
`What is all this?'
`I've been brushing up on my knowledge of King Arthur and Guinevere and the Knights of the Round Table.'
He reached for the nearest book, a slim, aged volume covered in faded blue leather, and read the title embossed in gold on the spine.
`La donna di Scalotta.' He looked up. `What is it?'
`An Italian novella about the Lady of Shalott.'
He shook his head. `Never heard of it.'
`I wasn't familiar with it, either. But I remembered Gabrielle telling me she was working on a translation.'
He leafed through the volume's aged pages and frowned.
`I certainly wouldn't want to try to translate it.' Sebastian's Italian had come largely from the soldiers, partisans, and bandits he'd encountered during the war and had little in common with the volume's archaic, stylized language. `When was it originally written?'
`The thirteenth century, I believe.'
`Do you think it might somehow be related to the excavations at Camlet Moat?'
`I don't believe so, no. Gabrielle was interested in all aspects of the Arthurian legend; this is a relatively unknown part of it.' She turned her head as the sound of the front doorbell echoed through the house. `Are you expecting someone?' she asked, just as Sebastian's majordomo, Morey, appeared in the doorway.
`A Mr. Hildeyard Tennyson to see you, my lord. He says he is the brother of Miss Gabrielle Tennyson. I have taken the liberty of showing him to the drawing room.'
Chapter 14
Hildeyard Tennyson wore the haggard, stunned expression of a man whose world has suddenly collapsed upon him, leaving him shattered and numb.
Dressed in riding breeches and dusty boots that told of a long, hard ride back to town, he stood beside the front windows overlooking the street, his hat in his hands, his back held painfully straight. Of above-average height, with his sister's thick chestnut hair and chiseled features, he looked to be in his early thirties. He turned as
