`You should be.'
`You can't accost me in the streets! What are you imagining? That those two children stand between me and my father's wealth? Well, you are wrong. My father disinherited my older brother and made me his sole heir when I was six years old. Why else do you suppose my brother took holy orders and now serves as a rector? Because that is his future! Everything my father owns - the estates, the investments - all will in due time pass to me.'
`I can think of only one reason for a man to disinherit his twelve-year-old son and make his youngest child his sole heir.'
Two bright spots of color appeared on d'Eyncourt's cheeks. `If you are suggesting that my brother was disinherited because he is... because he is not my brother, then let me tell you right now that you are sadly mistaken. My brother was disinherited because by the time he reached the beginnings of puberty it had become obvious to our father that his health and temperament were totally unsuited for the position which would be required of him.'
`But not unsuited to his becoming a rector?'
D'Eyncourt stared back at him. `The requirements of the two callings are utterly dissimilar.'
`So tell me,' said Sebastian, `how has your brother adjusted to having a fortune of some half a million pounds wrested from his grasp?'
`He was, naturally, somewhat aggrieved...'
`Aggrieved?'
`Aggrieved. But he has with time grown more accustomed to his situation.'
`As an impoverished rector at Somersby?'
`Just so.'
Sebastian took a step back.
D'Eyncourt made a show of adjusting his cravat and straightening the set of his coat. `I can understand how it might be difficult for someone of your background to understand, but you must remember that my family's wealth while substantial is only recently acquired. Hence the rules of primogeniture do not apply. My father is free to leave his property as he sees fit.'
`True,' said Sebastian. `But it occurs to me that if your father could change his will once, he is obviously free to do so again - in favor of his two grandsons, this time.'
D'Eyncourt stiffened. `If you mean to suggest...'
`The suggestion is there, whether it is put into words or not,' said Sebastian, and turned away.
Sebastian arrived back at Brook Street to be told that Lady Devlin had already departed for a musical evening in the company of her mother, Lady Jarvis.
`However,' said Morey, bowing slightly, `I believe Calhoun has been most particular to have a word with you.'
`Has he? Then send him up,' said Sebastian, heading for the stairs.
`Well?' asked Sebastian when Calhoun slipped into the dressing room a few minutes later. `Find anything?'
`Not as much as I had hoped, my lord,' said Calhoun, going to lay out Sebastian's evening dress. `From what I have been able to ascertain, Mr. Knox arrived in London just three years ago. He used to be with the 145th Rifles but was discharged when his unit was reduced after Corunna.'
`So he actually was a rifleman.'
`He was, my lord. In fact, he's famous for having killed some bigwig Frenchy by shooting the man off his horse at some seven hundred yards. And I'm told he can shoot the head off a running rabbit at more than three hundred yards.' Calhoun paused a moment, then added, `In the dark.'
Sebastian looked up from unbuttoning his shirt. `How did he end up in possession of the Black Devil?'
`Reports differ. Some say he took to the High Toby for a time before he either won the tavern at the roll of the dice or killed the previous owner.' Taking to the High Toby was slang for becoming a highwayman. Or perhaps both.
`He seems very sensitive about his cellars.'
`That's not surprising, given the nature of some of his associates.'
`Oh? And who might they be?'
`The name that came up most frequently was Yates. Russell Yates.'
Chapter 22
Sebastian waited beyond the light cast by the flickering oil lamp at the head of the lane. The theater was still closed for the summer, but rehearsals for the upcoming season were already under way. The dark street rang with the laughter of the departing troupe.
He kept his gaze on the stage door.
The night was warm, the wind a soft caress scented by oranges and a thousand bittersweet memories. He heard the stage door open, watched a woman and two men walk toward the street. The woman paused for a moment beneath the streetlight, caught up in conversation with her fellow players. The dancing flame from the oil lamp glinted on the auburn highlights in her thick, dark hair and flickered seductively over the familiar, beloved planes of her face. She had her head thrown back, lost in laughter at one of her friends remarks. Then she stilled suddenly, her head turning, her eyes widening in a useless attempt to probe the darkness. And Sebastian knew she had sensed his presence and that the bond between them that had existed all these years, while weakened, had not broken.
Her name was Kat Boleyn, and she was the most celebrated actress of the London stage. Once, she had been the love of Sebastian's life. Once, he had thought to grow old with her at his side, and to hell with the shocked mutterings of society and the outraged opposition of his father... of the Earl of Hendon, he reminded himself. Then an ugly tangle of lies and an even uglier truth had intervened. Now Kat was married to a flamboyant ex-privateer named Russell Yates, a man with a secret, forbidden passion for his own gender and shadowy ties to the smugglers and agents who plied the channel between England and Napoléon's France.
Sebastian watched her say good night to her friends and walk up to him. She wore an ivory silk cloak thrown over her shoulders, the hood thrust back in a way that framed her face. He said, `You shouldn't walk alone at night.'
`Because of these latest murders, you mean?' She turned to stroll beside him up Hart Street. The pavement was crowded with richly harnessed horses and elegant carriages, their swaying lamps filling the air with the scent of hot oil. `Gibson tells me you have involved yourself in the investigation.' He watched her eyebrows pinch together in a worried frown as she said it, for she knew him well. She knew the price he paid with each descent into the dark world of fear and hatred, greed and despair, that inevitably swirled around a murder. Yet even though she knew, intellectually, what drove him to it, she could never quite understand his need to do what he did.
He said, `Don't worry about me.'
A smile lit her eyes. `Yet you are free to worry about me?' The smile faded as she paused to turn toward him, her gaze searching. She had deeply set eyes, thickly lashed and of a uniquely intense blue that she had inherited from her natural father, the Earl of Hendon. And every time he looked into them, he knew a searing pain that was like a dagger thrust to the heart.
She said, `You're not here for the sake of auld lang syne, Sebastian; what is it?'
`I'm told Yates has dealings with a tavern owner named Jamie Knox.'
She sucked in a quick breath that jerked her chest. It was an unusual betrayal for an actress who could normally control her every look, every tone, her every word and movement.
He said, `Obviously, you know Knox as well. What can you tell me about him?'
`Very little, actually. He is an intensely private person, cold and dangerous. Most people who know him are afraid of him. It's an aura he cultivates.'
`You met him through Yates?'
`Yes.' She hesitated, then asked, `He is involved in this murder? How?'
`He was seen arguing with Gabrielle Tennyson several days before she was killed. He claims it was over a
