for him, the monks of Glastonbury Abbey stepped into the breach with their well-timed discovery of what they claimed were King Arthur and Guinevere's bones.'
`Most fortuitous, was it not?' said Jarvis with a smile.
`Mmm. And how injudicious of good old King Henry the Eighth to lose such a valuable national treasure in his scramble to take over the wealth of the church, thus allowing all those nasty rumors to start up again.'
`Shockingly careless of him,' agreed Jarvis, consigning his champagne glass to a passing waiter.
`Yet history does sometimes have a way of repeating itself or should I say, rather, that it can be made to repeat itself? Particularly if a certain courageous young woman who threatens to get in the way is removed.'
Jarvis drew a figured gold snuffbox from his pocket and flipped it open with one finger.
Hero watched him, her gaze on his face. `Gabrielle was not the type of woman to frighten easily. Yet before she died, she was afraid of someone. Someone powerful. I think she was afraid of you.'
He raised a pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. `She had a unique way of showing it, wouldn't you say?'
Hero leaned into him, the polite society smile still curving her lips, her voice low. `I think Gabrielle was right: That cross is a forgery. I think you somehow coerced Childe into claiming he had discovered the fake cross amongst Gough's collections, in the hopes that news of its recovery would help dampen these dangerous murmurs calling for King Arthur's return. After all, if it worked for the Plantagenets a few hundred years ago, why shouldn't it work now?'
`Why not, indeed?'
`The one thing I haven't figured out yet is how you convinced Childe to cooperate.'
`Really, Hero; perhaps you should consider giving up this budding interest in murder investigations and turn your hand instead to writing lurid romances.' He saw something he couldn't quite read flicker in her eyes, and closed his snuffbox with a snap. `I told you, I did not kill your troublesome friend.'
When she remained silent, he gave a soft laugh. `You don't believe me, do you?'
`Almost. But not entirely.' She tilted her head to one side. `If you considered it necessary, would you have killed her even knowing she was my friend?'
`Without hesitation.'
`And would you tell me?'
`Before, yes. Now I'm not so certain.'
`Because of Devlin, you mean?'
`Yes.' He let his gaze drift once more across the assembly of hot aristocrats. `And are you regretting it? Your decision to be less than forthcoming with your new husband, I mean.'
`No.'
He brought his gaze back to her face. `So sure, Hero?' he asked, and saw her color deepen.
She said, `I don't believe you deliberately had Gabrielle killed. But can you be so certain you are not indirectly responsible?'
Father's and daughter's gazes locked, and held.
`Darling!'
Hero turned as Lady Elcott fluttered up to them trailing a cloud of filmy lime organza and yards of cream satin ribbon. She rested the tips of her exquisitely manicured fingers on Hero's arm and arched her overplucked brows. `You came! What a delight! Did you bring that wicked husband of yours with you?'
`Not this time,' said Hero.
`Excuse me,' said Jarvis with a bow, moving adroitly to the Prince's side in time to prevent him from starting on a second plate of crab.
When he looked back toward the edge of the terrace, Hero had managed to escape their hostess's clutches and disappear.
Sebastian found Paul Gibson leaning over the stone platform in the center of the outbuilding behind his surgery. He whistled softly as he worked, his arms plunged up to the elbows in the gory distended abdomen of a cadaver so bloated and discolored and ripe that it made Sebastian gag.
`Good God,' he said, his eyes watering as the full force of the foul stench engulfed him. `Where the devil did they find that one?'
`Pulled him out of Fleet Ditch, at West Street. Caught up under the bridge, he was, and from the look of things, he was there a good long while.'
`And no one smelled him?'
`There's an abattoir at the corner. I suppose the odors just sort of mingled.' The surgeon grinned and reached for a rag to wipe his hands and arms. `So what can I do for you, then? And please don't tell me you re sending me another corpse, because I've already got two more to deal with when I'm through with this one.'
`No more corpses.' Retreating to the sun-blasted yard, Sebastian stood hunched over with his hands braced on his thighs as he sucked fresh air into his lungs. `Just a question, about Gabrielle Tennyson. You said she was no longer a maid. Any chance she could have been with child?'
`No trace of it that I saw.'
`Would you be able to tell for certain? I mean, even if she wasn't very far along?'
`Let's put it this way: If she was far enough along to know it, I'd know it.'
Sebastian straightened, then swallowed quickly as another whiff of the cadaver hit him. `Bloody hell. I don t know how you stand it.'
Gibson gave a soft chuckle. `After a while, you don't notice the smell.' He thought about it a moment, then added, `Usually.'
`I wasn't talking about just the smell.'
`Ah.' The Irishman's gaze met Sebastian's, the merriment now gone from his face. `The thing of it is, you see, by the time I get them, they're just so much tissue and bone, and that's what I focus on, that's the mystery I need to unravel. I don't need to dwell on the fear and pain they must have experienced during whatever happened that landed them on my table. I don't need to pry into whatever betrayal and hurt, or anger and despair was in their lives. That's what you do. And to tell you the truth, Devlin, I don't know how you do it.'
When Sebastian remained silent, Gibson rested a hand on his shoulder, then turned back toward the stone outbuilding and its bloated, decaying occupant.
`Was he murdered?' Sebastian called after him.`The man on your table in there, I mean.'
Gibson paused in the open doorway to look back at him. `Not this one. Tumbled into the water drunk and drowned, most likely. I doubt he even knew what hit him which is probably not a bad way to go, if you've got to go.'
`I suppose it does beat some of the alternatives.'
Gibson grunted. `You think Gabrielle Tennyson and her young cousins were killed by a man who was afraid he'd planted a babe in her belly?'
Sebastian started to remind him that no one knew for certain yet that either Alfred or George Tennyson was dead. Then he let it go. Surely it was only a matter of time before one of the search parties or some farmer out walking with his dog came upon the children's small bodies half submerged in a ditch or hidden beneath the leaf mold in a hollow left by a downed tree?
He shook his head. `I don't know. At this point, anything's possible.'
`Poor girl,' said Gibson with a sigh. `Poor, poor girl.'
The setting sun was painting purple and orange streaks low on the western horizon by the time Sebastian reached the Adelphi Buildings overlooking the Thames. He was mounting the steps to the Tennyson town house when he heard his name called.
`Lord Devlin.'
Turning, he saw Gabrielle's brother striding across the street toward him. `Have you some news?' asked Hildeyard Tennyson, his strained features suffused with an agonized hope.
`I'm sorry; no.'
Tennyson's lips parted with the pain of disappointment. He'd obviously been out again looking for the children; dust layered his coat and top boots, and his face was slick with sweat and tinged red by too many hours spent beneath a hot sun.
`You're still searching the chase?' asked Sebastian as they turned to walk along the terrace overlooking the
