When Gods Die (4 page)

“Interesting?” Hendon shook his head. “You? But…why?”

Sebastian drew the silver-and-bluestone necklace from his pocket and dangled it in the air between them. “Because she was wearing this around her neck when she died.”

Hendon’s face went suddenly, completely white. But he made no move to take the necklace or even touch it. “That’s impossible.”

Bringing up his other hand, Sebastian dropped the necklace neatly into his palm. “I would have said so, yes.”

Hendon sat quite still, his hands gripping the upholstered arms of his chair. “Surely they don’t mean to accuse you of any involvement in this death.”

A slow smile curled Sebastian’s lips. “Not this one.” He went to stand with one arm braced against the mantel, his head bowed as he stared down at the empty grate. “It has occurred to me that an eleven-year-old’s memories of his mother’s death might easily be distorted,” he said slowly. It was not something they had ever spoken of, that long-ago summer day. Not that day, or the endless, pain-filled days that followed. “Her body was never found, was it?” Sebastian looked around.

“No. Never.” Hendon worked his jaw back and forth in that way he had. “She wore the necklace often. But I honestly couldn’t say if she had it on the day she died.”

“She was wearing it. Of that I am certain.”

Hendon pushed up from his chair and went to where a tea service and cups rested on a nearby table. But made no move to pour the tea. “There is a logical explanation. Her body must have washed up somewhere along the coast.”

“To be found by some desperate soul who stripped the corpse of everything valuable and sold the necklace for his next meal?” Sebastian kept his gaze on his father’s broad, tight back. “That’s one explanation.”

Hendon swung around again, his fleshy face dark with emotion. “Good God. What other explanation could there be?”

Their gazes met across the room, father and son, startling blue eyes clashing with strange yellow ones. It was Hendon who looked away first.

“What do you mean to do?” he asked, his voice oddly strained.

Sebastian’s fist tightened around the necklace. “Talk to Anglessey, for one thing. See if he knows how his wife came by this. Although that hardly seems the most important issue at the moment, now does it?”

Hendon’s mouth went slack. “You’re not seriously taking it upon yourself to uncover this killer?”

“Yes.”

Hendon digested this in silence. Then he said, “What does Prinny say happened?”

“He’s been sedated. I intend to talk to him first thing in the morning.”

Hendon let out a derisive grunt. “Jarvis won’t let you anywhere near the Prince. Not if you’re intending to ask something he might potentially find disturbing.”

“I think he will.”

“Why should he?”

Sebastian pushed away from the hearth and turned. “Because this dynasty is one step away from disaster, and Jarvis knows it.”

Chapter 7

J
arvis was annoyed.

He wasn’t entirely certain how Devlin had managed to coerce him into agreeing to this early-morning meeting with the Prince, but somehow the Viscount had succeeded. Even under the best of circumstances, the Regent was rarely coherent before noon. As it was, last night’s shock had come close to oversetting him entirely.

The Prince lay sprawled in silk-dressing-gowned splendor against the tufted velvet cushions of a sofa placed close to his bedchamber’s roaring fire, his pupils narrowed down to pinpoints by laudanum, his lower lip trembling with petulance. The heavy satin drapes at the windows were drawn fast against the morning sun.

“You think I don’t hear what people are saying, but I do. I do! They’re actually suggesting that I might have killed Lady Anglessey.
Me
.” The fat princely fingers tightened around his vial of smelling salts. “You must do something, Jarvis. Make them understand they’re wrong. Wrong!”

Jarvis kept his voice soothing but firm. “We’re trying, sir. Which is what makes it vital that you tell Lord Devlin precisely what happened last night.”

Swallowing hard, the Prince glanced over to where the Viscount stood with his flawlessly tailored shoulders resting negligently against the Chinese papered wall, his arms folded at his chest, his attention seemingly focused on the highly polished toes of his Hessians. George might not understand precisely why Devlin had agreed to be drawn into this nasty little affair; he might even half believe the young Viscount to be guilty of murder himself. But Jarvis knew the Prince was shrewd enough to understand that the attempts by his doctors and the magistrate to portray the Marchioness’s death as suicide had done him more harm than good. George needed help, and he recognized it.

Covering his eyes with one hand, the Prince let go a shaky breath. “God help me, I don’t know.”

Devlin looked up, his expression one of mild interest rather than the irritation Jarvis had expected. “Think back to earlier in the evening, sir,” said the Viscount, pushing away from the wall. “How did you happen to be in the cabinet with the Marchioness?”

George let his hand fall limply to his side. “She sent me a note, suggesting I meet her.”

Jarvis knew a quiet flare of surprise, but Devlin—unaware of the implications of this statement—simply asked, “Do you still have the note?”

The Prince’s face went blank. He shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. Why would I keep it?”

“Do you remember precisely what it said?”

The Regent had a reputation for telling tall tales, for boasting of imagined feats on the hunting field and entertaining guests at his table with fanciful accounts of leading troops into battle when the only uniforms he’d ever worn were ceremonial ones. But for all his practice, George remained an appallingly bad liar. Now, his lips threatening to curve into a betraying smile, the Prince stared back at Devlin and said baldly, “Not precisely, no. Only that she wished to meet me in the Yellow Cabinet.”

Impossible for Jarvis to tell whether Devlin read the lie or not. The young man had a rare ability to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. He said, “So you found her there? In the Yellow Cabinet?”

“Yes. She was lying on the sofa before the fire.” The Prince sat forward almost eagerly. “I’m certain of that. I remember admiring the gleam of the firelight over her bare shoulders.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“Yes. Of course.” A note of regal impatience crept into the Prince’s voice. “Surely you don’t expect me to remember precisely what I said?”

“Do you remember if she answered you?”

The Prince opened his mouth, then closed it. “I’m not certain,” he said after a moment. “I mean, I don’t
remember
her answering me. But she must have done so.”

“One would think so,” said Devlin. “Unless she were already dead when you entered the room.”

The Prince’s normally ruddy cheeks paled. “Good God. Is that what you think? But…how is that possible? I mean, surely I would have noticed. Wouldn’t I?”

Devlin had his keen gaze fixed on the Prince’s face. And for one sliver of a moment Jarvis knew a rare whisper of misgiving, a brief questioning of the wisdom of his decision to draw the Viscount into this investigation.

“How long between the time you entered the chamber and when Lady Jersey threw open the door from the music room?” said Devlin, his voice deceptively casual.

The Prince plucked peevishly at the edge of his dressing gown. “I think…I rather think I might have fallen asleep.”

The implications were damning. A flicker of something showed in the younger man’s eyes. “Then you do have reason to be quite certain that the lady was not already dead when you first entered the room.”

The Prince’s cheeks flushed from unnaturally pale to sudden dark crimson as he realized the conclusion Devlin had inevitably drawn. “No, no,” he said in a rush. “It’s not what you think. I never touched her. I’m certain I didn’t. My ankle gave way as I was crossing the room toward her, and I sat down on one of the chairs.”

“And fell asleep?”

“Yes. I do sometimes. After a heavy meal.”

Devlin chose—wisely, Jarvis thought—not to respond to that. Pausing before a faux bamboo étagère tucked inside an arched niche, the Viscount ran his gaze over the artfully displayed collection of delicate ivory carvings. “How well acquainted were you with the Marchioness?” he asked, his attention all seemingly for the carvings.

George’s jaw jutted out mulishly. “I barely knew the woman.”

Devlin glanced over at the Prince. “Yet you weren’t surprised to receive a note from her, asking to meet you privately?”

The Prince’s massive torso jerked with his suddenly agitated breathing. “What are you suggesting? It’s
Anglessey
people should be suspecting, not me! I mean, it is usually the husband who’s found to be the culprit in this sort of thing, is it not?” His moist lips parted, his nostrils flaring as one beringed hand fluttered up to clutch at his chest. “Good heavens. I’m having palpitations. Where is Dr. Heberden?”

Jarvis took a hasty step forward as the doctor appeared suddenly from a curtained embrasure. “That’s enough questions for now, Lord Devlin. If you’ll excuse us, please?”

For one sharply tense moment, Devlin hesitated. Then he bowed curtly and swung away.

“You will, of course, be looking into the Marquis’s possible involvement in all of this?” Jarvis asked in an undervoice as he walked with Devlin to the door.

Devlin kept his expression bland. “It had occurred to me to do so,” he said, then added, “In the meantime, you might ask the Prince’s man to go through the pockets of the coat the Prince was wearing last night. It would help if that note could be found.”

“Of course,” said Jarvis.

Pausing at the entrance to the library that served as an antechamber to the Regent’s bedroom, the Viscount looked around. A tight smile curled his lips, a smile that told Jarvis he knew bloody well the note would never be found. “And perhaps when the Prince has recovered sufficiently, you might ask if he remembers exactly who handed him the note from the Marchioness?”

“When and if Dr. Heberden considers it safe to bring up the subject again, yes. You understand, of course, that protecting the Prince’s delicate sensibilities is of paramount importance.”

“More important than discovering the truth about who killed Lady Anglessey?”

Jarvis held the younger man’s hard stare. “Don’t ever doubt it for a moment.”

L
EAVING THE PRINCE’S SUITE,
Sebastian paused in the overheated corridor, one hand idly fingering the necklace in his pocket. Some of what the Prince had told him, Sebastian knew, was probably the truth. The trick would be to separate the reality from the layers of invention and sheer obstreperousness.

He was about to turn toward the stables when someone nervously cleared his throat and said, “My lord?”

Sebastian looked around to find a young, pale-skinned man with dark bushy eyebrows and gaunt cheeks hovering nearby, a man Sebastian recognized as one of Jarvis’s secretaries. “Yes?”

The man bowed. “The surgeon has arrived from London, my lord. He’s been shown directly to the Yellow Cabinet, as you requested.”

Chapter 8

S
ebastian found Paul Gibson on the floor beside the couch in the Yellow Cabinet, his wooden leg thrust out awkwardly to one side.

“Ah, there you are, Sebastian me lad,” he said, his eyes creasing into a smile as he glanced around at Sebastian’s entrance.

They were old friends, Sebastian and this dark-haired Irishman with the merry green eyes and a roguish dimple in one cheek. Theirs was a bond forged in blood and mud, and tested by suffering and want and the threat of death. Once, Gibson had been a surgeon in the British Army, a man whose fierce determination to help those in need often took him into harm’s way. Even after a French cannonball took off the lower part of his left leg, Gibson had remained in the field. But continuing ill health—and an accompanying weakness for the sweet relief to be found in poppies—had forced him to leave the army two years ago and set up a small surgery in the City, where he devoted much of his energy to research and the teaching of medical students, and to providing the authorities with his expert opinion in criminal cases.

“You made good time,” said Sebastian.

“Dead bodies don’t share their secrets for long,” said Gibson, returning his attention to what was left of Lord Anglessey’s beautiful young wife, Guinevere. “And this one has some interesting stories to tell.”

He had rolled the body so that it lay fully facedown on the floor. In the harsh light of day, the skin at the back of her neck could now be seen to have turned a greenish red. A faint odor like that of rotting meat permeated the chamber, although the heavy drapes had been pulled back and the long windows thrown open to flood the room with enough fresh air and sunlight to give the Prince Regent an apoplexy.

Sebastian went to stand beside the open windows, his gaze on the gulls wheeling and calling against the vivid blue sky above the Strand. “When would you say she died?”

“It’s difficult to be precise, but I think early yesterday afternoon is more likely than yesterday morning.”

Sebastian swung around. “Not last night?”

“No. Of that there is no doubt.”

“You know what this means, don’t you? The servants would have come in this room to build up the fire before last night’s performance. There’s no way the body could have lain here undiscovered for so long. She must have been killed someplace else and brought here just before the Prince discovered her.”

Gibson settled back on his sound heel and frowned. “You think this was set up to deliberately cast suspicion upon the Prince?”

“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” Sebastian wandered the room, searching for something—anything—that he might have missed. The cabinet’s walls were hung with linen painted with a tracery of apple green foliage against a delicate yellow background. A series of giant arches, each containing a life-sized gilt figure of a Chinese woman, encircled the room. The oriental motif here was strong, with tables and chairs of a pale wood carved to resemble bamboo, and a large lacquered chest decorated with painted dragons that stood between two of the arches. “The Prince claims to have received a note from Lady Guinevere,” said Sebastian, inspecting one of the gilded ladies. “A note arranging a rendezvous with him here. Only, how could she have sent him a note if she was already dead?”