What Remains Of Heaven Part 21

"No. But it was the obvious conclusion, given that you're here looking for him." He studied the dark, full sweep of her lashes, the graceful line of her long neck and bare white shoulders. "Tell me, Miss Jarvis: Why have you involved yourself in the Bishop's death?"

She looked away. "I told you. He was my friend."

"Are you certain that's the only reason?"

She gave a polite laugh. "What other reason could there be?"

"I thought it might have something to do with the interesting interview I had this afternoon with Dr. Daniel McCain and his wife."

He had the satisfaction of seeing her blanch, although she recovered almost immediately. Miss Jarvis, it seemed, was very good at what she called "playacting." Lifting one eyebrow in an expression that was hauntingly evocative of her father, she said airily, "Dr. McCain? You mean from the Chelsea Royal Hospital? What, pray tell, is your interest in him?"

"I've discovered the Bishop of London called upon Dr. McCain and his wife the afternoon before his death." Sebastian paused, watching her reaction. "Did you know?"

"No," she said smoothly. "Although I'm not surprised, given that it was Bishop Prescott who first encouraged me to look into the dreadful situation at the Royal Hospital-and who introduced me to Dr. McCain."

"Really? That's interesting. Because it seems the good Bishop traveled down to Chelsea last Monday on a different errand entirely."

"Oh?" Her smile was that of someone who was politely puzzled. But there was a shadow of something that looked very much like fear glittering in her eyes. "And what was that, my lord?"

He met her gaze and held it, his voice pitched low. "I think you know, Miss Jarvis."

Chapter 34.

She held herself very still, her lips parting as she drew in a quick, steadying breath. But her awe-inspiring composure never slipped. "I can't think what you mean, my lord Devlin."

"Perhaps we should continue this conversation someplace more private," he suggested. "May I escort you down to dinner, Miss Jarvis?"

"I think not." She cast a significant glance about. "We do, however, seem to be attracting an inordinate amount of attention. It might be better if you were to invite me to dance."

"Dance?" he repeated in something between shock and horror.

"Why, yes." She gave him an icy smile and extended her hand. "Thank you, my lord."

There was nothing for it but to escort her onto the floor, where two long lines were forming.

They faced each other across a s.p.a.ce of perhaps six feet, he in the gentlemen's line, she in the ladies'. She said, "You are entirely wrong in your supposition, you know."

The chamber orchestra struck up, the sweet notes of the violin barely filtering through the chattering roar that filled the ballroom. The row of gentlemen bowed. The ladies sank into gracious curtsies. Sebastian had to wait until it was their turn to come together in the center of the line to whisper, "I hardly think the dance floor is the place to be having this conversation."

Her smile widened. "Actually, I find the setting quite appropriate, under the circ.u.mstances."

They circled each other back-to-back, turning counterclockwise on the jete. He said, "You know I cannot speak freely."

"Really?" She threw him an evil smile over her shoulder as she swayed away. "And what would you say if you could, my lord?"

He was forced by the movement of the dance to swing away from her, a stout man in exaggerated s.h.i.+rt points hissing in warning when Sebastian would have turned clockwise rather than counterclockwise. He could only glare at her from across the floor until the dance brought them together again.

He said, "You told me there were no repercussions."

She slid her foot daintily to the right, bending and then rising as she drew the other up to it in a graceful glissade dessous.

"So I did."

He moved behind her in the cha.s.se. "Would you have me believe that your"-he broke off, searching for an appropriate word-"situation was not the subject of the Bishop's visit to the McCains?"

They pa.s.sed, right shoulders together, her brows drawing together in mock confusion. "My 'situation'? Whatever do you mean, my lord Devlin?"

"Do not play the fool with me, Miss Jarvis. I know you are anything but."

She spun around, foot pointing straight down in an elegant sissone. "Then you should have known better than to approach me in such a milieu, shouldn't you?"

He needed to be moving on. The stout idiot in the high s.h.i.+rt points was hissing at him again. Sebastian gritted his teeth. "Do you ride in Hyde Park tomorrow morning?"

She swayed away from him. "I think not."

"Then when may we continue this conversation?"

She dipped gracefully, moving sideways. "I see no reason to continue it at any time. Your supposition-if I understand you-is incorrect."

He had to wait until they came together again to growl, "Would you tell me if it were correct?"

She swung around with a curving ronde de jambe. "Of course not."

The music ended, Miss Jarvis sinking with the other ladies into a deep curtsy. "Good evening, my lord," she said, and left him there, at the edge of the dance floor, feeling frustrated and angry and deeply disquieted.

Lord Quillian was parting from a group of friends in what was known as the Jerusalem Chamber of Brooks's gentlemen's club when Sebastian came upon him.

"Lord Devlin," said the aging exquisite, resplendent in a silk evening cape and chapeau bras. "If you've come to join in the fleecing of this poor repentant sinner, you're too late. I've decided to retire for the evening while my estates are still unenc.u.mbered."

There was a chorus of good-natured ribaldry from his friends. Sebastian said, "Bad round of luck at the tables?"

"Let's just say, not the kind I care to continue." Quillian cast a critical eye toward the night sky. "This dreadful rain has finally ceased, has it?"

"So it seems."

"Good. Walk with me a ways, my lord?"

"You find yourself suddenly inspired by a desire for my company, do you?" said Sebastian as the two men left the club.

Quillian swung his ebony walking stick back and forth between two limp fingers. "Hardly. But I am curious to hear how the investigation into the murder of Bishop Prescott is progressing."

"Really? And what is your interest in the matter?"

Quillian sniffed. "I know perfectly well I have been identified as a suspect. I'm hoping to hear you've begun to focus your inquiries elsewhere."

"Quite the opposite, actually."

Quillian's hand tightened on the silver head of his walking stick, freezing it in midswing. "And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've discovered the ident.i.ty of the mysterious benefactor who was funding Reverend Earnshaw's construction work on the church of St. Margaret's."

"Oh. That." Quillian twirled his walking stick in a graceful arc that set it once more to swinging back and forth.

"Yes. That."

They continued in silence for a moment, their footfalls echoing in the dark, wet street. Sebastian said, "It does rather beg the question: Why?"

"I suppose it does, doesn't it?"

Sebastian gave a soft laugh. "I take it you knew Sir Nigel had been murdered in the crypt of St. Margaret's and left there to molder all these years?"

"Knew it? Hardly. But I had developed a theory, yes."

"You think Francis Prescott killed his own brother for the inheritance? An inheritance he then lost when his nephew was born?"

"It seems the obvious conclusion." Quillian glanced sideways at him. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I honestly don't know."

Quillian grunted and kept walking.

Sebastian said, "What were you hoping to accomplish?"

"I should think that would be rather obvious. If I were correct-if Sir Nigel's moldering body was lying in that crypt-then suspicion would naturally fall upon the priest responsible for sealing off the crypt in the first place."

"Bishop Prescott."

"Bishop Prescott," agreed the Baron.

"The idea being to keep the Bishop so busy defending himself against the ensuing accusations of fratricide that he would have no time to continue pus.h.i.+ng his Slavery Abolition Act through Parliament?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Seems a bit of a long shot."

A tight smile split the aging exquisite's face. "I am a gambler."

Sebastian said, "True. Although it occurs to me that the odds would shorten considerably if you knew for certain that Sir Nigel was indeed moldering down in that crypt."

"I hardly see how I could have known that. Unless, of course, you're suggesting I killed Sir Nigel and left him there myself?" Quillian pulled a face. "It's an interesting theory; I'll give you that." He walked on a few paces, then said, "The thing is, I had no reason to kill Sir Nigel. I barely knew the man. Dreadful bad ton, you know."

"You were both members of the h.e.l.lfire Club, were you not?"

The exquisite's eyes narrowed. "My dear lord Devlin, the h.e.l.lfire Club was hardly exclusive. It counted hundreds of members."

"Not in its inner circle. What were they called?"

"The Apostles," said Quillian. He sighed. "Much as it pains me to admit it, the truth is that I myself was not actually a member of that exclusive inner circle. At the time, I was but a poor second son just a few years down from Oxford and struggling to make my way in the world."

"Really? Doing what?"

Lord Quillian drew up beside a couple of lounging sedan-chair bearers who immediately scrambled to their poles. "Oh, this and that," he said, waving one white-gloved hand through the air in a vague gesture. "Now I fear I find I have exceeded my tolerance for the night air." His walking stick clenched in one fist, he stepped nimbly into the chair. "Good evening to you, my lord."

A cool gust of wind fluttered the lapels of Sebastian's evening coat and buffeted him with the odors of the city, the pungent scents of wet paving and hot lamp oil mixing with a faint, inescapable whiff of sewage. He stood for a moment watching the sedan-chair bearers heft their burden and start off at a trot.

Then he turned toward Brook Street, his solitary footsteps echoing in the stillness of the night.

TUESDAY, 14 JULY 1812.

The next morning, Hero was in the library, surrounded by piles of books and papers, when her father walked in the door.

"Good G.o.d. At it again, are you?" He picked up a bound copy of dispatches and frowned. "What's this?"

She set aside her pen. "I'm compiling a list of all the men who were in the Foreign Office or close to the King thirty years ago."

Jarvis's eyes narrowed with amus.e.m.e.nt. "Looking for Alcibiades, are you?"

"Yes."

"Think he murdered your Bishop, as well as the Bishop's brother?"

"I think it's possible."

"Really? I think he's dead."

"Because you never found him?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you think Francis Prescott was murdered in the same crypt as his brother?"

"Maybe someone has a sense of humor."

"I don't see anything the least bit funny about it," said Hero indignantly.

Jarvis frowned. "I know. That's what worries me."

Sebastian was looking over a report from his estate agent when a polite knock sounded at his front door. The day had dawned fine and clear, and he'd thrown open the windows to a warm breeze and the scent of fresh bread baking in the shop down the street. He heard a murmur of voices in the entry, and a moment later Morey ushered Sir Henry Lovejoy into his presence.

"Sir Henry," said Sebastian, rising to his feet. "An unexpected pleasure. Please have a seat."

His round hat gripped tightly in both hands, the little magistrate gave a jerky bow and cleared his throat. "Thank you, but no. I can't stay long."