Sebastian said, You are your father s sole heir?
D Eyncourt s thin nostrils flared with indignation. I am. And may I take leave to tell you that I resent the inference inherent in that question? I resent it very much.
Oh, you have my leave to tell me anything you wish, said Sebastian, stretching to his feet. Just one more question: Can you think of anyone who might have wished Miss Tennyson harm?
D Eyncourt opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it and shook his head.
You do know of someone, said Sebastian, watching him closely. Who is it?
Well D Eyncourt licked his thin lips. You are aware, of course, that my cousin fancied herself something of a bluestocking?
I would have said she could more accurately be described as a respected antiquary rather than as a bluestocking, but, yes, I am aware of her scholarly activities. Why?
D Eyncourt pulled a face. Most women who indulge in such unsuitable activities have enough regard for the reputations of their families to adopt a male nom de plume and keep their true identities a secret. But not Gabrielle.
My wife also chooses to publish under her own name, said Sebastian evenly.
D Eyncourt gave an uncomfortable titter and looked faintly unwell. So she does. No offense intended, I m sure.
Sebastian said, Are you suggesting that Miss Tennyson s investigations into the history of Camlet Moat might have contributed in some way to her death?
D Eyncourt gave a dismissive wave of his hand. I know nothing of this latest start of hers. I was referring to a project she undertook some two or three months ago; something to do with tracing the original line of London s old Roman walls or some such nonsense. Whatever it was, it involved venturing into several of the more unsavory districts of the city. Not at all the proper sort of undertaking for a lady.
You say this was two or three months ago?
Something like that, yes.
So what makes you think it could have anything to do with her recent death?
Last week Thursday, to be precise I was on my way to meet with a colleague in the Strand when I happened to see Gabrielle arguing with a very rough customer near the York Steps. Thinking her in some sort of difficulty, I naturally approached with the intention of intervening. Much to my astonishment, she was not at all appreciative of my attempts on her behalf. Indeed, she was quite curt. Insisted there was no need for me to concern myself that the individual I had seen her with was someone she had encountered when she discovered that the foundations of his tavern incorporated some extensive vestiges of the city s original Roman walls.
Did you happen to catch the man s name?
D Eyncourt shook his head. Sorry. But it shouldn t be that difficult to discover. I believe she said the tavern was called the Devil s Head or the Devil s Tower or some such thing. The man was a most unsavory-looking character tall, with dark hair and sun-darkened skin, and dressed all in black except for his shirt. I thought at the time he reminded me of someone I know, but I couldn t quite place the resemblance.
What makes you think he was a threat to her?
Because of what I heard him say, just before they noticed me walking up to them. He said d Eyncourt roughened his voice in a crude imitation of the man s accent Meddle in this and you ll be sorry. Be a shame to see something happen to a pretty young lady such as yourself.
Chapter 13
Sebastian was silent for a moment, trying to fit this incident into everything else he d been told.
Of course she tried to deny it, said d Eyncourt. Claimed he d said no such thing. But I know what I heard. 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?