Knightly gave a harsh, ringing laugh. “Try telling this tale to the magistrates and see how far you get without any proof. You have none. You hear me? You have nothing.” The laugh ended abruptly, his face twisting into something ugly as he brought up one hand to point a warning finger at Sebastian over the silver head of his swordstick. “But you breathe one word of this nonsense in the clubs-one word-and I swear to God, I’ll call you out for it.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s angry, pinched face, looking for some trace of the elegant bone structure that the old slave woman, Cally, had bequeathed to her daughter and grandson. But he could see only the slablike Anglo-Saxon features of a typical Englishman. “You’re right; I don’t have any proof yet. But I will.”
And then he walked away, leaving the Baronet staring after him, the silver-headed walking stick gripped tightly in his hands.
“What precisely are you trying to do?” asked Hero, later, staring at him. “Provoke Knightly into killing you?”
Sebastian walked over to where a carafe of brandy stood warming beside the library fire. “I’m hoping he’ll try. Because he’s right; I can’t prove he killed Preston. I can’t prove he killed any of them. The only thing I can do is rattle him enough that he does something stupid.”
“And if he should by some strange, inexplicable chance succeed in killing you?”
He looked over at her with a crooked smile. “Then you’ll know I was right.”
She made an inelegant noise deep in her throat and rose from the library table where she’d been working on her article. “If you are right about Knightly-which at this point is still an if-then how do you explain Diggory Flynn?”
Sebastian poured a measure of brandy into a glass and set aside the decanter. “I think Oliphant decided he needed to kill me as soon as he returned to London, and he hired Diggory Flynn to do the job.”
“Because he thought you intended to kill him?”
“Yes.” He went to stand at the library window, his brandy cradled in one hand as he stared out at the storm. “And if I had killed the bastard, Jamie Knox would still be alive today.”
A jagged sizzle of lightning lit up the nearly deserted wet street and silhouetted the dark rooftops of the opposite houses against the roiling underbelly of the storm clouds overhead. He could see a workman struggling to lash down the tools in his handcart, the lightning limning a pale, rain-washed face cut by the strap of an eye patch as the old man squinted up at the sky. Then the flash subsided, leaving the scene in near total darkness, and Sebastian realized the gusting wind must have blown out most of the oil lamps on the street.
Hero said, “Oliphant should have known that’s not your way.”
“I think you give me too much credit.”
“No.”
Light footsteps sounded in the hall, and Hero turned toward the door as Claire came in carrying Simon. “Awake, little one?” she said with a smile. “And not screaming yet?”
Sebastian watched her move to take the child into her arms, saw the toothless grin that spread across his son’s face as she lifted him up. And he knew a jolting frisson of alarm as the significance of the workman’s eye patch suddenly hit him.
“Hero,” he said, starting toward her. .
Just as the windowpane beside him shattered and a roll of thunder mingled with the crack of a rifle.
Chapter 55
The globe of the oil lamp on the table near the door exploded in a shower of glass.
“Get down!” shouted Sebastian, lunging toward Hero and Simon as he saw her fall.
“Hero. .” Crouching low, he caught her up in his arms, ran his hands over her and felt the warm stickiness of blood. “Mother of God, you’re hit. Where? Simon-”
“We’re all right,” said Hero, her eyes dark and wide, the now screaming child cradled close. “It’s just cuts from the flying glass.”
He looked over at the Frenchwoman huddled behind a nearby chair. “Claire?”
Claire’s terrified gaze met his, and she nodded.
He pushed up. “Stay here.”
“Devlin!” he heard Hero shout as he tore across the entry hall and wrenched open the front door.
A cold, wind-driven rain stung his face and whipped at the tails of his coat as he pelted down the wet front steps. He could see the aged workman pushing his cart toward Bond Street, head down against the storm, the wheels of the cart bouncing over the paving stones. Then he must have heard Sebastian’s running footsteps, because he threw a quick glance over his shoulder. His hair had been liberally smeared with gray ashes, and the oddly lopsided grimace he’d once affected was gone, leaving him almost unrecognizable.
“Flynn!” shouted Sebastian.
The one-eyed man reached beneath his coat.
Sebastian dove sideways behind the front steps of the house beside him as Diggory Flynn ripped off his eye patch and brought up a long-barreled pistol to fire. The shot ricocheted off the iron railing beside Sebastian’s head, sparks showering the night.
“You son of a bitch,” swore Sebastian, scrambling to his feet again.
Flynn abandoned the workman’s cart and took off running.
Sebastian tore after him.
The former observing officer was both shorter and older, and Sebastian gained on him rapidly. Reaching out with his left hand, he grabbed Flynn’s right shoulder and spun him around to drive his fist into the middle of the man’s face, feeling bone and teeth give way in a blood-slicked crunch.
“You bastard,” swore Sebastian. “You could have killed my wife and son.”
“You moved!”
Without losing his hold on the man’s shoulder, Sebastian buried his fist in Flynn’s gut, then caught him under the chin with a punishing right hook.
Flynn’s head snapped back, the force of the blow wrenching his coat from Sebastian’s grasp. The man stumbled, tripped on the kerbstone, and went down hard on his rump.
Sebastian slipped his knife from his boot and advanced on him. “The same way you killed my brother.”
“Brother?” Flynn scrambled backward on his hands and buttocks, his face smeared with blood. “What brother?” His shoulder bumped against the area railing of the house behind him and he reached to haul himself up.
“Jamie Knox,” said Sebastian, grabbing a fistful of the man’s coat front and swinging him around to slam his back against the house wall.
“But I-”
Sebastian pressed the knife blade against his throat.
Flynn’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard, blood dripping off his chin from his broken nose and mouth. “Don’t kill me.”
Sebastian shook his head, his lips curling away from his teeth. “Name one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
Flynn’s chest jerked on a ragged, quickly indrawn breath. “I can give you Oliphant.”
The French overture to Haydn’s last piano sonata thundered with an energetic and passionate verve as Sebastian threaded his way through Lady Farningham’s crowded reception rooms. It was her second musical evening of the Season, and it seemed that all of fashionable London had come to hear her latest Italian virtuoso. The more intent listeners were seated in the rows of gilded chairs drawn up before the pianoforte. But most of the guests circulated freely, drinking and eating and chatting in small clusters.
Sinclair, Lord Oliphant, was standing beside one of the ornate pilasters in the drawing room, his gaze fixed on the pianist, when Sebastian walked up behind his former colonel and said quietly, “I have Diggory Flynn. He’s willing to testify that you paid him to kill Jamie Knox.”
Oliphant kept his eyes on the musician, not even bothering to turn his head as he said, “I never did any such thing.”
Lady Oliphant was too far away to hear their words, but she looked over at Sebastian and frowned pointedly.