What Remains of Heaven

Chapter 16

Sebastian returned home that night to be met by his major domo.

“A packet arrived in your absence, my lord. From London House.”

“Thank you,” said Sebastian.

Carrying a branch of candles into the library, he slit the seal on the sheaf of papers and spread them open on his desk. The top sheet proved to be a curt note from the Bishop’s supercilious chaplain, Simon Ashley. Sebastian could imagine the cleric’s nose twitching with disapproval as he wrote it.

My lord Devlin,

As per the Archbishop’s instructions, herewith find enclosed a list of the Bishop’s most recent appointments. At His Grace’s suggestion, I have annotated the list for your edification.

It was signed with a single initial: “A.”

The next two pages had obviously been copied from the Bishop’s appointment diary by someone with a painfully neat hand, most likely the diary secretary. The Chaplain’s own annotations were, in contrast, hurried scrawls, although thorough.

Settling back in his chair, Sebastian ran through the list of names, dates, and times. Most of the Bishop’s appointments over the past week appeared to be routine meetings with church functionaries or parishioners. Sebastian found the appointment with William Franklin on Monday. Although late in the afternoon, it appeared to have been the Bishop’s first scheduled appointment of the day, and it was followed immediately by the meeting with Lord Quillian. Interestingly, the Bishop had also met with his nephew, Sir Peter Prescott, at four o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, the day of his death. For what purpose was not made clear.

Rising thoughtfully to his feet, Sebastian glanced through the previous week’s schedule again, but only one other name caught his attention: Miss Hero Jarvis.

In addition to her six-o’clock appointment on Tuesday, she had met with the Bishop of London no fewer than three times in the previous week.

Sebastian’s dreams took him many places.

Sometimes he dreamt of cannonballs that whistled through the air to explode in bloody geysers of mud and horseflesh and torn men. Sometimes he dreamt of the sharp stench of burned timbers and a child’s pale cheeks, brown eyes wide and sight-less. And then there were those dreaded nights when he dreamt of a woman with blue St. Cyr eyes, who touched her fingertips to his and then slipped away, lost to him forever.

She came to him again that night, as a storm blew in off the North Sea, bringing with it the bite of an unseasonably cool wind. He felt her soft lips tremble against his. Felt her tear-slicked cheek, warm and wet against his neck. Beneath his touch, her body shivered. . . .

And he knew a start of horror that brought him instantly, heart-poundingly awake.

He lay for a moment, his breath coming harsh and ragged. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to fill a glass with brandy.

He drank it down, shuddering. Setting aside the empty glass, he jerked open the drapes and threw up the sash. The growing wind scuttled heavy clouds across the dark sky and bathed his hot skin with the cool air of the night. In the street below, the oil lamp at the corner flickered, went out.

But Sebastian had the keen eyesight of a creature of the night. Resting his palms on the sill, he leaned forward, his attention caught by the figure of a man crouched in the pool of shadow cast by the front steps of the house opposite.

As Sebastian watched, the man raised a cheroot to his lips and drew deeply, the glowing embers illuminating his bony features and narrowed eyes.

“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian. Shoving away from the window, he snatched up his breeches and the small pistol with an ivory handle and double barrels he kept primed and ready, and turned toward the door.

Obadiah Slade had the lit cheroot halfway to his mouth when Sebastian pressed the muzzle of his flintlock against the man’s broad temple and drew back both hammers.

“Do the world a favor,” said Sebastian, “and give me an excuse to blow your brains out.”

For the briefest instant, the other man froze. Then he rested the cheroot against his lower lip and inhaled sharply. “What? A fine, moral gentleman like yerself, committing murder on the streets of London?” The former corporal exhaled a blue stream of smoke, his lips pursing insolently. “I don’t think so.”

Sebastian kept his arm extended, the muzzle biting into the flesh of the other man’s forehead. “Why are you watching my house?”

“Ain’t no law sayin’ an Englishman can’t stand on the street smoking a cheroot, now, is there?”

“Depends on the Englishman, and the street.”

Obadiah took another drag on his cheroot. “Took me a while, after I seen ye in Aldersgate today. But I finally figured it out. Me da told me ye were at ’im over the Bishop. He thought ye was a constable. He don’t know what ye did in the Army. How ye could pass yerself off as everythin’ from a Spanish peasant to a French general.”

“Is that why you’re here? Because of Jack Slade?”

“Nah.” Obadiah took a final drag on his cheroot and let it fall to the footpath. “Ye know why I’m here.”

Sebastian stepped back, the pistol still held at full cock. “Come around here again and I’ll call the watch on you.”

Moving deliberately, Obadiah brought the heel of one massive boot down on the glowing tip of the cheroot. “Know what a hundred lashes do to a man’s back?”

“If it had been up to me, you would have hanged.”

Obadiah’s teeth glowed white in the darkness. “Takes a long time to lay a hundred lashes on a man’s back. Ye know how I survived it?”

When Sebastian remained silent, the other man ground his boot back and forth, pulverizing the cheroot beneath the heel. “There’s lots o’ different ways to kill a man. The one I picked for ye, ye’re gonna wish ye’d pulled them triggers.”

Sebastian felt his finger tighten against the cold metal in his hand, then willed himself to relax. “You’re not worth it.”

Obadiah smiled and turned away, his gait a languid, contemptuous threat. “Ye say that now.”