When Gods Die

Chapter 22

A sampler hung on the wall just behind the abigail’s head, a sampler worked in silk thread against a linen background. Sebastian stared at it, at the neatly stitched flowers intricately entwined around the letters of the alphabet. But he wasn’t really seeing it. He was remembering the glitter of hatred in Bevan Ellsworth’s eyes, and the sound made by a boy’s arm breaking on the playing fields of Eton.

“What did her ladyship do?” Sebastian asked.

“She told him to get out. And when he said he’d go all right and tell everyone who’d listen that she’d been playing the whore, she…” The abigail’s voice trailed off.

“She what?”

Tess Bishop’s color was high. She hesitated, then said in a rush, “She laughed. She said he’d only show himself to be the fool he was, because her son would be the next marquis even if he’d been begotten by a hunchback in the gutters.”

It was a legal principle that had come down to them from the Romans, a doctrine known as Pater est quem nupitae demonstrant. As far as the law was concerned, a woman’s husband was the father of her child, whether the man actually sired the child or not. Guinevere’s statement didn’t necessarily mean anything, of course. Scornful words flung in anger. But still…

“You’ll have to excuse me now, sir,” said the abigail, pushing to her feet. “His lordship has asked me to help with organizing the staff’s mourning clothes.”

Sebastian rose with her. “Yes, of course.” He kept his voice casual, although deep within his breast, his heart had begun to beat uncommonly fast. “There’s just one other thing I wanted to ask. You wouldn’t happen to know where her ladyship got the necklace she was wearing the day she died, would you?”

“Necklace?” Tess Bishop wrinkled her forehead in a frown. “What necklace?”

Slipping the bluestone triskelion from his pocket, Sebastian held it out in the palm of his hand. “This one.”

She studied it for a moment, then shook her head decisively. “That’s not her ladyship’s.”

For an instant, Sebastian imagined he could feel the necklace burning his flesh, although the stone was cold in the dreary light of the rainy day. “She died wearing it.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“How is that?”

“Because she was wearing the Pompeian that afternoon.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Sebastian, not understanding.

“The walking dress of Pompeian red. It’s made high at the neck, with an upstanding collar and raised epaulets, and worn with a goffered lawn fraise.”

“A what?”

“A fraise. It’s a kind of neck ruff with three tiers,” said Tess Bishop, impatient with his ignorance and anxious to be gone. “Her ladyship could never have worn a necklace with that dress.”

BEVAN ELLSWORTH, nephew of the Marquis of Anglessey and heir presumptive of all his lands and titles, kept a small suite of rooms two floors above an exclusive shop on St. James’s Street.

Using the skills he’d honed over five years in the army doing things no gentleman should ever do, Sebastian let himself in the main door from the hall. He found himself in a small parlor, opulently furnished if untidily kept, with riding boots left lying discarded across the Aubusson rug and a scattering of invitations and unpaid bills spilling off an ornate inlaid desk.

On the far side of the room, the door to the bedroom stood half-ajar. Sebastian went to push it open.

He found himself on the threshold of a room even more untidy than the last. An empty bottle of brandy stood on a side table near the door along with a scattering of dirty glasses; a tangle of dirty cravats and socks, waistcoats, and shirts lay strewn across the floor.

Sebastian wouldn’t have been surprised to find a naked Cyprian sprawled beneath the hangings of the silk-draped bed. But Ellsworth slept alone, flat on his back with the tangled sheets and covers shoved down around his hips. A heavy odor of brandy and sweat and stale air permeated the room.

Pulling up a delicate, lyre-backed chair to the side of the bed, Sebastian straddled the seat backward and drew a small French flintlock pistol from his coat pocket. A half-empty glass of brandy set on the bedside table at his elbow. Reaching over, he dipped the fingertips of his free hand into the liquid and calmly flicked a scattering of cold drops onto Bevan Ellsworth’s gently snoring face.

Ellsworth wrinkled his nose and shifted position, rolling half onto his side, his eyes still tightly closed.

Sebastian flicked again.

The man’s eyes blinked open, closed, then flew open wide as he bolted up, his weight on one outflung hand. “What the hell?”

Sebastian rested the arm with the pistol along the curving back of the chair. “You should stick with Howard and Gibbs,” he said pleasantly, as if giving financial advice to a friend. “Their interest rates might be ruinous, but unlike some of their more ruthless brethren on King Street, they don’t pollute the Thames with the bodies of those customers who make the mistake of falling behind on their interest payments.”

Ellsworth cleared his throat, the back of one hand rubbing across his mouth as he sat up straighter, his gaze on the little flintlock. “How do you know about that?”

“Of course,” continued Sebastian conversationally, as if the man hadn’t even spoken, “the problem with Howard and Gibbs is that they typically require some sort of surety. Particularly when there’s a chance the individual involved might not be the heir to a comfortable estate, after all.”

Ellsworth’s gaze slipped away to the open door behind Sebastian, then back again. “What are you doing here? And why the hell are you dressed like some bloody Bow Street Runner?”

Sebastian simply smiled. “You said your debts weren’t pressing. You lied to me. That was not wise.”

His jaw tightening, Ellsworth extended one arm in a wide arc that took in the small room, the bed’s dirty hangings. “Look at this place. Look at how I’m forced to live. Spending my days at the Inns of Court. Bloody hell. I’m a heartbeat away from being the next Marquis of Anglessey, and the paltry allowance my uncle grants me isn’t even enough to pay my tailors’ bills.”

“Especially after settling day at Tattersall’s.”

Ellsworth moistened his lower lip with his tongue. In the harsh light of morning, his skin looked sallow and slack with dissipation, his eyes bloodshot. “I didn’t kill her,” he said, his voice unexpectedly calm and even.

“But you threatened to.”

Ellsworth threw back the sheets and stood up. He was naked to the waist, a pair of drawstring underdrawers slung low on his hips, his feet bare. “Who wouldn’t want to kill her, in my position?” he demanded. “She was going to take away what is mine.” He leaned forward, his curled knuckles thumping against his bare chest. “Mine. And hand it all to some ill-begotten bastard.”

“You can’t know that.”

A tight smile curled the man’s lips. “Can’t I? Some things are hard to keep a secret. And servants do talk.” He swung away to go splash water from the pitcher into the bowl on the washstand.

“So who’s the father?”

Ellsworth shrugged, not bothering to turn around. “How should I know? I saw half a dozen or more young bucks at the funeral yesterday. For all I know, Guinevere herself couldn’t have told you the father’s name.”

Sebastian rose to his feet as a sudden thought occurred to him. “Where is she buried?”

“At St. Anne’s. Why?”

Sebastian shook his head, his lips curving into a hard smile. “What I don’t understand is why you went through all the risk of transporting the Marchioness’s body from London down to the Pavilion.”

“Jesus.” Ellsworth swung around, his face flushing with anger and what may have been a trace of fear. “You still think I did it. You still think I killed her.”

“I made some discreet inquiries around the Inns of Court. You arrived late that day, and left early.”

Sebastian expected the man to deny it. Instead, his eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to say provocatively, “You think I killed her? All right. Then let’s see you prove it.”

THE NARROW STAIRCASE leading down to the street door was dark in the rainy-day gloom. Halfway down the second flight, Sebastian passed a fleshy young dandy laboring up the steep steps, the man with flaxen hair and a florid complexion he remembered having seen with Ellsworth at Brooks’s.

Studying the man’s protuberant eyes, his molded, almost feminine lips, and weak chin, Sebastian thought the man’s sense of familiarity might come from his unfortunate resemblance to the portly, ruddy-faced princes of the House of Hanover. Then as the man reached the first floor and turned, his profile was silhouetted against the gray light above in a way that made Sebastian realize he did know this man, after all. He was Fabian Fitzfrederick, natural son of Frederick, Duke of York, second son of George III and next in line behind Princess Charlotte to the thrones of England, Scotland, and Wales.

The friendship might mean nothing, of course. Legitimate heirs to the throne were dangerously scarce, but over the years George III’s seven sons had sired scores of illegitimate children. If Guinevere Anglessey’s body had been found anyplace other than in the private apartments of His Highness the Prince Regent, Bevan Ellsworth’s friendship with an illegitimate member of the royal family would have been insignificant. It still might be insignificant, although Sebastian decided it wouldn’t hurt to look into Fabian Fitzfrederick’s activities on Wednesday last.

But first Sebastian intended to pay a visit to St. Anne’s churchyard.