When Gods Die

Chapter 37

Sebastian arrived back at his house on Brook Street that night to be met by his majordomo.

“Young Tom is in the library,” said the majordomo in the same carefully colorless voice all senior servants seemed to use when referring to the tiger. “He insisted upon waiting up for you.”

“Ah. Thank you, Morey. Good night.”

Opening the door to the library, Sebastian expected to find Tom curled up asleep on one of the window seats. Instead, the boy was at the library table, his chin propped on one fist, a flaming branch of candles at his elbow, a slim volume open on the table before him.

He was so engrossed in his reading that at first he wasn’t aware of Sebastian’s arrival. Then the hinges on the door creaked and he looked up with a start.

“My lord!” He slithered from the chair, his face flushing hot crimson before fading to pale.

Sebastian smiled. “What are you reading?”

“I—I do beg your pardon, my lord.”

“It’s all right, Tom. What is it?”

The boy hung his head. “Jason and the Argonauts.”

“An interesting choice.” Sebastian walked over to pour himself a glass of brandy. “Where did you learn to read?”

“I went to school once, afore me da died.”

Sebastian looked around in surprise. It reminded him of how little he knew of the boy’s past, beyond the fact that his mother had been transported to Botany Bay, leaving her son to fend for himself on the streets of London.

“I expected you earlier this evening,” said Sebastian, splashing brandy in his glass.

“The place really started ’oppin’, come evening. I thought I might learn somethin’ if I stuck around.”

“And did you?”

Tom shook his head. “I checked the shops all up and down the lane, but no one owned up to ’aving seen her ladyship.”

Sebastian leaned against the library table and sipped his brandy in thoughtful silence. “The one-legged beggar, was he at his place near the Norfolk Arms?”

“Didn’t see ’im. But I spent some time ’anging around the inn. ’E’s a weery rum customer, the African what owns the place. Weery rum indeed. They say he was a slave once, on a cotton plantation someplace in America afore he killed his master and run off.”

“What’s his name? Did you hear?”

Tom nodded. “Carter. Caleb Carter. He come here fifteen years or more ago. Took up with the widow woman what used to own the Norfolk Arms. She had a daughter then, a pretty little redheaded girl named Georgiana. But the girl took sick and died some two years ago, and the mother, she died of grief not long after.”

“And left Carter the inn?”

“Aye. From what I gather, they’re in the trade, if you know what I mean.”

“Smuggling? That doesn’t surprise me,” said Sebastian, remembering the bottle of fine French brandy on the table in the common room. He pushed away from the table and straightened. “You’d best get some sleep. I’d like you to go there again tomorrow.”

“Aye, gov’nor,” said Tom, stifling a yawn.

“Here.” Sebastian held out the book. “Don’t you want to finish it?”

The boy’s glance dropped hesitantly from Sebastian’s face to his outstretched hand.

Sebastian smiled. “Go on, take it. You can bring it back when you’re done.”

Tom turned toward the door, the book clutched to his chest like a rare treasure.

“Oh and, Tom—”

The boy swung around.

“Be back before nightfall this time, you hear? I don’t want you taking any chances. These are dangerous people we’re dealing with.”

“Aye, gov’nor.”

Still faintly smiling, Sebastian stood in the doorway to watch the boy dash off across the hall. Then, the smile fading, Sebastian turned back into the library to pour himself another drink.

THE NEXT MORNING, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne was lying on a chaise in her dressing room and drinking a cup of chocolate when Sebastian strolled into the room.

She let out a soft moan. “Sebastian? What can Humphrey be thinking? He has strict instructions to allow no one past the door before one o’clock.”

“So he said.” He stooped to plant a kiss on his aunt’s cheek. “I want to know what you can tell me about the Countess of Portland.”

His aunt sat up straighter. “Claire Portland? Good heavens, whatever for?”

Sebastian simply ignored the question. “What do you think of her?”

Aunt Henrietta gave a genteel sniff. “A pretty little thing, obviously. But all bubble and froth if you ask me.”

“She certainly gives that impression. But appearances can be deceiving.”

“Sometimes. But not in this case, I’m afraid.” His aunt fixed him with a fierce stare. “And now, not another word until you tell me your interest in the lady.”

“It appears that at one time, Lady Anglessey thought to marry Claire Portland’s brother, the Chevalier de Varden.”

“Hmmm. Yes, I can see that. Dashingly handsome man, the Chevalier. And nothing piques a girl’s fancy more than a tragic, romantic past.”

“Dear Aunt. One might almost suspect you of nourishing a tendre for the fellow yourself.”

She made a deep rumbling sound that shook her impressive bosom. “I’ve no patience with romantic, handsome young men, and well you know it.”

Sebastian smiled. “Lady Portland. Tell me about her.”

Aunt Henrietta settled herself more comfortably. “Not much to tell, I’m afraid. Her father, the late Lord Audley, left her well dowered. She had a successful season and married the Earl of Portland at the end of it.”

“What about Portland himself?”

Again, that genteel sniff. “I’ve heard him referred to as a handsome man, although personally I’ve no use for redheads. But there’s no denying the old Earl, his father, cut up quite warm. And Portland himself’s not one for wasting the ready at the gaming table. Claire did quite well for herself. I wouldn’t say Portland’s one to sit in his wife’s pocket, but then he hasn’t set up a mistress, either, that anyone knows of. He seems to spend most of his time at Whitehall.”

“And the lady Portland? Has she established herself as something of a political hostess?”

“I doubt she has either the inclination or the intelligence to carry it off.”

Sebastian came to take the chair opposite her. “She seems surprisingly close to Morgana Quinlan.”

“Well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it, given the close proximity of their fathers’ estates?”

“I would have said the two women were of starkly different temperaments.”

“Yes. But sometimes friendships are like marriages: the best couplings are between opposites.”

Sebastian was silent for a moment, his thoughts on his own parents’ marriage. That was one instance when a coupling of opposite temperaments had definitely not prospered. But all he said was “Lady Quinlan seems to nourish a particularly bitter animosity toward her sister. Do you know why?”

“Hmm. I suspect she had her nose put out of joint when her younger sister succeeded so much better than she in the Marriage Mart. Frankly, I was surprised Lady Morgana went off at all. The woman’s not only a shameless bluestocking, but a dead bore to boot, which is far worse. I once made the mistake of attending one of her scientific evenings. Some gentleman lectured us interminably on Leyden jars and copper wires. Then he killed a frog and reanimated it with electric shocks. It was quite revolting.”

Sebastian leaned forward. “How did he kill the frog?”

Aunt Henrietta drained her chocolate cup and set it aside. “Poison, I believe.”

THE HOME SECRETARY, the Earl of Portland, was sitting in a coffeehouse just off the Mall, a steaming cup on the table before him, when Sebastian slid into the opposite seat.

“I don’t recall inviting you to sit,” said Portland, regarding Sebastian through narrowed eyes.

“You didn’t,” said Sebastian cheerfully.

The air filled with the steady beat of a drum and the tramp of feet as a troop of soldiers marched past. Fresh cannon fodder, thought Sebastian, on their way to Portsmouth and the war on the other side of the Channel. No one in the coffee shop even looked up.

Portland leaned back in his seat, a faint smile touching his lips. “My wife tells me she met you in Lady Quinlan’s drawing room yesterday.”

“You didn’t tell me you were brother-in-law to the dead lady’s lover.”

“You mean Varden?” Portland raised his cup to his lips and took a thoughtful sip. “I know there was an attachment of long standing between them, but I wouldn’t care to hazard on its present nature.”

“Tell me about him.”

Portland shrugged. “A likable enough lad, I suppose, if a bit too hotheaded and impulsive for my taste. But then he’s half-French, so I suppose that’s to be expected.”

“What can you tell me about his politics?”

Portland gave a sharp laugh and took another sip. “The pup is twenty-one years old. He’s interested in wine, women, and song. Not the composition of the Prince’s cabinet.”

“How about dynastic disputes? Might they interest him?”

Portland lowered his cup, his face suddenly drawn and serious. “What are you talking about?”

Sebastian let the question slide past him. “The lady who asked you to convey the note to the Prince, what can you tell me about her?”

Portland glanced down at his cup, his sandy red eyebrows drawing together in a thoughtful frown. “She was young, I would say. At least that’s the impression I had. If I could see the color of her hair, I don’t recall it.”

“Definitely a lady?”

“I would have said so, yes.” He hesitated. “I think she was tall, but I can’t be certain. Perhaps I simply imagined that afterward, when I assumed it was Lady Anglessey who had handed me the billet-doux.”

Sebastian leaned back in his seat, his gaze on the other man’s face. It struck him as too much of a coincidence that the note used to lure the Prince to the Yellow Cabinet had been given to the Home Secretary, rather than to one of the sycophants with which the Prince typically surrounded himself. Then again, it was always possible that the woman in green had singled out Portland deliberately.

Aloud, Sebastian said, “Do you remember the dagger that was in Lady Anglessey’s back?”

Portland turned his head to stare out the shop’s bay window to the street beyond, empty now in the bright sun. His throat worked as if he had to fight to swallow, and his voice, when he spoke, was strained. “It’s not something I’m likely to forget, now, is it? The way it stuck out of her like a—”

“Had you ever seen it before?”

“The dagger?” He looked around again, his eyes opening wide as if in surprise. “Of course. It’s part of the collection of Stuart memorabilia that was in the possession of Henry Stuart when he died. I believe it belonged to his grandfather, James the Second.”

The bell on the shop’s door jangled as two soldiers came in, bringing with them the smell of morning air and sun-warmed brick and a whiff of fresh manure. Sebastian kept his gaze on the Scotsman’s freckled face. “What happened to it?”

“You mean after Henry’s death? Don’t you know? He willed the entire collection to the Prince of Wales—the Regent.”