When Gods Die

Chapter 45

Sebastian spent the morning in Smithfield, looking for Tom.

He made no attempt to disguise who he was. He even brought along a couple of strapping footmen to preclude any possibility of a repeat of what had happened on his last visit to the area. But Tom had obviously followed instructions and taken care to blend into his surroundings. Sebastian found an old woman selling buttons who said she’d seen a boy about his age running through the streets just before sunset, running like the hounds of hell were after him. But she didn’t know what had happened to the lad, or even who’d been chasing him.

Sebastian looked for the maimed Scottish soldier who’d been reduced to begging outside the Norfolk Arms, but no one could remember having seen the man for days. Standing in the shade cast by a ribbon shop’s awning, Sebastian studied the inn’s ancient brick facade, and knew a deep and powerful disquiet.

He’d come back at dusk, Sebastian decided, when the creatures of the night were aprowl. “Andrew, James,” he said curtly. The two footmen snapped to attention as he pushed away from the building. “I want you to check every watchhouse in the area, every watchman, every beadle. Do you understand? Someone must have seen him.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Leaping up into the carriage, Sebastian slammed his own door and sent the coachman flying to Queen Square, only to learn there that Sir Henry Lovejoy was out pursuing leads on his gruesome park murder. Increasingly frustrated, his temper fraying, Sebastian thought about Tess Bishop’s early morning visit and knew how he would spend the remaining hours until dusk.

HE TRACKED THE CHEVALIER DE VARDEN to Angelo’s Fencing Academy in Bond Street, where Varden was fencing with the master himself. Sebastian stood for a time, watching them. The Chevalier was a good swordsman, with a keen eye and flexible wrists and a quick, light step. Barefoot, stripped down to his shirtsleeves and buckskin breeches, he moved effortlessly across the hardwood floor, foil flashing, his light brown hair tumbling in his eyes.

Sebastian had never heard anything to the man’s discredit. The ladies liked him for his charming manner and graceful step on the dance floor, while the men liked him for his ready laugh and easy generosity and courage on the hunting field. True, the Chevalier was known to have a quick temper. But there was nothing to suggest he was the kind of man who could subject the woman he loved to a slow and painful death by poison.

As Sebastian watched, the Chevalier feigned to the left, then slipped past the master’s guard to land a hit to his shoulder. The master laughed and the match ended. They stood talking a few moments with the easy camaraderie of two men in love with the same sport. Then Varden headed for the changing room.

Sebastian caught him just inside the door.

Locking onto Varden’s right wrist, Sebastian twisted the man’s arm in a way that shoved his hand up into the middle of his back and spun him around, throwing Varden off balance. Sebastian slammed him face-first against the wall, Sebastian’s left arm coming across the front of Varden’s throat to hold him from behind. “You bloody bastard,” Sebastian whispered in his ear.

The Chevalier tried to turn his head, his eyes rolling sideways. “Devlin. What the devil?”

Sebastian tightened the pressure on the man’s throat. “You lied to me,” he said, enunciating each word slowly and carefully. “I know about the arrangement the Marquis of Anglessey had with his wife, and I know about your part in it. So don’t even think about trying to deny it.”

“Of course I lied to you,” Varden said, his voice strained. “What gentleman wouldn’t?”

Sebastian hesitated, then stepped back and let the man go.

The Chevalier swung around, his dark eyes flashing, his left hand rubbing his other arm. “Touch me again and I’ll kill you.”

He went to pour water in one of the basins on the washstand and splashed his face with quick, angry motions. “Who told you?” he said after a moment. “Anglessey? I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“He wants me to find his wife’s killer.”

Varden looked around. “Are you suggesting I don’t?”

Their gazes caught and clashed. Sebastian said, “Where did you and the Marchioness used to meet?”

Varden hesitated, then reached for a towel. “Different inns. Usually not the same place twice. Why?”

“Did you ever meet in Smithfield?”

“Smithfield?” There was surprise in the man’s face, but something else, too. Something that looked almost like fear. “Good God, no. Why do you ask?”

“Because Guinevere Anglessey went there the afternoon she was killed. You wouldn’t happen to know why, would you?”

His brows drew together. “Where in Smithfield?”

Sebastian simply shook his head. “How did you spend last Wednesday?”

The implications of the questions were obvious. Varden’s nostrils flared. “I slept late. I’d been out most of the night before with friends. I didn’t even leave the house until around five, maybe six.” He paused in the act of pulling on his boots to throw Sebastian a malevolent glare. “You can check with the servants, if you don’t believe me.”

Sebastian watched him shrug into his coat. “I want to know about Wales.”

Varden adjusted the lapels of his coat. Two men walked into the room, the older one slapping the younger man on the shoulder as he said, “Well done, Charles. Well done, indeed.”

“Not here,” said Varden.

Sebastian nodded. “Let’s go for a walk.”