When Gods Die

Chapter 49

A thick pall of smoke stung Sebastian’s eyes, tore at his throat. Throwing one crooked arm in front of his face, he took the stairs to the alley two at a time.

He was halfway up the steps when he heard a tearing crack above him. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder in time to see a fiery beam crash onto the stone steps behind him, bringing half the ceiling down with it and unleashing a fierce blast of heat that slapped him in the back, knocking him to his knees.

Coughing badly now, he pushed on, practically crawling the last few steps. Wrapping one hand around the edge of the shattered cellar doors, he heaved himself up and staggered out into the cool of the night.

He stood with his hands braced on his knees, his head bowed as he sucked in great drafts of sweet, life-giving air. Behind him, the inn had become a fiery shell. Lungs aching, he swung around and watched as the walls collapsed inward, sending a torch of flames and fiery embers roaring up toward the cloud-filled sky.

He felt the evening breeze cool against his skin. The breeze, and something else that stung his eyelids and ran down his cheeks as he lifted his face to the sky.

Rain.

SEBASTIAN WAS SITTING on an ancient stone mounting block and wrapping a wet handkerchief around his singed hand when Lovejoy found him.

The little magistrate’s hat was gone, his collar crooked, his normally spotless shirtfront smudged with a black stain that was turning gray now in the steady rain. “If your lad was right and there’d been gunpowder in that cellar, the explosion would have taken out half the street,” said Lovejoy, removing his spectacles to wipe the lenses.

Sebastian used his teeth to tighten the knot in his handkerchief. “The gunpowder’s gone. They probably moved it last night after Tom was taken up. They couldn’t run the risk of someone deciding to investigate the boy’s story.”

Lovejoy’s head fell back, the muscles of his face twitching as he stared up at the smoldering facade. “And the fire?”

“Was set to destroy whatever evidence they might have missed, I suppose.” Sebastian stretched to his feet. “That and to cover up the murder of Caleb Carter.”

Lovejoy shot him a quick look. “You mean the black innkeeper? He’s dead?”

“I found him in the cellars. Someone had slipped a knife between his ribs.”

“But…why?”

“Think about it. Last Wednesday, the Marchioness of Anglessey was seen walking into this inn. As far as we know, no one except her killer ever saw her alive again. A few days later, I show up asking questions about her. Then last night, my tiger watches a shipment of gunpowder being delivered and hears talk of a reversal of the Glorious Revolution of 1688. Something serious is afoot here. But the only link we had to it was Caleb Carter and this inn.”

Sebastian paused to stare up at the smoking, crumbling walls of the building before him. “And now they’re both gone.”

STOPPING AT PAUL GIBSON’S SURGERY at the foot of Tower Hill, Sebastian found Tom asleep in Gibson’s back bedchamber.

“I thought it best,” said Gibson, one cupped hand shielding the flare of his candlestick. “He was exhausted.”

Sebastian stared down at the sleeping boy. “Is he all right?”

“He had a bad fright. But nothing worse.”

Sebastian nodded. There was no need to elaborate. They both knew what could happen to the boys and girls—and men and women—unlucky enough to find themselves in one of His Majesty’s prisons.

“He kept talking about someone named Huey,” said Gibson, leading the way to the parlor.

Sebastian nodded. “His brother. I gather the boy was hanged.”

Gibson sighed. “These are barbarous times in which we live.” He went to pour two glasses of wine. “This conspiracy to depose the Hanovers…any idea who might be involved?”

“To have any chance of success it would need the allegiance of prominent men, both in the army and the government. But do they have that support?” Sebastian shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen any sign of it. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. The Norfolk Arms was surely only at the periphery.”

“Could Anglessey be involved?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. Although I’d be surprised.” Sebastian took the wine from Gibson’s hand and went to sink into one of the tattered leather armchairs before the empty fireplace. “I haven’t found anyone associated with Lady Anglessey’s death who’s at all in a position of power.” He paused. “Except for Portland, of course. And he’s such a rabid Tory, he hardly seems a likely candidate to be advocating revolution.”

Gibson came to stand before the cold hearth. “Any idea yet how Lady Hendon’s necklace fits into all of this?”

Sebastian glanced up into his friend’s open, concerned face. Once, years ago in Italy, he and this man had been to hell and back together. Their friendship had nothing to do with rank or birth, but with a shared moral code and the deep, mutual respect of two men who had tested each other’s mettle and found courage under fire and a levelheaded response to danger.

But even the best of friendships have their limits. Not even to Kat had Sebastian been able to bring himself to say, I don’t want to believe it, but I’m becoming more and more convinced that my mother didn’t drown on that long-ago summer day. Because if she had, this triskelion would have spent the last seventeen years buried in silt someplace at the bottom of the Channel. It wouldn’t be playing a part now in what happened to Guinevere Anglessey.

So Sebastian simply drained his wine and said, “No. It’s still a mystery.”

REACHING THE HOUSE IN BROOK STREET, Sebastian intended to go upstairs, face his valet’s tears over another ruined coat, and change into evening attire. Instead he wandered into the library, poured himself a brandy, and stood staring down at the empty hearth.

There was a time for subtlety and cleverness, and then there was a time for brute force. Sending Tom to scout out the neighborhood of Giltspur Street had been a mistake, he decided. Not only had he placed the tiger in unconscionable danger, but he’d also missed the chance to go back to the Norfolk Arms himself and directly press Caleb Carter for the truth about the Marchioness’s visit to the inn. Now it was too late.

He became aware of a bold hand beating an insistent tattoo at the front door.

“I’m not at home, Morey,” Sebastian said as his majordomo moved to open the door.

“Yes, my lord.”

Taking a sip of his brandy, Sebastian glanced out the window overlooking the front street. A smart carriage drawn by a pair of beautifully matched dapple grays stood drawn up before the steps. He didn’t need to see the coronet on its panels to know its owner.

He could hear Morey’s polite, soothing tones, blending with a woman’s voice, louder and only too familiar.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said his sister, Amanda. “I know perfectly well Devlin is at home. I saw him climb the steps myself just moments ago. Now, you can either announce me, or I shall simply go looking for him. The choice is yours.”

Sebastian went to stand in the library’s doorway, the brandy glass held lightly in his unbandaged hand as he studied the tall, slim woman in heavy mourning who stood in the marble tiled entry. “Leave off harassing the poor man. He’s simply following orders.”

Amanda turned her head to look at him. “As I am only too aware.” Her eyes widened at the sight of him, her nostrils quivering at the stench of smoke and soot. “Merciful heavens. What have you been doing? Hiring yourself out as a chimney sweep?”

Sebastian laughed and stepped back to sketch her a flourishing bow. “Do come in, my lady.”

She swept past him, jerking off her gloves but making no attempt to remove her bonnet. “You realize, of course, that you have the entire Town talking about you. Again.”

“Oh, surely not as bad as the last time.”

She swung to face him, her blue eyes blazing. “Is it too much to ask that you have some consideration for your niece?” She waved one hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, not for my sake. But for Hendon’s. She is his granddaughter, after all.”

Sebastian frowned. “Stephanie? What has she to do with anything?”

“She is seventeen. In less than a year she will be making her come out. What do you think will be her chances of contracting a respectable alliance if her uncle is known to make it a hobby of consorting with murderers?”

Sebastian went to pour himself another drink. “Sherry?” he asked.

Amanda shook her head.

“I’m not consorting with Lady Anglessey’s murderer,” said Sebastian. “I’m simply trying to discover who he is.”

“Really, Sebastian. Like some common Bow Street Runner?”

“With rather more finesse than that, I like to think. And, of course, I’m not getting paid, so you needn’t worry there’s any hint of the stench of trade being attached to the practice.”

“I should rather think not.”

Sebastian gave her a hard smile. “Offends your delicate sensibilities, does it?”

“It would offend the sensibilities of anyone of breeding and culture.”

“Really? Well, murder offends mine.”

“You have no sensibilities.” She turned away, one hand coming up to shade her eyes before she suddenly moved to face him again. “Why are you doing this?”

Sebastian took a slow swallow of brandy. “I thought I just explained that.”

She shook her head. “No. Why you? Why this murder?”

Sebastian hesitated a moment, then said, “Do you remember the bluestone necklace Mother always used to wear? The one she said was given to her by some old crone in the mountains of Wales?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Did you know she was wearing it the day she was lost at sea?”

“No. What has the necklace to do with anything?”

“It was around the Marchioness of Anglessey’s neck when her body was found in the Pavilion.”

Amanda’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “You can’t be serious. How extraordinary. Wherever did she get it?”

“No one seems to know. But Jarvis recognized it and suggested I might have my own reasons for looking into the matter.”

Amanda searched his face. “Are you so certain the Prince did not kill her?”

Sebastian met her gaze. Whatever else one might say about Amanda, she was a levelheaded, intensely unimaginative woman. If even she had come to suspect Prinny of murder, then the Regent was in serious trouble.

Sebastian shook his head. “She was killed earlier that afternoon. Her body was simply moved to the Pavilion and arranged so that he would find her.”

She frowned. “How much earlier was she killed?”

“Some six hours or more.”

Amanda’s lips curled in a contemptuous smile. “Ah. There, you see? No great mystery. Why, I could have told you Prinny didn’t do it myself. He wasn’t even in Brighton earlier that day.”

Sebastian’s hand tightened around his brandy glass. “What?”

Amanda laughed. “Did you not know? He was here in London. I saw him myself. Coming out of Lady Benson’s.”

“Last Wednesday? You’re quite certain?”

“Last Wednesday was Lady Sefton’s breakfast. I wasn’t able to attend myself, of course. But I remember it distinctly.” She gave the skirts of her mourning dress an unconscious twitch. “I can quite understand why Prinny kept his visit to Town secret—a lady’s reputation and all that. Not that Alice Benson has any reputation left. If her father hadn’t tied up her portion the way he did, Benson would have divorced her years ago. As it is, I fear being without Alice’s fortune would be even more mortifying for Benson than being cuckolded by the Prince, now, wouldn’t it?”

“What time was this?” said Sebastian sharply.

“Shortly before Lady Sefton’s breakfast. I’d say sometime in the early afternoon.”

Amongst the fashionable set, breakfasts were held in the afternoon, just as morning visits were held after three o’clock. Sebastian knocked back the rest of his brandy and set the glass aside. “Where might I find Lord Jarvis this evening?”

“Jarvis?” She paused a moment, thinking. “Well, there is Lady Crue’s ball. But I believe I heard something about the Dowager Lady Jarvis making up a party for Vauxhall. Sebastian,” she called after him as he headed for the stairs. “Where are you going?”

“Vauxhall.”