Instead, they had survived. Now, those shared moments of weakness had become a source of embarrassment and regret that could have profound repercussions for them both. He’d known her to shoot a highwayman at point-blank range, to confront certain death with a rare and clearheaded fortitude. But for a young gentlewoman to face the potential shame and ostracism of an unwed birth was something else entirely, and he had no intention of allowing her to suffer alone for what they had done together. The problem was, he wasn’t convinced she would tell him if there were, in fact, repercussions from that fateful afternoon.
“Are you well?” he asked.
She knew precisely what he meant. “I am quite well, thank you.” She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her step never faltering. “You’ve no need to concern yourself.”
He wanted to believe her, but couldn’t. She’d already given him her forthright opinion of marriage; when he’d offered her the protection of his name after their rescue that day, her answer had been swift and unequivocal. Studying the self-possessed features of the woman beside him now, he could find no trace of the vulnerable creature who’d given herself to him in the cold, dark vaults beneath Somerset House. Yet it had happened.
He said, “The Archbishop of Canterbury has asked me to look into the murder of Bishop Prescott.”
For an instant, the hand holding the parasol clenched so hard Sebastian heard the delicate bamboo crack. But the calm self-control of her voice never slipped. “Bishop Prescott?” she said airily. “And what, pray tell, does his death have to do with me?”
“I don’t know. Which is why I was curious when I heard you had requested a copy of Prescott’s most recent appointments.”
She stared off across the courtyard, to where an emaciated man with one leg hobbled on a single crutch. “Ah,” she said softly. “And now you’re wondering why, are you?”
“Yes.”
She kept her gaze on the wounded soldier in his gay, old-fashioned uniform. “In point of fact, it’s my belief the Bishop was being blackmailed.”
“Blackmailed?” Whatever Sebastian had been expecting her to say, it wasn’t that.
“Yes.”
“And precisely what, Miss Jarvis, led you to this conclusion?”
“When I met with the Bishop yesterday evening, I found him quite disturbed.”
“You had a meeting with Prescott?”
She glanced sideways at him. “You hadn’t discovered that yet?”
“No, I had not. At what time did you meet with him?”
“Six.”
“So you were the important appointment the Bishop was reluctant to cancel. Do you mind if I ask why you were meeting with the Bishop of London?”
She twitched her parasol back and forth in short, sharp jerks. “You may ask, if you wish, my lord. But I have no intention of answering your question. Believe me, it is not at all relevant to your investigation.”
“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “But I will find out, you know.”
She swung to face him, her jaw set, her eyes icy with dislike. “Very well, if you insist. The Bishop asked for my assistance in preparing the speech he was to give before the House of Lords this Thursday.”
Sebastian studied the smooth line of her cheek, the dark sweep of lashes that half hid her eyes as she looked away. She was a very good liar. But not quite good enough. He said, “The speech on abolition.”
“That’s right.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze to the statue of Charles II, decked out like a Roman emperor, that stood in the center of the court. If his understanding of the events of that evening were correct, then Miss Jarvis would have arrived at London House not long after the Reverend Malcolm Earnshaw’s meeting with the Bishop. But Sebastian found it difficult to understand how there could have been anything in the discovery of a decades-old corpse in a small village church to rattle a man as powerful and worldly as the Bishop of London.
He said, “Did Prescott tell you he was being blackmailed?”
“Not in so many words.”
“So what precisely did he say that led you to such an unlikely conclusion?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that.”
“You—” He caught himself up short, took a deep breath, and said more calmly, “Miss Jarvis, do I need to remind you that a man is dead?”
She held herself very still. “Obviously not, my lord Devlin. But Francis Prescott was my friend. He told me what he did in strictest confidence, and I do not believe that a man’s death relieves his friends of their responsibility to respect his desire for privacy.”
He stared at her. “You would respect the Bishop’s confidence even if it meant letting his killer go free?”
Her nostrils flared on a quickly indrawn breath. “No. But if I can preserve the Bishop’s confidence by making some preliminary inquiries myself, then would you not agree that it is incumbent upon me to do so? If I should discover that the information I have is relevant to his death, then I shall of course disclose it to you.”
“Hence your request for the list of the Bishop’s appointments?”
“Yes.”
He watched her glance away again. She might be telling him the truth, but he had a nasty suspicion it was only a half-truth. He said, “Blackmailers don’t necessarily make appointments, you know.”
Her nostrils flared. “That had occurred to me.”
“And were you looking for anyone’s name in particular on that list?”
“In point of fact, I have not yet received the list.”
Sebastian tightened his jaw. “And when you do receive the list, Miss Jarvis, whose name do you anticipate finding upon it?”
He didn’t expect her to answer him. But to his surprise, a faint, unpleasant smile curled her lips, and she said, “Lord Quillian’s.”
“Quillian? Surely you don’t suspect Lord Quillian of murdering the Bishop?”
One eyebrow arched. “You find that so improbable?”
“The man is a fop. He wears his shirt points so high he can barely turn his head, and his coats are so tight I swear the seams would split if he tried to bludgeon anyone to death.”
“You might think so. Yet he has fought two duels—”
“Twenty years ago.”
“—and he is an outspoken opponent of abolition.”
“As are any number of other men in London.”
“True. Yet how many of those men went so far as to actually threaten the Bishop?”
Sebastian frowned. “Quillian threatened the Bishop? Did Prescott tell you so?”
She shook her head. “He had no need. I was walking with the Bishop in Hyde Park on Saturday when Lord Quillian accosted him.”
“Accosted?”
“Yes, accosted. He warned the Bishop specifically to give up his support of the Slavery Abolition Act, saying that men who lived in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”
“That might not necessarily have been a threat.”
“Perhaps. Except he followed it up by saying, ‘Beware lest your own house should shatter, my lord Bishop.’ ”
Sebastian glanced over to where Tom was walking the grays up and down the lane near the overgrown entrance to the old Ranelagh Gardens. “You know, of course, that I shall now accost Lord Quillian.”
“I should sincerely hope so. Why else do you suppose I told you?”
He grunted. “You don’t actually believe that aging exquisite has anything to do with the Bishop’s death, do you?”