He was aware of her looking at him strangely. It was an effort for him to speak, to keep his voice even, as if every facet of his life didn’t depend on her answer.
He said, “You’re certain?”
“Why, yes. I’m afraid I don’t recall the exact date, but I do know it was before Christmas. We still follow the old tradition of St. Thomas’s Day here at the Grange, when needy women are allowed to go begging from door to door for Christmas ‘goodenings.’ I remember it distinctly because that was the first year I distributed our charity to the women personally.”
“Did the entire mission sail together?”
The question seemed to puzzle her. “Of course. Why wouldn’t they?”
He pushed to his feet. “You’ll have to excuse me.”
She set aside her embroidery and stood with him. “But surely you’ll stay for tea?”
“What? Oh. No, thank you.”
Somehow, he managed to murmur the requisite polite phrases, to take possession of his hat and riding quip, and call for his horse.
He had only the vaguest memories of mounting the Arab at the worn old block in the corner of the court and setting her on the long road back to London. The wind blew in short, sharp bursts that stung his cheeks with a needlelike spray of rain. He blinked, wiped the water from his eyes, and rode on.
In three months’ time, on the nineteenth of October, Sebastian would celebrate his thirtieth birthday. But if what Lady Prescott had told him were true . . . If the Earl of Hendon had indeed left England for the American Colonies in December of 1781, then Hendon could not possibly be Sebastian’s father.
And his name should not, in truth, be Sebastian St. Cyr.
Chapter 29
A thousand recollections rode with Sebastian through the howling wind and driving rain. Raw memories of a disap proving father whose harshest words had always been reserved for his youngest child, the son so unlike all the others, the son who grew tall and lean when his brothers were built solid and big boned, and whose eyes were a strange amber in place of the vivid St. Cyr blue. The son with the preternatural hearing and vision, the quick reflexes and uncanny ability to see in the dark. The son who by some cruel twist of fate had lived to become Hendon’s heir when both his brothers died.
He remembered snatches of hushed conversations the child he’d once been was never meant to overhear. Voices raised in anger and in pleading. Words that had made no sense, until now.
The white blur of a tollgate loomed out of the mist. Sebastian reined in hard, fists clenching with impatience, the mare’s hooves churning the mud while he waited for the grumbling attendant to lumber from his cottage, head bent and shoulders hunched against the downpour. Reaching down to hand the toll to the attendant, Sebastian realized he was shaking. Shaking with pain and denial.
Yet as the gate swung open and he set his spurs to the Arab’s flanks, Sebastian was aware of a small spark of hope fed by a burning rage. Because if Alistair St. Cyr were not, in truth, Sebastian’s father, then the horror of incest that had driven him from Kat Boleyn was all a mistake. No, not a mistake: a lie.
One more lie in a long string of deceptions stretching back nearly thirty years.
Still booted and spurred from the ride back to town, Sebastian went straight to the great St. Cyr pile on Grosvenor Square. But he found Hendon out and the painfully proper butler unable to say where the Earl had gone or when he would be back. Drawing the same blank at Hendon’s clubs, Sebastian was on Cockspur Street, striding toward Whitehall, when he heard a man calling his name.
“Lord Devlin.”
Sebastian kept walking.
“I say, Lord Devlin!”
Turning, Sebastian was surprised to find Bishop Prescott’s chaplain weaving his way through the traffic, the hem of his cassock lifted clear of the droppings scattered across the wet pavement by a passing mule team.
“I’d formed the intention of seeking you out later this afternoon,” said the Chaplain, leaping nimbly onto the footpath, “so this meeting is quite fortuitous.”
“You wished to see me?” said Sebastian, holding himself still with effort.
The Chaplain had been smiling faintly. But whatever he saw in Sebastian’s face as he walked up to him caused the smile to slip, his forehead puckering. “Are you all right, my lord?”
Sebastian found he had to draw in a breath, then another, before he could speak. “Yes, of course. Did you have something for me?”
The Chaplain held out a folded square of paper. “You may have noticed there was a gap in the Bishop’s itinerary on Monday afternoon.”
“Yes. I’d assumed he had official duties scheduled at that time.”
The Chaplain shook his head. “In fact Bishop Prescott paid a call upon a family in Chelsea. I was originally hesitant to pass the information on to you, but I’ve discussed the situation with the Archbishop, who assures me we can rely upon your discretion. It may not be relevant, of course, but I’ve written down the information for you.”
“Thank you,” said Sebastian, barely glancing at the scrawled name and address before tucking the paper into his waistcoat pocket.
The Chaplain cleared his throat. “Word reached London House last night about Reverend Earnshaw. A troublesome development. Deeply troublesome.”
Sebastian studied the cleric’s pale, pinched face and noticed for the first time the fear that widened the man’s eyes and flattened his lips. So it was fear that had driven this normally persnickety, disapproving man to suddenly become more cooperative.
A new thought occurred to Sebastian. He said, “How much contact was there between Bishop Prescott and Malcolm Earnshaw? Before Tuesday night, I mean.”
The Chaplain looked blank. “None that I am aware of.”
“Yet the living is in the Prescotts’ gift, is it not?”
“In Sir Peter’s, yes.”
“Was Earnshaw related in some way to the Bishop?”
“A distant cousin of some sort, I believe. Why do you ask?”
“He recognized Sir Nigel’s ring, which means he must have known the man.”
“I can make inquiries into the exact relationship, if you’d like.”
“That would help,” said Sebastian, already turning away. “Thank you.”
Drawing a blank at the Admiralty, Sebastian extended his search for Hendon to the Horse Guards, and from there to Downing Street, all without success.
Leaving the Chancellor’s chambers, he stood for a moment outside Number Ten, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the heavy gray clouds bunching overhead.
Then he turned and strode rapidly toward the Mall and Carlton House.
Charles, Lord Jarvis, was reading through a set of dispatches at the table in his chambers at Carlton House when Viscount Devlin thrust aside Jarvis’s indignant, sputtering secretary and strode into the room.
“My lord!” protested the secretary. “You can’t go in there!”
The Viscount paused just inside the entrance to the chambers, bringing with him the scent of fresh country air and warm horseflesh. He was dressed in a riding coat of blue superfine, with buff-colored buckskin breeches and high-topped riding boots splashed with mud. His strange amber eyes glittered dangerously.
Hopping ineffectually from one foot to the other, Jarvis’s secretary wrung his hands in despair. “I do most humbly beg your pardon, my lord Jarvis. I did try to—”
“Leave us,” snapped Jarvis.
“Yes, my lord.” The secretary bowed and withdrew.
“I trust you have a good reason for this intrusion?” said Jarvis, leaning back in his seat.