“And Ashley?”
“We couldn’t reach him.”
Sebastian coughed again and gave up trying to sit up. For the moment it felt good simply to lie here on his back in the cool grass, letting the rain wash the dust and cobwebs and the smell of old death from his face.
He said, “I didn’t think you’d make it in time. Sir Peter must have found you far quicker than I’d anticipated.”
“Sir Peter?” Lovejoy frowned. “I haven’t seen Sir Peter.”
Sebastian raised his head to look at the magistrate. Lovejoy’s hat was gone. The sleeve of his coat was singed, and there was a rakish-looking black smear above one eye. “Then what the devil are you doing here?”
“Miss Jarvis looked up the surname of the Marquess of Ripon in Burke’s Peerage and made the connection to the Bishop’s chaplain. When she discovered it was Dr. Ashley’s intention to drive out here this morning, she insisted we come after him. I personally thought she was overreacting. Obviously, I was mistaken.”
Sebastian let his head fall back against the wet grass and started to laugh.
Chapter 43
FRIDAY, 17 JULY 1812
Clad in a navy silk dressing gown, white linen shirt, and doeskin breeches, Sebastian descended to his breakfast parlor the next morning to find his aunt Henrietta seated at the table, awaiting him.
She was dressed in a splendid carriage gown of a fine mauve satin, with frog closures down the front and a towering turban of mauve and lemon silk perched on her head. As he paused on the threshold in surprise, she said, “I told your man not to announce me.” When he continued to stare at her, she added, “I’ve spoken to Hendon.”
“Ah.” He went to splash ale into a tankard and drank deeply. “Did you think I’d refuse to see you?”
“I thought you might.”
He reached for a plate and held it up in inquiry. “May I fix you something?”
She gave a genteel shudder. “It’s bad enough to be abroad at this hour. To actually consume sustenance would be barbaric.”
He gave a laugh and moved to the sideboard, where an array of dishes awaited his selection.
“I wanted to thank you for your assistance with this recent unpleasantness,” she said. “The Archbishop tells me you’ve solved the murders of both Francis Prescott and that reverend from Tanfield Hill. He also tells me you believe the murderer of Sir Nigel will never be found and is in all likelihood dead.” She paused. “He believed you, of course.”
Sebastian looked over at her. “You don’t?”
She met his gaze and held it. “I know you.”
He came to sit at the table. “Sometimes it’s better that the truth never be known.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t argue with that. Although it’s not a sentiment I ever expected to hear coming from you.”
He picked up his fork and then paused, his gaze on her plump, shrewd face. “Have you always known?” he asked. There was no need to say more; one never knew when servants were listening.
“From the beginning, yes,” she said quietly. “My affections for you have nothing to do with the particulars of your birth. Your brother Richard was a fine young man, and his death grieved me as if I’d lost one of my own.” She sniffed. “I never cared much for Cecil. He was too much like his mother.”
“I rather liked my mother,” said Sebastian. “And Cecil.”
“I know you did. Hendon tells me you have agents in France, seeking news of her. Any success yet?”
“Not yet.”
She was silent for a moment, watching him. “I suppose you think the earldom should by rights go to that idiot cousin of yours up north?”
Like Hendon, Henrietta had never had anything except contempt for Delwin St. Cyr, the oafish, slow-witted distant cousin who lived in Yorkshire and stood next in line, behind Sebastian, to the earldom. Sebastian raised one eyebrow. “You don’t?”
“Hardly. Delwin’s grandfather—my father’s cousin—was impotent. His son was fathered by the local vicar.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Oh, but I can. So you see, if you think you are depriving Delwin of his ‘rightful’ inheritance, you’re wrong. Delwin is no more a St. Cyr than you are. Less so, in fact. Your mother had St. Cyr blood in her, after all, through her grandmother.”
Sebastian gave a wry smile. He should have known. The St. Cyr bloodline. The St. Cyr name. The St. Cyr legacy. As long as Sebastian could remember, nothing had mattered more to Hendon than preserving and continuing the St. Cyr heritage. Nothing.
She watched him struggle to eat with his left hand, his right resting carefully in his lap. “I am told you’ve injured your arm. Is it serious?”
“It will mend.”
She nodded. “Hendon will be pleased to hear,” she said, and he knew this was why she had come, to let his father—to let the Earl, he mentally corrected himself—know how he fared.
She heaved herself to her feet with a mighty grunt. “He’s the only father you have, Sebastian. And you are as dear to him as any son could be. The estrangement that arose between you this past winter grieved him seriously. Don’t let what Sophia did thirty years ago come between you now.”
“There’s far more to this than what Sophia did, as well you know.”
She sniffed again. “If you mean Kat Boleyn, I’ve never thought she was the wife for you. You can look daggers at me all you want, Sebastian, but it’s true—and I mean that quite apart from the less-than-desirable facts of her birth or her profession. You need someone to keep you in line.”
“The way Claiborne kept you in line?”
“Good heavens,” she said, affronted. “He never did any such thing.”
“My point exactly.”
“I’m not you.” She turned toward the door.
He stopped her by saying, “As a member of the King’s mission to the Colonies, Lord Jarvis . . .” Sebastian paused, choosing his words carefully. “Jarvis would have known the truth. Yet as much as he and Hendon have locked horns over the years, he has never used this knowledge to his advantage. Why?”
“Jarvis and Hendon are old, old adversaries. They each know secrets that the other would prefer be kept buried.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s often better that the truth never be known.”
He came upon Miss Jarvis in the sun-warmed gardens of Berkeley Square, as she strolled with her maid along carefully manicured paths of crushed shell. She had not attended the funeral of the Bishop and his brother, for burials were considered dangerous occasions from which women were excluded for health reasons.
She was so obviously lost in her own troubled thoughts that she did not see him, and he paused for a moment in the shadows of a clipped yew hedge to study her. She wore a very fetching sprigged muslin gown and a straw hat tied beneath her chin with a jaunty red ribbon. But her cheeks were unnaturally pale, her features strained. He knew why.
She was confronting with grace and courage what must be for any gentlewoman the most unimaginably catastrophic of developments. He remembered with bemusement those moments beneath the ruined gardens of old Somerset House, when they’d believed they faced death and had instead created a new life. The thought of a future with Miss Hero Jarvis as his wife—and Charles, Lord Jarvis, as his father-in-law—scared the hell out of Sebastian and tore at his gut. But as a man of honor, he could not allow her to suffer the consequences of that day alone. He took a deep breath and walked toward her.
At the sound of his footsteps, she looked around and froze. He said teasingly, “You’ve forgotten your parasol.”
She didn’t smile. “I was just going inside. Good day, my lord.”