“Ah. And was he successful in getting one?”
“I heard just last week that Lady Anglessey was with child.”
“Jesus.” Sebastian pushed away from the door and walked into the room. “She was discovered in a decidedly compromising position this evening. Yet you say such behavior was not typical of her?”
“No. There has never been a whisper of scandal attached to her name.”
“What do you know of her family?”
“Nothing reprehensible there. Her father was the Earl of Athelstone. From Wales. I believe her brother, the new Earl, is still a child.” Hendon let his head fall back against the tapestry of the chair as he looked up at his son. “What has any of this to do with you?”
“Jarvis thought I might find the circumstances of Lady Anglessey’s death interesting.”
“Interesting?” Hendon shook his head. “You? But…why?”
Sebastian drew the silver-and-bluestone necklace from his pocket and dangled it in the air between them. “Because she was wearing this around her neck when she died.”
Hendon’s face went suddenly, completely white. But he made no move to take the necklace or even touch it. “That’s impossible.”
Bringing up his other hand, Sebastian dropped the necklace neatly into his palm. “I would have said so, yes.”
Hendon sat quite still, his hands gripping the upholstered arms of his chair. “Surely they don’t mean to accuse you of any involvement in this death.”
A slow smile curled Sebastian’s lips. “Not this one.” He went to stand with one arm braced against the mantel, his head bowed as he stared down at the empty grate. “It has occurred to me that an eleven-year-old’s memories of his mother’s death might easily be distorted,” he said slowly. It was not something they had ever spoken of, that long-ago summer day. Not that day, or the endless, pain-filled days that followed. “Her body was never found, was it?” Sebastian looked around.
“No. Never.” Hendon worked his jaw back and forth in that way he had. “She wore the necklace often. But I honestly couldn’t say if she had it on the day she died.”
“She was wearing it. Of that I am certain.”
Hendon pushed up from his chair and went to where a tea service and cups rested on a nearby table. But made no move to pour the tea. “There is a logical explanation. Her body must have washed up somewhere along the coast.”
“To be found by some desperate soul who stripped the corpse of everything valuable and sold the necklace for his next meal?” Sebastian kept his gaze on his father’s broad, tight back. “That’s one explanation.”
Hendon swung around again, his fleshy face dark with emotion. “Good God. What other explanation could there be?”
Their gazes met across the room, father and son, startling blue eyes clashing with strange yellow ones. It was Hendon who looked away first.
“What do you mean to do?” he asked, his voice oddly strained.
Sebastian’s fist tightened around the necklace. “Talk to Anglessey, for one thing. See if he knows how his wife came by this. Although that hardly seems the most important issue at the moment, now does it?”
Hendon’s mouth went slack. “You’re not seriously taking it upon yourself to uncover this killer?”
“Yes.”
Hendon digested this in silence. Then he said, “What does Prinny say happened?”
“He’s been sedated. I intend to talk to him first thing in the morning.”
Hendon let out a derisive grunt. “Jarvis won’t let you anywhere near the Prince. Not if you’re intending to ask something he might potentially find disturbing.”
“I think he will.”
“Why should he?”
Sebastian pushed away from the hearth and turned. “Because this dynasty is one step away from disaster, and Jarvis knows it.”
Chapter 7
Jarvis was annoyed.
He wasn’t entirely certain how Devlin had managed to coerce him into agreeing to this early-morning meeting with the Prince, but somehow the Viscount had succeeded. Even under the best of circumstances, the Regent was rarely coherent before noon. As it was, last night’s shock had come close to oversetting him entirely.
The Prince lay sprawled in silk-dressing-gowned splendor against the tufted velvet cushions of a sofa placed close to his bedchamber’s roaring fire, his pupils narrowed down to pinpoints by laudanum, his lower lip trembling with petulance. The heavy satin drapes at the windows were drawn fast against the morning sun.
“You think I don’t hear what people are saying, but I do. I do! They’re actually suggesting that I might have killed Lady Anglessey. Me.” The fat princely fingers tightened around his vial of smelling salts. “You must do something, Jarvis. Make them understand they’re wrong. Wrong!”
Jarvis kept his voice soothing but firm. “We’re trying, sir. Which is what makes it vital that you tell Lord Devlin precisely what happened last night.”
Swallowing hard, the Prince glanced over to where the Viscount stood with his flawlessly tailored shoulders resting negligently against the Chinese papered wall, his arms folded at his chest, his attention seemingly focused on the highly polished toes of his Hessians. George might not understand precisely why Devlin had agreed to be drawn into this nasty little affair; he might even half believe the young Viscount to be guilty of murder himself. But Jarvis knew the Prince was shrewd enough to understand that the attempts by his doctors and the magistrate to portray the Marchioness’s death as suicide had done him more harm than good. George needed help, and he recognized it.
Covering his eyes with one hand, the Prince let go a shaky breath. “God help me, I don’t know.”
Devlin looked up, his expression one of mild interest rather than the irritation Jarvis had expected. “Think back to earlier in the evening, sir,” said the Viscount, pushing away from the wall. “How did you happen to be in the cabinet with the Marchioness?”
George let his hand fall limply to his side. “She sent me a note, suggesting I meet her.”
Jarvis knew a quiet flare of surprise, but Devlin—unaware of the implications of this statement—simply asked, “Do you still have the note?”
The Prince’s face went blank. He shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. Why would I keep it?”
“Do you remember precisely what it said?”
The Regent had a reputation for telling tall tales, for boasting of imagined feats on the hunting field and entertaining guests at his table with fanciful accounts of leading troops into battle when the only uniforms he’d ever worn were ceremonial ones. But for all his practice, George remained an appallingly bad liar. Now, his lips threatening to curve into a betraying smile, the Prince stared back at Devlin and said baldly, “Not precisely, no. Only that she wished to meet me in the Yellow Cabinet.”
Impossible for Jarvis to tell whether Devlin read the lie or not. The young man had a rare ability to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. He said, “So you found her there? In the Yellow Cabinet?”
“Yes. She was lying on the sofa before the fire.” The Prince sat forward almost eagerly. “I’m certain of that. I remember admiring the gleam of the firelight over her bare shoulders.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“Yes. Of course.” A note of regal impatience crept into the Prince’s voice. “Surely you don’t expect me to remember precisely what I said?”
“Do you remember if she answered you?”
The Prince opened his mouth, then closed it. “I’m not certain,” he said after a moment. “I mean, I don’t remember her answering me. But she must have done so.”
“One would think so,” said Devlin. “Unless she were already dead when you entered the room.”
The Prince’s normally ruddy cheeks paled. “Good God. Is that what you think? But…how is that possible? I mean, surely I would have noticed. Wouldn’t I?”