He thanked the banker and started to turn away, only to pause and say, “Was Preston carrying anything when he came into the pub that night?”
Austen looked puzzled. “Such as what?”
“A strip of thin, old lead, about eighteen inches long. Or perhaps a larger, wrapped package or satchel of some kind?”
Austen thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “No, he couldn’t have been.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. I remember quite clearly; he came in with his arms held stiffly at his sides and his fists clenched. He couldn’t have been carrying anything.”
Chapter 23
Sir Galen Knightly was seated in one of the red bucket chairs in White’s reading room when Sebastian walked up to him. A cup of tea rested on the table beside him, and he was engrossed in his newspaper’s account of the previous evening’s session at the House of Lords.
Sebastian doubted anyone had ever described Sir Galen as dashing, or even handsome. But he was not an unattractive man, despite his angular, somewhat bladelike features. Although he was now in his early forties, his frame was still strong and solid, his dark hair little touched by gray. His clothes were those of a prosperous country gentleman, tailored for comfort rather than style, as sober and serious as the man himself.
According to gossip, Knightly’s father had been a notorious rake, a member of the infamous Hellfire Club well-known about London for his drunken excesses and addiction to deep play. It often seemed to Sebastian that Sir Galen lived his life as if determined to prove to the world that his character was not that of his scandalous father. Where the father had been profligate and intemperate, boisterous and careless, the son was steady, sober, and serious. Eschewing gaming hells, the track, and London’s ruinously expensive highfliers, he devoted himself to scholarship and the careful management of his estates, in both Hertfordshire and Jamaica. He had married, once, when young. But his wife died in childbirth, leaving him heartbroken and-if possible-more serious than ever.
At Sebastian’s approach, he looked up, his features set in grave lines.
“Do you mind?” asked Sebastian, indicating the nearby chair.
“No; not at all.” Sir Galen folded his newspaper and set it aside. “I take it you’re here about Preston?”
Sebastian settled into the chair and ordered a glass of burgundy. “I’m told you knew him well.”
“I did, yes. His largest plantation in Jamaica lies between the land I inherited from my great-uncle and that of my mother’s family.”
“Have you spent much time there? In Jamaica, I mean.”
Sir Galen reached for his tea and took a small sip. “I have, yes. After the death of my grandfather, I was sent to the island to live with my uncle. I find I miss it if I’m away from it too long.”
Something of Sebastian’s thoughts must have shown on his face, because Sir Galen said, “I’m told you’re a rather outspoken abolitionist.”
“Yes.”
Sir Galen stared down at the delicately patterned china cup in his hands, then set it aside. “It’s a dreadful institution. I don’t care what the Bible says; I can’t believe we were meant to own our fellow beings as if they were nothing more than cattle and horses.”
“Yet you do.”
“I do, yes; by the hundreds. I inherited them, the same way I inherited Knightly Hall in Hertfordshire and the money my grandfather invested in the Funds. I suppose I could sell them, but while that might soothe my conscience, it wouldn’t do anything to improve their situation, now, would it? At least while they’re under my care, I can see they’re treated well.”
“You could always free them.”
“And so I would-if I could. But the law requires me to post bond guaranteeing their support for the rest of their lives. All five hundred of them. It would bankrupt me. If I were a better man, I suppose I’d do it anyway. But. .” He shrugged and shook his head.
Sebastian studied the Baronet’s sun-darkened, broad-featured face. Sebastian had heard of a woman who, upon inheriting an estate in the West Indies, loaded all of the plantation’s slaves on a ship and transported them to Philadelphia, where she was able to set them free without posting a bond. But all he said was, “Did Preston feel the same way?”
“Stanley? Good God, no. He was convinced slavery was instituted by God to enable the superior European race to care for and shepherd the benighted souls of Africa. He genuinely believed that manumission was a misguided evil and contrary to God’s plan.”
“How often did he visit Jamaica?”
“He used to go out there quite regularly. But since his son, James, has taken over the management of the plantations, he’s been more content to adopt the role of an absentee landlord.”
“What can you tell me about his dealings with Governor Oliphant?”
“Oliphant?” Knightly pressed his lips together in disgust, as if the name tasted foul on his tongue. “He was extraordinarily unpopular with the planters, you know. Governors frequently are, but. . Let’s just say that Oliphant went far beyond what was proper.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Not really. Anything I could say would be all speculation and hearsay, and I have a healthy respect for England’s slander laws-and no desire to fall afoul of them.”
“Could Preston have had something to do with Oliphant’s rather sudden, unexpected return to London?”
“He never boasted of it, if that’s what you’re asking. But-” Sir Galen cast a quick glance around and grimaced suggestively. “Well, his cousin is the Home Secretary, now, isn’t he?”
“Miss Preston tells me her father was afraid of Oliphant.”
“I’ve heard he has a reputation for being someone you don’t want to cross. Unfortunately, Stanley Preston wasn’t the kind of man to let that stop him.” Knightly shook his head. “He was a brilliant man, well educated and learned in a number of subjects. But he was not always wise.”
The waiter delivered Sebastian’s wine, and he paused to take a deliberate sip before saying, “I understand Preston was also upset because of his daughter.”
A faint band of color appeared high on the older man’s cheekbones. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“He was disturbed, was he not, by the reappearance in London of a certain hussar captain?”
“I take it you mean Wyeth?”
“Yes.”
Sir Galen shifted his gaze to the large, gilt-framed battle scene on the far wall. “I’m afraid Anne-Miss Preston-has a generous nature, which combined with a warm and trusting heart can sometimes lead her to misjudge those she meets, especially when a friendly manner and a graceful address create the appearance of amiability.”
“You believe Wyeth’s amiability to be merely an appearance?”
“I fear it may be. But then, as you are doubtless aware, I am not exactly a disinterested party. When she was younger, the difference in our ages seemed insurmountable. It was only recently I’d begun to think perhaps I might have some chance, but then-” He broke off and shifted uncomfortably with all the embarrassment of a painfully reserved man in love with a younger woman who has given her heart to another.
“Do you think Preston would have forbidden a match between his daughter and Captain Wyeth?”
“He was certainly determined to do all within his power to prevent them from marrying. He had a younger sister, you know, who married an Army officer and died a hideous death at the hands of the natives at a fort in the wilds of America.”
“No, I didn’t know that. Yet Anne Preston is of age, is she not?”
“She is, yes.”
“Would she have married without her father’s blessing, do you think?”
“If she believed his blessing unfairly withheld, I suspect she would, yes.”
“And would he have disinherited her, if she married against his wishes?”