What Remains of Heaven (13 page)

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Authors: C. S. Harris

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

BOOK: What Remains of Heaven
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It was signed with a single initial: “A.”
The next two pages had obviously been copied from the Bishop’s appointment diary by someone with a painfully neat hand, most likely the diary secretary. The Chaplain’s own annotations were, in contrast, hurried scrawls, although thorough.
Settling back in his chair, Sebastian ran through the list of names, dates, and times. Most of the Bishop’s appointments over the past week appeared to be routine meetings with church functionaries or parishioners. Sebastian found the appointment with William Franklin on Monday. Although late in the afternoon, it appeared to have been the Bishop’s first scheduled appointment of the day, and it was followed immediately by the meeting with Lord Quillian. Interestingly, the Bishop had also met with his nephew, Sir Peter Prescott, at four o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, the day of his death. For what purpose was not made clear.
Rising thoughtfully to his feet, Sebastian glanced through the previous week’s schedule again, but only one other name caught his attention: Miss Hero Jarvis.
In addition to her six-o’clock appointment on Tuesday, she had met with the Bishop of London no fewer than three times in the previous week.
 
 
Sebastian’s dreams took him many places.
Sometimes he dreamt of cannonballs that whistled through the air to explode in bloody geysers of mud and horseflesh and torn men. Sometimes he dreamt of the sharp stench of burned timbers and a child’s pale cheeks, brown eyes wide and sight-less. And then there were those dreaded nights when he dreamt of a woman with blue St. Cyr eyes, who touched her fingertips to his and then slipped away, lost to him forever.
She came to him again that night, as a storm blew in off the North Sea, bringing with it the bite of an unseasonably cool wind. He felt her soft lips tremble against his. Felt her tear-slicked cheek, warm and wet against his neck. Beneath his touch, her body shivered. . . .
And he knew a start of horror that brought him instantly, heart-poundingly awake.
He lay for a moment, his breath coming harsh and ragged. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to fill a glass with brandy.
He drank it down, shuddering. Setting aside the empty glass, he jerked open the drapes and threw up the sash. The growing wind scuttled heavy clouds across the dark sky and bathed his hot skin with the cool air of the night. In the street below, the oil lamp at the corner flickered, went out.
But Sebastian had the keen eyesight of a creature of the night. Resting his palms on the sill, he leaned forward, his attention caught by the figure of a man crouched in the pool of shadow cast by the front steps of the house opposite.
As Sebastian watched, the man raised a cheroot to his lips and drew deeply, the glowing embers illuminating his bony features and narrowed eyes.
“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian. Shoving away from the window, he snatched up his breeches and the small pistol with an ivory handle and double barrels he kept primed and ready, and turned toward the door.
 
 
Obadiah Slade had the lit cheroot halfway to his mouth when Sebastian pressed the muzzle of his flintlock against the man’s broad temple and drew back both hammers.
“Do the world a favor,” said Sebastian, “and give me an excuse to blow your brains out.”
For the briefest instant, the other man froze. Then he rested the cheroot against his lower lip and inhaled sharply. “What? A fine, moral gentleman like yerself, committing murder on the streets of London?” The former corporal exhaled a blue stream of smoke, his lips pursing insolently. “I don’t think so.”
Sebastian kept his arm extended, the muzzle biting into the flesh of the other man’s forehead. “Why are you watching my house?”
“Ain’t no law sayin’ an Englishman can’t stand on the street smoking a cheroot, now, is there?”
“Depends on the Englishman, and the street.”
Obadiah took another drag on his cheroot. “Took me a while, after I seen ye in Aldersgate today. But I finally figured it out. Me da told me ye were at ’im over the Bishop. He thought ye was a constable. He don’t know what ye did in the Army. How ye could pass yerself off as everythin’ from a Spanish peasant to a French general.”
“Is that why you’re here? Because of Jack Slade?”
“Nah.” Obadiah took a final drag on his cheroot and let it fall to the footpath. “Ye know why I’m here.”
Sebastian stepped back, the pistol still held at full cock. “Come around here again and I’ll call the watch on you.”
Moving deliberately, Obadiah brought the heel of one massive boot down on the glowing tip of the cheroot. “Know what a hundred lashes do to a man’s back?”
“If it had been up to me, you would have hanged.”
Obadiah’s teeth glowed white in the darkness. “Takes a long time to lay a hundred lashes on a man’s back. Ye know how I survived it?”
When Sebastian remained silent, the other man ground his boot back and forth, pulverizing the cheroot beneath the heel. “There’s lots o’ different ways to kill a man. The one I picked for ye, ye’re gonna wish ye’d pulled them triggers.”
Sebastian felt his finger tighten against the cold metal in his hand, then willed himself to relax. “You’re not worth it.”
Obadiah smiled and turned away, his gait a languid, contemptuous threat. “Ye say that now.”
Chapter 17
 
FRIDAY, 10 JULY 1812
 
 
 
 
Arising early the next morning, Hero Jarvis took one look at the platters of eggs and sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms set out on the buffet in the breakfast parlor, and turned away to order her horse brought around.
The previous night’s wind had brought a heavy cover of angry clouds to hang low over the city. As she trotted her big bay up and down the Row in Hyde Park, her groom following at a tactful distance, the first drops of rain began to fall. She ignored them.
It had occurred to her at some point in the middle of a long, sleepless night that by focusing all her thoughts and energy on the murder of Bishop Prescott she had been avoiding dealing with the disastrous effect of his death on her own future. Yet every time she tried to think about it, she found her mind shying away.
The thunder of approaching hooves drew her attention to the gate. Looking up, she saw the lean figure of Viscount Devlin cantering toward her. She checked for the briefest instant, then trotted on.
“It’s raining,” he said, bringing his Arab in beside her bay. “Or didn’t you notice?”
“If one doesn’t ride in the rain in England, one seldom rides.”
His eyes narrowed with amusement. “True.”
“I assume you’ve sought me out for a reason,” she said bluntly, anxious to have him gone. “What is it?”
“Several things, actually. First of all, I’m wondering why you failed to mention your father’s opposition to Prescott’s translation to Canterbury during our discussion yesterday.”
She let out a huff of breath that fell somewhere between a laugh and a genteel expression of derision. “What, exactly, are you imagining? That my father played the role of Henry the Second to Bishop Prescott’s Thomas Becket?”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
He was startled into a sharp burst of laughter. A silence fell, filled with the creak of saddle leather, the squishing thunder of their horses’ hooves. Once again, she was the one to break it.
“You said ‘several things.’ What else?”
He kept his gaze on the distant treetops. “I fear, Miss Jarvis, that you have been less than honest with me about the purpose of your recent visit to Bishop Prescott. Or should I say
visits
?”
She kept her hands and seat relaxed. But some inner agitation must have communicated itself to the bay, for it began to sidle. She corrected it immediately.
After a moment, he said, “No comment?”
She turned her head to study his fine-boned, handsome face, but she could detect no sign that he had discovered her secret. “The Bishop is dead. How, pray, do you presume to know what passed between us?”
The rain began to fall harder, slapping the leaves of the chestnuts along the Row, drumming on the turf. The Viscount readjusted his hat. “A remark the Bishop made about an old friend in need of counseling.”
Inside, her stomach did an unpleasant flip-flop. But she had herself well in hand now. “There is obviously some sort of confusion,” she said evenly.
“Perhaps. Although I can’t help but wonder: three visits? Over one speech?”
The rain was coming down now in buckets. Water ran down the Viscount’s cheeks, found its way down the back of Hero’s collar. She said, “Perhaps we should continue this conversation at some future date in a less damp environment.” Signaling her groom, she turned the bay’s head toward home. “Good day, my lord.”
She was aware of his gaze upon her, of him watching her, as she left the park.
She did not look back.
 
 
Returning home to Berkeley Square, Hero dismissed her maid, stripped off her riding habit, and went to stand in front of her dressing room mirror.
She stared at her reflection dispassionately, her hands splayed across her lower abdomen. Her body was still slim, her stomach flat. But for how much longer? One month? Two? For how long could she continue to move amongst the
haut ton
of London? The high-waisted, fashionable dresses of the day would disguise her changing shape for a while, but the time was coming when she would need to go away.
It had been her intention to spend the coming autumn and winter in the Welsh mountains, at the home of a dear cousin. Hero knew the name of the couple who was to receive her child, but they had been carefully kept in ignorance of her identity. And without Prescott, her ability to transfer the child to its adoptive parents without betraying her own identity was seriously compromised.
She thought about contacting the couple directly, then rejected the idea out of hand. To do so would mean condemning herself to a lifetime of looking over her shoulder, worrying always about exposure and blackmail. She needed to find some other alternative. Quickly.
She was running out of time.
Chapter 18
 
By the time Sebastian made it back to Brook Street, his riding jacket and breeches were soaked.
“Murder investigations can definitely take a toll on a gentleman’s wardrobe,” said Jules Calhoun, collecting the discarded garments.
Sebastian smoothed the folds of his fresh cravat. “Tempted to quit, Jules?” Until he had discovered the unflappable Calhoun, Sebastian had endured everything from vapors to temper tantrums from valets unused to serving a gentleman who regularly found himself involved in all the down-and-dirty particulars of murder investigations.
Calhoun looked around, affronted. “Who, me? Of course not, my lord!”
Changed into dry clothes, Sebastian ordered his curricle brought round and set forth in search of the Bishop of London’s nephew, Sir Peter Prescott.
He found the Baronet sprawled in one corner of a high-backed, old-fashioned bench in a tavern known as the Jerusalem Gate, near Hans Place. It was just past ten in the morning, and from the looks of things, Prescott had yet to make it to his bed. A half-empty bottle of brandy rested on the small octagonal table before him; his cravat was disordered and stained with sweat. A day’s growth of blond beard shadowed his cheeks, and his well-tailored coat of olive drab was creased and muddied near the cuffs. When Sebastian pulled a chair opposite him, Sir Peter looked up without shifting his posture and announced unnecessarily, “I’m foxed.”
“My condolences on the death of your uncle, the Bishop,” said Sebastian, ordering two tankards of ale.
Sir Peter let his head fall back against the bench’s high wooden slats. He was a slim man of medium height, with fine fair hair that curled against his forehead. Combined with his soft blue eyes, that halo of golden curls had given him a deceptively angelic appearance as a boy. Now, the curls were plastered against his forehead with sweat, the eyes bloodshot. “Dear Uncle Francis,” he said. “Leave it to the Bishop to get himself murdered in a church.”
Sebastian studied the Baronet’s flushed, strained features. The two men had known each other for some twenty years, first as schoolboys, then as young men on the town. But after that, their lives had diverged. While Sir Peter settled down to the management of the ancestral estate that had been his since birth, Sebastian’s days had filled with the tramp of red-coated soldiers and the howl of artillery shells he sometimes still heard exploding in his dreams.
Sebastian took a sip of ale, his gaze on his old friend’s familiar face. “I was always under the impression you and your uncle were quite close.”
“Close
.
”
Sir Peter gave a peculiar shudder. “I suppose. I mean, it worked out well, didn’t it? He didn’t have a son, and I didn’t have a father. A match made in heaven, you might say. Or in hell.”

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