When Gods Die (26 page)

She held his gaze but said nothing, and after a moment he looked away, across the smooth surface of the pond to where a duck waddled through the reeds, a row of ten ducklings strung out behind her. “Does he know about your affection for the French?”

“I have no affection for the French. It’s Ireland I work for.”

“I doubt he’d see the difference.”

Kat knew a spurt of anger fanned by fear. “Is that an observation or a threat?”

He threw her an amused glance. “An observation only, to be sure.”

“Because if it’s a threat, I’d like to remind you and your masters that I can do as much damage to them as they can to me. And that damage would not be contained by my death.”

He was no longer smiling. “The French are not my masters,” he said. “And I don’t think there is any danger of your premature death.”

She let the latter part of that statement go; her point had been made. It remained to be seen whether or not O’Connell—and the French—would take her threat seriously enough to leave her alone in the future. And it came to her in a rush of bitter realization that this was one danger that would always haunt her. One fear from which she’d never truly be free.

She studied the pleasant face of the man beside her. “Why do you do this?” she asked suddenly.

“For the same reason you do. Or should I say, for the same reason you did.”

“For
Ireland?
”

He raised one eyebrow. “You find that so difficult to believe?”

“From what I know of the O’Connells, yes.”

“We O’Connells, we’ve always believed that a man who beats his head against a stone wall is a fool.”

“Is that how you’d characterize the brave men and women who’ve fought and died for Ireland over the years? As just so many fools beating their heads against stone walls?”

His dimples peeped. “That’s right. The time for Ireland’s independence will come, but it won’t come until the English have been weakened. And it won’t be the Irish who’ll be weakening them. It’ll be someone else. Someone like the French. Or maybe the Prussians.”

“The Prussians and the English have been allies.”

“They’re not anymore.”

They stood in silence for a moment, her gaze, like his, on the mother duck shepherding her brood one by one into the water. The air filled with a happy chorus of
quack-quack
s and the soft slap of ever-widening ripples moving out over the surface of the pond.

“There’s a lot of disaffection in the streets,” O’Connell said after a moment. “Rumors. Whispers. People are ready for a change.”

“What kind of change?” she asked, her breath suddenly coming so hard and fast she had to call on all her abilities as an actress to make her voice sound casual, disinterested.

He kept his gaze on the mother duck and her brood. “A different dynasty, perhaps.”

“How would that help Ireland?”

“The Stuarts were always more sympathetic to the Catholics.”

She swung her head to look directly at him. “There are no Stuarts anymore. Not really. And the English would never accept a Catholic king. Remember what happened to James the Second?”

“James the Second never tried to restore Catholicism to England. All he wanted was tolerance and an end to the debilitating restrictions put on Catholics.”

“Yet the people still wouldn’t accept him. And if they wouldn’t accept James the Second a hundred and twenty years ago, what makes you think they’ll accept someone like him now?”

“Because the House of Hanover is tainted by madness and everyone knows it. Because men are out of work by the thousands, and women and children are starving in the streets. Because we’ve been at war for so long it’s all most people can remember. If a new King promised to bring peace and an end to high taxes and the press gangs, I think a lot of people would welcome him.”

Kat’s eyes narrowed. “Who is pushing this?”

He was regarding her with a studied expression that made her realize she’d said too much, shown too much interest. “That’s the funny thing about conspiracies,” he said with a smile. “Different men can be attracted to the same conspiracy for altogether different reasons. Reasons that sometimes aren’t even compatible. Why does it matter so much who’s behind it, as long as it’s good for Ireland?”

“You suggest a restoration of the Stuarts might lead to peace with France,” she said. The sun slipped out from behind the chestnut trees on the far side of the pond, striking her in the eyes. She tilted her parasol until it once again shaded her face. “But I thought England at war with France was good for Ireland. You said that’s what we need, to weaken the English. That it’s the only way the Irish will ever win their freedom.”

He laughed. “You are quick, aren’t you?” He leaned toward her, suddenly more serious than she’d seen him. “But if the English at war with France is good for Ireland, then how much better do you think a new English civil war would be?”

She searched his face, but he was as good at hiding what he really thought as she. “Is that what these people want? Civil war?”

“Hardly. But I suspect it’s what they’re going to get.”

B
Y MIDMORNING,
Tom was so hungry his head was spinning. He’d known hunger in the past, in the dark days before fate brought Viscount Devlin into his world. But these last few months he’d grown accustomed to a full belly and a warm bed. He’d even begun to feel safe again, the way he’d felt in the golden, half-forgotten years before his da took sick and his mother—

But Tom slammed his mind shut on that thought before tears and the clawing blackness of terror could take him again.

He was sitting against the back wall, his forehead resting on his drawn-up knees, when he heard a commotion in the yard, men banging tin cups against iron bars and laughing women calling out soft, obscene suggestions.

The men and boys in his cell crowded up to the bars. Tom pushed to his feet and wiggled his way forward to take a look. “What is it?” he asked.

“Some magistrate,” said one of the other boys, a big, half-grown lad from Cheapside who’d been caught pinching pewter tankards from a public house and would probably hang for it. “They say ’e’s here on account of the nob’s son what got hisself butchered in St. James’s Park t’other night.”

Tom could see him now, a funny little man with bowed legs and wire-framed glasses he wore pushed down to the tip of his nose. Despite the heat of the day he wore a thick greatcoat, and held a pomander to his nose.

Tom surged forward.
“Sir ’Enry,”
he called, pressing his face against the bars. “Oye, Sir ’Enry. It’s me, Tom.
Sir ’Enry—
”

A rough hand thumped Tom in the shoulder, giving him a shove that sent him sprawling back into the filthy straw. “You there,” spat the gaoler. “You dirty little filcher, you shut yer mouth. You ’ear?”

Tom scrambled to his feet and threw himself forward again, but by then it was too late. The yard was empty and the little magistrate had gone.

Chapter 45

S
ebastian spent the morning in Smithfield, looking for Tom.

He made no attempt to disguise who he was. He even brought along a couple of strapping footmen to preclude any possibility of a repeat of what had happened on his last visit to the area. But Tom had obviously followed instructions and taken care to blend into his surroundings. Sebastian found an old woman selling buttons who said she’d seen a boy about his age running through the streets just before sunset, running like the hounds of hell were after him. But she didn’t know what had happened to the lad, or even who’d been chasing him.

Sebastian looked for the maimed Scottish soldier who’d been reduced to begging outside the Norfolk Arms, but no one could remember having seen the man for days. Standing in the shade cast by a ribbon shop’s awning, Sebastian studied the inn’s ancient brick facade, and knew a deep and powerful disquiet.

He’d come back at dusk, Sebastian decided, when the creatures of the night were aprowl. “Andrew, James,” he said curtly. The two footmen snapped to attention as he pushed away from the building. “I want you to check every watchhouse in the area, every watchman, every beadle. Do you understand? Someone must have seen him.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Leaping up into the carriage, Sebastian slammed his own door and sent the coachman flying to Queen Square, only to learn there that Sir Henry Lovejoy was out pursuing leads on his gruesome park murder. Increasingly frustrated, his temper fraying, Sebastian thought about Tess Bishop’s early morning visit and knew how he would spend the remaining hours until dusk.

H
E TRACKED THE
C
HEVALIER DE
V
ARDEN
to Angelo’s Fencing Academy in Bond Street, where Varden was fencing with the master himself. Sebastian stood for a time, watching them. The Chevalier was a good swordsman, with a keen eye and flexible wrists and a quick, light step. Barefoot, stripped down to his shirtsleeves and buckskin breeches, he moved effortlessly across the hardwood floor, foil flashing, his light brown hair tumbling in his eyes.

Sebastian had never heard anything to the man’s discredit. The ladies liked him for his charming manner and graceful step on the dance floor, while the men liked him for his ready laugh and easy generosity and courage on the hunting field. True, the Chevalier was known to have a quick temper. But there was nothing to suggest he was the kind of man who could subject the woman he loved to a slow and painful death by poison.

As Sebastian watched, the Chevalier feigned to the left, then slipped past the master’s guard to land a hit to his shoulder. The master laughed and the match ended. They stood talking a few moments with the easy camaraderie of two men in love with the same sport. Then Varden headed for the changing room.

Sebastian caught him just inside the door.

Locking onto Varden’s right wrist, Sebastian twisted the man’s arm in a way that shoved his hand up into the middle of his back and spun him around, throwing Varden off balance. Sebastian slammed him face-first against the wall, Sebastian’s left arm coming across the front of Varden’s throat to hold him from behind. “You bloody bastard,” Sebastian whispered in his ear.

The Chevalier tried to turn his head, his eyes rolling sideways. “
Devlin
. What the devil?”

Sebastian tightened the pressure on the man’s throat. “You lied to me,” he said, enunciating each word slowly and carefully. “I know about the arrangement the Marquis of Anglessey had with his wife, and I know about your part in it. So don’t even think about trying to deny it.”

“Of course I lied to you,” Varden said, his voice strained. “What gentleman wouldn’t?”

Sebastian hesitated, then stepped back and let the man go.

The Chevalier swung around, his dark eyes flashing, his left hand rubbing his other arm. “Touch me again and I’ll kill you.”

He went to pour water in one of the basins on the washstand and splashed his face with quick, angry motions. “Who told you?” he said after a moment. “Anglessey? I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“He wants me to find his wife’s killer.”

Varden looked around. “Are you suggesting I don’t?”

Their gazes caught and clashed. Sebastian said, “Where did you and the Marchioness used to meet?”

Varden hesitated, then reached for a towel. “Different inns. Usually not the same place twice. Why?”

“Did you ever meet in Smithfield?”

“Smithfield?” There was surprise in the man’s face, but something else, too. Something that looked almost like fear. “Good God, no. Why do you ask?”

“Because Guinevere Anglessey went there the afternoon she was killed. You wouldn’t happen to know why, would you?”

His brows drew together. “Where in Smithfield?”

Sebastian simply shook his head. “How did you spend last Wednesday?”

The implications of the questions were obvious. Varden’s nostrils flared. “I slept late. I’d been out most of the night before with friends. I didn’t even leave the house until around five, maybe six.” He paused in the act of pulling on his boots to throw Sebastian a malevolent glare. “You can check with the servants, if you don’t believe me.”

Sebastian watched him shrug into his coat. “I want to know about Wales.”

Varden adjusted the lapels of his coat. Two men walked into the room, the older one slapping the younger man on the shoulder as he said, “Well done, Charles. Well done, indeed.”

“Not here,” said Varden.

Sebastian nodded. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Chapter 46

“I
can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t love Guinevere,” Varden said as they strolled along the Serpentine. A fine haze was beginning to bleach the color from the sky, turning it white. The air had taken on a sultry quality, the scent of grass hanging heavy in the still air. “She was…she was like no one else I’ve ever known. Proud and courageous and everything that’s noble, and yet so tender, so giving.”

There was something about the way the flat light fell on the Chevalier’s face that reminded Sebastian of just how young Varden still was. He was only twenty-two, his handsome face pale and hollow-eyed with grief. “Guin and I grew up together,” he said. “I suppose Claire and Morgana were around some of the time, but I don’t remember them. In my memory, it’s always just Guin and me.”

He stared out over the parkland, to where two children played with their dog, the dog barking and the children running back and forth and laughing while an aproned nursemaid called to them. A smile touched his lips, a wistful smile that was there and then gone. “I always knew she loved me. And I don’t mean in the way a child might love a brother. From the very beginning there was more to it than that, for both of us. Even when we were too young to understand what it was.”

He fell silent. Sebastian waited, and after a moment Varden continued. “We grew up thinking we would always be together. That she was meant for me and I was hers. Guin simply took it for granted we would marry someday.”

“And you?”

“I was the same at first. But as I grew older I became aware of…the difficulties.”