When Gods Die (30 page)

“Undoubtedly,” said Sebastian, sketching the ladies a bow. He turned to Lady Audley. “How does your collie bitch?”

A soft smile touched her lips and shone in her eyes. “Well, thank you. She’s the proud mother of six fine pups.”

“Varden does not accompany you tonight?”

He caught the quickest of exchanged glances between mother and daughter before Lady Portland said laughingly, “I’m afraid there aren’t many young men who would choose to make one of a party with their mother and sister, when there are livelier amusements to be had.”

It was true, of course. When men of the Chevalier’s set came to Vauxhall, it was typically to dance beneath the stars with courtesans and steal kisses and more in the dark, secluded alleys of the gardens. But while that might explain the Chevalier’s absence, it did nothing to explain the look Sebastian had intercepted between Lady Audley and the Chevalier’s half sister, Lady Portland.

“Do you go to the Prince’s fete tomorrow night?” asked Lady Audley, drawing his attention.

“Of course,” said Sebastian. “But with two thousand guests expected, I must admit I am tempted to outrage all notions of propriety and simply walk, rather than risk spending an hour or more caught up in a snarl of carriages.”

“Perhaps we should do the same,” said Lady Portland with another laugh.

“Perhaps we’ll start a fashion,” said Sebastian, withdrawing with a bow just as the whizzing bang of another rocket split the night with fire.

Chapter 51

C
atching a scull from Vauxhall’s quay, Sebastian directed the boatman toward the steps near the Westminster Bridge, then settled on the thinly cushioned thwart with his long legs thrust out in front and his arms crossed at his chest.

The night lay heavy and dark around them, the thick cloud cover holding in the day’s muggy heat while hiding the light of both moon and stars. He kept thinking about the woman who had handed Portland that note. What if there had been no mysterious woman in green? What if Portland’s part in the evening’s charade had been less accidental? Less innocent?

A faint breeze skimmed across the prow, carrying with it the sounds of men’s laughter. Looking up, Sebastian saw a livery company barge, its lights reflecting in the dark waters of the Thames as it swept past. He could feel the scull rocking gently with the barge’s passing, hear its wake slap against the scull’s sides, the sound mingling with the gentle splash of his boatman’s oars.

In the pale light thrown by the scull’s lantern, Sebastian studied the man at the oars. He had a thick shock of dark, almost black hair tucked beneath a beaten felt cap, his broad-featured face weathered and toughened by years of sun and wind and rain. With every thrust of his oars the cords in his thick neck bulged, the muscles of his shoulders and arms straining the worn fustian of his coat. But his movements were slow, almost laconic. Sebastian was about to lean forward and tell the man to put his back into it when he caught the faint slap of another set of oars coming up fast behind them.

Sebastian glanced again at his boatman’s closed, lined face. There was something about his posture, something watchful, even anxious, that gave Sebastian pause. It was as if the man were waiting for something. Someone.

The sound of the second set of oars drew nearer. In itself, that was in no way unusual. The river was full of wherries transporting passengers from one bank to the other. Given his boatman’s slow progress, a more energetic oarsman could easily overtake them. And yet…

Shifting his weight, Sebastian threw a quick glance over one shoulder. He saw the prow of a dinghy appear out of the gloom, its hull painted black, its oarsman a dark shadow. A man with less acute hearing and eyesight would have remained oblivious to its presence. Deliberately, Sebastian turned his back on the approaching boat.

It was the perfect place for an attack, Sebastian thought. Here he had no place to run, no hope of any assistance from chance passersby. His options were strictly limited. The shore was a distant line of black against black. They were just over midway between the banks, in a river that ran a quarter of a mile wide. The livery barge with its gaily reflected lights and laughing crew was long gone. If Sebastian could extinguish the scull’s lamp, it might be possible for him to go over the side and strike out for shore beneath the cover of darkness. Yet the tide was running strong, and a lamp could be relit. He decided to take his chances here, now.

The dip and pull of the second set of oars came closer, mingling with the gurgle of the river washing against the approaching dinghy’s bow. He could feel the closing boat as a looming presence, a thing of darkness materializing out of the night.

Holding himself tense and still, Sebastian heard the dinghy part the waters directly behind them. He heard its oars slip, heard the telltale shift of timbers as the unknown second boatman rose.

The scull’s oarsman paused in his stroke, his jaw clenched as he stared intently straight ahead. Sebastian waited until the last possible instant, until he heard the whistle of wood sweeping through the thick, sultry air. Then he threw himself forward, flattening himself against the wet, mud-smeared bottom of the scull just as the dark-coated man in the dinghy swung the flat edge of his oar at the space where Sebastian’s head had been.

The momentum of the oar’s weight carried the man’s body around and opened up an expanse of black water between the two boats, the dinghy lurching as the boatman struggled to regain his balance.

Rolling onto his back on the scull’s wet, grimy planks, Sebastian saw his own boatman ship his oars and rise, his lips pulled back in a grimace, a knife clutched in his left hand. Thrusting up his right arm, Sebastian broke the man’s forward lunge and caught his wrist in a hard grip. Beneath them, the scull pitched dangerously. Sebastian lurched up onto his knees.

“Ye bloody bugger,” swore the boatman, his breath foul against Sebastian’s face.

Struggling up, Sebastian felt the scull shudder as the second boat bumped against its side again. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw the shadow of the dinghy’s oar raised to strike. Pivoting quickly, he swung the scull’s boatman around, using the man as a shield just as the oar came whistling through the air toward them.

The edge of the oar’s blade caught the boatman just below the ear, the impact making a dull
thwunk
. With a sharp cry he pitched sideways. His body hit the water with a splash that sprayed through the air and set the scull to tipping violently.

The sharp movement brought Sebastian to his knees again. He freed one of the scull’s oars and brought it up, driving the tip of the handle like a blunt lance into the second boatman’s chest, just as he swung again.

The oar’s tip caught the man at the junction of his ribs. He was a small man, with longish blond hair and the thin, effete face of a gentleman. For one brief instant, his gaze met Sebastian’s. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled off the scull’s prow with a splash.

His breath coming in quick gasps, Sebastian fit the oar back into place. They were near enough by now to Westminster Bridge that he could see its lights reflected in the black waters of the river. He heard the voice of the scull’s oarsman, raised in panic. “Help! I cain’t swim.”

The worn wood of the oars felt smooth beneath his hands as Sebastian settled into place. Pausing, he glanced over at the oarsman’s bobbing head. “Who hired you?”

“Bloody ’ell. Throw me a line. I cain’t swim.”

“Then I suggest you save your breath,” said Sebastian, leaning into his oars.

Swearing loudly, the boatman called after him, “The yellow-headed bloke in the greatcoat. ’E ’ired me. I dunno who he is.”

Sebastian scanned the gently heaving waters. The blond-headed man in the dark greatcoat had disappeared.

The boatman’s voice came again. “Oy. Ye gonna throw me a line?”

“Here.” Sebastian nudged the dinghy’s floating oar toward the floundering man. “I suggest you use it to remove yourself from the vicinity. The Thames Patrol doesn’t tend to look kindly on boatmen who try to murder their fares.”

Chapter 52

K
at watched Devlin peel off his shirt, the soft light from the brace of candles beside her bedroom washstand glazing the skin of his neck and back with gold as he bowed his head to study the smears of foul-smelling muck on the fine cloth of his evening coat. “Bloody hell. If this keeps up, my valet is going to succumb to a fit of the vapors. Or quit.”

Coming up behind him, Kat ran her hand across his bare shoulders, her fingertips gentling as she traced a long bruise there, just beginning to show purple. “It’s taking a toll on your body, as well.”

Tossing the ruined coat aside, he pivoted to draw her into his arms. “At least nothing vital has been damaged,” he said with a hint of laughter.

“They meant to kill you tonight.”

He nibbled at the tender flesh behind her ear. “I think the idea was to have my body wash ashore somewhere around Greenwich.”

She drew back so that she could look up at him. “But why? Why do these people want you dead?”

He shrugged. “They obviously think I know more about this conspiracy than I do.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they’re simply afraid of what you might learn.” She pulled away and went to get him a brandy. “Who’s behind it, do you think?”

“Even Jarvis doesn’t know.” He poured water from the pitcher into the bowl and bent to splash his face. “It’s bigger than any one man—or even a score. Something like this needs a broad base of support if it’s to have any chance of success.”

“Yet someone must be at its core.”

He nodded. “The Whigs would seem the most likely candidates. They spent the last twenty years expecting Prinny to sweep them back to power, only now he’s been made Regent and the Tory government is still firmly in place. The problem is, I can’t see the more radical Whigs risking their lives simply to replace one dynasty of spoiled, crowned fools with another. Why not do away with the monarchy altogether?”

“You mean like the French?” said Kat with a wry smile.

“I was thinking more about the American model.” He straightened and reached for a towel. “The Tories would make better suspects, except that they’re already in power, and will likely stay there for another twenty years or more. So why would they want to get rid of Prinny?”

“Especially when moving against the Hanovers might very well set in motion precisely the kind of popular movement the Tories fear the most,” said Kat, thinking about what Aiden O’Connell had said that morning in Chelsea.

He glanced over at her. “You mean a revolution?”

“Or a civil war.”

“I doubt they’d see the danger. Not men with the kind of hubris required to plot to overthrow a dynasty. It’s probably never occurred to them just how easily they could lose control of everything.”

“But what does any of this have to do with the death of Lady Anglessey?”

“I wish I knew.” Devlin tossed the towel aside. “I suppose she might simply have stumbled across something, the way Tom did in the alley behind the Norfolk Arms. Or…’’ He hesitated.

“Or she could have been involved in it herself,” said Kat, handing him the brandy.

He took a sip and looked up to meet her gaze. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

Kat was thoughtful for a moment, remembering what else Aiden O’Connell had said, about a Stuart restoration leading to peace with France. Alain Varden was half-French.

“The Chevalier de Varden,” she said suddenly. “What are his political inclinations?”

“As far as I can tell, he has none—or at least none he’s made known. His brother-in-law, Portland, is obviously a Tory, as is Morgana’s husband, Lord Quinlan. But then, most men of birth and property are Tories—including Anglessey. And my own father.” Devlin went silent for a moment, the glass of brandy held forgotten in his hand.

“What is it?”

“When I saw Varden this afternoon at Angelo’s, he told me Guinevere wanted to leave Anglessey. That she was afraid of him.”

“
Afraid?
Why?”

“He said Anglessey killed his first wife.”

“Is that possible?”

“I’d heard his first wife died in childbirth. I was on my way to Mount Street to ask him about it when Lovejoy caught up with me this afternoon.”

“What are you suggesting? That Guinevere somehow found out about her husband’s involvement with the Stuarts and was afraid he’d kill her to keep her quiet? But…surely she wouldn’t betray her own husband. Would she?”

Devlin brought up one hand to rub his forehead, and she realized just how tired he was. Tired and frustrated. “Obviously, I’m still missing something. Something important.”

Slipping her arms around his waist, Kat pressed her body close to his. She would never be his wife, but she could know the joy of holding him, of loving him and being loved by him. She told herself that was enough. For his sake, it would have to be enough. “You’ll find it,” she said, her voice low and husky. “If anyone can, you will. Now come to bed.”

S
HE AWOKE BEFORE DAWN
to find the place beside her cold and empty. She turned her head, her gaze searching the room.

He was standing beside the window, one of the heavy drapes pulled back so that he could look out upon the gradually lightening street. He was turned half away from her so that all she could see was his profile, and he had his head bent, as if he gazed not at the street below but at something he held in his hand. It wasn’t until she slipped from beneath the covers and went to curl her arms around his shoulders that she realized he held his mother’s bluestone necklace, the silver chain threaded through the fingers of one hand.

“What is it?” she asked, nuzzling his neck. “What’s wrong?”

He reached back his free hand to cup her head in his palm and draw her around to him. “Amanda came to see me last night.”

“Lady Wilcox?” said Kat in surprise. As far as Kat knew, Devlin’s sister hadn’t spoken to him since February.

“She’s concerned that my unusual activities might harm her daughter’s chances of contracting a successful alliance. She wanted to know what had possessed me to do something so plebian as to take part in a murder investigation.”