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A cool breeze from the river flapped Kat’s straw hat. She put up one hand to steady it. “The ship was insured, was it?”

  Yates laughed. “Oh, yes. I believe in insurance—unlike Wesley Oldfield, poor sod.”

  “Oldfield?”

  “The Harmony carried a shipment of his tea. Lost it all. Third cargo in as many months. Turned his brain, I’m afraid—that and the accommodations in the Marshalsea, I suppose.”

  A shout went up from among the crowd of spectators. Kat swung to look out over the water, to where the lead crew was fighting hard to maintain their advantage, the spray from their oars sparkling in the sunshine. “Was Oldfield a passenger on the Harmony?”

  “Oldfield? No.”

  She glanced back at the man beside her. “Were you?”

  A slow smile spread across his pirate face. “You know, I’m getting the distinct impression you engaged me in conversation this afternoon for the sole purpose of learning everything you could about the Harmony.”

  “Acute of you,” said Kat, returning his smile.

  He laughed, then abruptly sobered. “It’s because of Devlin, I suppose. I’ve heard he’s looking into these murders. I must admit, I didn’t think about the possible connection to the Harmony when it was just Carmichael and Stanton. But now that they’ve found Captain Bellamy’s son dead, as well…”

  Kat studied his handsome, sun-darkened face. “Do you have sons, Mr. Yates?”

  “No. Thank God, considering the circumstances.” He brought one hand to his chest and gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve never yet found a woman to steal my heart.”

  She laughed politely, as she was meant to do, then said, “Who else died on that ship besides Lord Jarvis’s son, David?”

  “Let me see…” Yates dropped his hand to his side and stared thoughtfully out over the river. “Two or three of the crew were killed in the storm, I believe; the rest either died under some African’s spear or at the end of a rope. But that’s it. The ship’s log was lost in the wreckage, so there’s no real record.”

  “None of the other passengers died?”

  He shook his head. “There were only some half a dozen besides Stanton and Carmichael. And no, I don’t recall their names,” he added when she opened her mouth to ask exactly that. “You know, if you ever tire of the stage, you ought to consider applying at Bow Street. You’re a natural.”

  “It’s my understanding they don’t employ females.”

  “More fool they. I’ve heard Aiden O’Connell say no one can ferret out information faster or more reliably than a female. I’m beginning to think he’s right.”

  Kat brought her wandering attention back to his face. It seemed a strange thing for him to have said, and she wasn’t convinced it was as offhand as it sounded. “You’re acquainted with Aiden O’Connell?”

  A light gleamed in his eyes, then was gone in an instant. “We’ve been known to do business together.”

  Kat kept her voice casual and disinterested. “Has he left town? I haven’t seen him for a few days.”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Do you intend to hound him about the Harmony as well? If I see him, I’ll warn him you were asking after him.”

  Kat gave a soft laugh. “What has Aiden O’Connell to do with the Harmony?”

  “Nothing that I know of.”

  She stayed talking nonsense with him a few more minutes, then moved on. It was some quarter of an hour later, as she was preparing to leave the terrace, that Yates approached her again.

  “It’s occurred to me that there was indeed another death on the Harmony,” he said, leaning in close so that his words would not be overheard. “Bellamy’s cabin boy. A spar fell on him during the storm, injuring him badly. He died several days before the Sovereign’s appearance.”

  “The cabin boy? What was his name?” Kat asked, her voice coming out more sharp than she’d intended it to.

  “That I can’t recall. But if it comes to mind, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  Kat had almost reached the steps of her house in Harwich Street when she became aware of a tall, well-dressed gentleman walking toward her, his bootheels tapping ominously on the empty paving.

  “Miss Boleyn,” said Colonel Bryce Epson-Smith, sweeping her a mocking bow. “How…fortuitous.”

  Kat’s grip on the handle of her sunshade tightened, then relaxed. Inclining her head, she gave the man a faint, bored smile. “Colonel.”

  “A gentle reminder about tomorrow night,” he told her, his gaze traveling over her in a way that made her skin crawl. “After the play, of course. We wouldn’t want to deprive London of one last glimpse of the divine Miss Kat Boleyn, in the event that you should elect to be…shall we say…stubborn?”

  Chapter 37

  It was midafternoon by the time Sebastian drove into the village of Avery in Kent. Having left Tom searching the docks of London for a man named Parker, Sebastian was forced to consign the chestnuts into the care of a lad at the livery stable and walk across the green to the rectory.

  In the gentle sunshine, the redbrick walls of the rectory seemed more somber than ever, the heavy drapes closed tight at the windows. Sebastian plied the door’s brass knocker, then listened to the summons echo into stillness in the depths of the house.

  He was about to knock again when he heard quick footsteps in the hall. The door was yanked open by the housekeeper, Mrs. Ross, who blanched at the sight of him and put up a hand to straighten her crooked cap.

  “My lord,” she said with a gasp, “I do beg your pardon for leaving you standing here. I thought the housemaid, Bess, would get the door, but I suspect she’s not back yet from the apothecary’s. We’ve been at sixes and sevens here, ever since the Reverend took his turn for the worse.”

  “Reverend Thornton is ill?” said Sebastian, unraveling this.

  Mrs. Ross nodded her head vigorously. “He had a bad turn, just after you left. And look at me, leaving you standing on the doorstep.” She opened the door wider and stepped back. “Please, do come in, my lord.”

  “May I see him?” Sebastian asked, stepping into the shadowy hall.

  “If you wish, my lord. But I don’t think he’ll recognize you. He doesn’t even seem to know Dr. Newman, and they’ve been friends these twenty years or more.”

  She led the way up the stairs to a darkened bedroom lit only by a solitary lamp turned down low. The figure in the vast tester bed seemed shrunken, the wispy gray hair on his scalp damp with sweat, his eyes open but staring blankly.

  “Reverend Thornton?” said Sebastian.

  No answering gleam of recognition lit the man’s half-open eyes. As Sebastian watched, a pool of spittle spilled over the edge of the clergyman’s mouth to dribble down his chin. He made no movement to wipe it away.

  “It’s terrible to see him like this,” said Mrs. Ross. “Such a brilliant man he was, so good and God-fearing.” The front-door knocker sounded again and she jerked away with a quick apology.

  Left alone, Sebastian stepped closer to the bed’s edge. The rector continued to stare dumbly into space.

  “What happened on that ship?” said Sebastian softly. “Hmm, my friend? It was something terrible, was it not? Did you try to stop it, I wonder, good, God-fearing man that you are? Or were you a willing participant?”

  He became aware of voices on the stairs: Mrs. Ross’s high-pitched, anxious notes answered by Aaron Newman’s soothing words. A moment later, the physician entered the room alone.

  “Any glimmer of recognition?” he asked Sebastian.

  Sebastian shook his head. “How long has he been like this?”

  “Since shortly after you left.” The doctor came to stand beside his patient. Drawing a handkerchief from his own pocket, he gently wiped the spittle from his old friend’s chin. “Mrs. Ross found him collapsed on his study floor.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “No. Nothing.” The doctor glanced up. “I’m sorry if you were hoping to ask him any more questions.”

  Sebast
ian let his gaze drift around the room. It was an old-fashioned chamber, with solid oak furniture and a couple of gently worn, tapestry-covered chairs drawn up to the empty fireplace. Beside one of the chairs sat a woman’s sewing basket and embroidery frame, as if their owner had only just put them down. “Has he ever spoken to you of what happened aboard the Harmony?” Sebastian asked, bringing his gaze back to the physician’s face.

  “You mean on his voyage home from India?” The doctor drew a straight-backed chair closer to the bed and sat. “Very little. Why?”

  “I think the events on the ship are linked in some way to the deaths of Nicholas Thornton and the others. Sir Humphrey Carmichael and Lord Stanton were also passengers on that voyage.”

  “Good God.” Then the inevitable conclusion must have occurred to him, because the doctor’s eyes opened wide. “Surely you’re not suggesting that—” He broke off, unable to put the thought into words.

  “We have no way of knowing,” said Sebastian. “But what was done to the victims’ bodies does seem to suggest that the killer, at least, has reason to believe that the survivors of the Harmony resorted to cannibalism to stay alive.”

  The doctor’s gaze fell to the shrunken, vacantly staring man in the bed. “No. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’d do such a thing. You didn’t know him. How could a man who dedicated his life to God, who could quote Cicero and Seneca at length, who was working on a new translation of the Confessions of St. Augustine—how could that man do something that violates one of the most basic tenets of our civilization?”

  “Some men will do anything to stay alive.”

  “Not this one,” said the doctor, one fist closing tightly around his old friend’s slack hand. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Did he ever happen to mention the names of any of his shipmates, besides Carmichael and Stanton?”

  Newman pursed his lips. “I believe there was another man and his wife. I seem to recall Mary Thornton mentioning them once or twice. A couple from somewhere up north.” He paused, thoughtful. “There was a spinster of a certain age and a younger gentleman who was with the East India Company. There may have been others, but I’m sorry, I couldn’t put a name to any of them.”

  “It’s a start,” said Sebastian, turning toward the door.

  The doctor stayed where he was, his gaze on the silent man in the bed. “If it’s true,” said Newman after a moment, “if the Reverend did do what you’re suggesting…he would see it as his fault, what happened to Nicholas. How could any father live with that kind of guilt?”

  “Obviously he could not,” said Sebastian, and left the doctor there at the bedside of his dying friend.

  Chapter 38

  “Take extra-special care of them,” Sebastian said when he turned the tired chestnuts over to Tom several hours later. “The lad at the livery stable down in Avery was a ham-fisted idiot. Don’t let me go near that place without you again.”

  Tom grinned and took the reins. “I’ll baby ’em, fer sure.”

  “Any luck with Parker?”

  “Aye. ’Is name’s Matt. Matt Parker. ’E works at the East India Company docks. Spends ’is evenings at a local called the ’Are and ’Ound, on the Ratcliffe Highway.”

  Sebastian regarded his tiger with awe. “How ever did you find that out?”

  Tom’s grin widened. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Sebastian turned toward the garden gate, but paused to say, “Now, if you could just find me a valet…”

  Tom laughed. “I’m workin’ on it, gov’nor. I’m workin’ on it.”

  The Hare and Hound was a nondescript, ramshackle pub reached through a narrow passage between an apothecary and a chandler’s.

  Sebastian pushed his way through a noisy crowd to the bar. He’d taken care to dress for the occasion in a shabby-genteel coat, hat, and breeches that formed part of his collection from Rosemary Lane. And still he was conscious of curious, vaguely hostile eyes upon him as he ordered a pint. Strangers were never welcome in such establishments.

  Sipping his ale in thoughtful silence, Sebastian let his gaze drift around the dim room. The Hare and Hound appeared popular with men from the docks: sailors in blue flannel shirts and dockers in rough smocks. Sebastian was starting on his second tankard of ale when a group of dockers came in, big men with broad shoulders and beefy arms. Sebastian listened to their good-natured banter and soon picked out a sandy-haired giant with a badly scarred cheek the other men addressed as “Parker.”

  Sebastian returned his attention to his ale. The dockers played a game of darts, which Parker won. Sebastian ordered another pint, then looked around to find Matt Parker beside him.

  “You watchin’ me fer some reason?” Parker demanded, his light brown eyes narrowed with hostility.

  “Actually, yes.” Sebastian signaled for another pint. “I’d like to talk to you about your brother.”

  “Jack?” Parker’s eyebrows drew together in a suspicious frown.

  “Yes.”

  “And who the devil might you be?”

  “My name is Devlin,” said Sebastian, making no attempt to disguise the crisp, upper-crust tones of his speech.

  Parker made a rude noise. “You sound like a bloody nob. What would a nob want with the likes of gallows bait like Jack?”

  Sebastian considered offering the man money, then decided against it. There was a proud edge to the docker’s bearing that told Sebastian the gesture would not be well received. “I understand your brother went to his death insisting the men who testified at his trial lied,” said Sebastian.

  “So? That was over four years ago now. No one ever paid it no heed before.”

  The bar maid plunked a frothing tankard of ale on the planks beside them. Sebastian pushed the tankard toward Parker. “That was before.”

  The docker left the ale untouched. “It’s because of these murders, ain’t it? First Carmichael, then Stanton. Now Bellamy.”

  “You’re forgetting Nicholas Thornton.”

  “Thornton?” A flicker of confusion showed in the other man’s eyes.

  “Last Easter, down in Kent.”

  “I didn’t hear about him. Don’t remember no Thornton at the trial, either.” Parker’s tongue flicked out to moisten his lips. Absently reaching for the tankard, he brought the ale to his mouth and drank deeply.

  “You’re Bow Street, ain’t you?” he said, setting the tankard down with a snap. There was dawning comprehension and fear in his eyes now—the fear of a man whose words have come back to haunt him. “You’re here because o’ them things I said at the hanging—about revenge and all. It was just talk. You hear? Wild talk. Jack was my little brother. He didn’t do nothin’ wrong. The mutiny weren’t his idea. He didn’t even take part in it. The other sailors, they give him a choice—come with them, or stay and die. Who wouldn’t go? Is that any reason to hang a man?” Parker paused, his face slack with grief. “He was just seventeen years old, you know. Seventeen.”

  “No. I didn’t know.” Sebastian leaned forward. “Your brother maintained until the end that the men who testified at the trial lied. What about?”

  Matt Parker drained his tankard, but shook his head when Sebastian moved to order another. “That David Jarvis—him whose father is cousin to the King. They said the lad was hurt in the mutiny. Said one of the crew members stabbed him in the side with a cutlass.” Parker shook his head. “It weren’t so. That young nob was just fine when the crew left the ship.”

  Parker dropped his voice and leaned in close. “Something happened on that ship when they was adrift. You think on what’s been done to these murdered young gentlemen’s bodies, and you’ll know what I’m talkin’ about.”

  Straightening, he was silent for a moment, his head turned as if he stared at something in the distance. Then his jaw hardened and he brought his gaze back to Sebastian’s face. “You’re right about one thing: I did swear to see all them titled buggers pay for what they done to Jack. But I�
�m a God-fearing man, and somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I figure the good Lord’ll take care of them in His own way.” A quiver of distaste passed over the docker’s scarred features. “Whoever’s doing this—whoever is butchering those men’s children—I’d say he’s got a father’s anger in him and a father’s hurt.”

  Parker put his wrists together and held them out like a man surrendering to the law. “You can arrest me right now and take me in, but the killin’ won’t stop. Whoever’s doin’ this, he’s damned himself to hell, and he knows it. He won’t stop until he’s killed them all.”

  “How many others were there?”

  “I don’t know,” said Parker, his face unexpectedly pale. “Only Stanton, Carmichael, and Bellamy testified at the trial. But there were others, passengers and officers both. And God help their children.”

  “So now you know,” said Kat softly, as they lay talking in each other’s arms later that night. “You wondered what kind of secret could be so terrible that men would willingly put their own children at risk rather than reveal it. If what Matt Parker says is true, the survivors of the Harmony didn’t just commit cannibalism. They also caused the death of Jarvis’s only son.”

  Sebastian entwined his hand with hers and brought it to his lips. They’d made love slowly and sweetly, and still the feeling he’d had for days persisted—that gnawing certainty that something was terribly wrong. He just didn’t know what. And he knew the fear of all lovers that he could lose her. Again.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, and it took him a moment to realize she was talking about the investigation.

  He shifted his weight. “I think I’m going to pay another call on Captain Edward Bellamy.”

  “Do you honestly think he’ll tell you what happened?”

  “No. But he sure as hell can’t have forgotten the name of his own cabin boy—if what Yates told you is right.”

  “You think the killer is the boy’s father?”

  Sebastian ran a hand down her naked side in a gentle caress. “Either him or Jarvis.”