What Remains of Heaven sscm-5 Read online

  “Oh? Who was the first?” said Sebastian, pausing at the top of the front steps to look back. “One of the Bow Street magistrates?”

  “No. Miss Hero Jarvis.” The Chaplain raised his handkerchief to his nose. “Good day, my lord.” He threw a speaking glance at the footman, who quietly shut the door between them.

  Sebastian stood for a moment, staring out over the wide square, with its vast central reflecting pool and statue of King Charles. Then he raised the cuff of his coat to his nose and sniffed.

  Chapter 9

  His face crinkled in a pantomime of distaste, Sebastian’s valet lifted the discarded coat of dark superfine on one carefully curled finger and held it at arm’s length.

  “I know,” said Sebastian, not looking up from the serious business of tying a fresh cravat. “Do what you can to get the smell out. But if it doesn’t work, burn it.”

  Jules Calhoun drew back in mock astonishment. “What? You mean to say you don’t fancy walking around London smelling like a hundred-year-old cadaver?”

  “A hundred years might be all right. It’s the in-between stages that are the smelliest.”

  The valet gave a soft laugh. A small, slim gentleman’s gentleman in his thirties, Calhoun had started life in one of the most notorious flash houses in London—a beginning that had left him with an undeniable flair and a variety of useful connections to the city’s underworld.

  Assembling the rest of Sebastian’s discarded raiment, Calhoun bundled the offending clothes together and said, “Are you likely to be returning to St. Margaret’s?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then I suggest we keep these.”

  Sebastian smoothed the folds of his cravat. “Good point.”

  The valet watched Sebastian slide a slim dagger into the sheath hidden inside his right boot. “Expecting trouble?”

  Sebastian straightened his cuffs. “When I’m dealing with the Jarvises? Always.”

  Most daughters of the Upper Ten Thousand spent their days shopping on Bond Street, or attending a dizzying round of picnics, Venetian breakfasts, and morning visits. Not Miss Hero Jarvis.

  When Sebastian tracked her down, she was at the Royal Hospital in Chelsea. A vast redbrick complex designed by Sir Christopher Wren and clustered around several wide court-yards, the hospital had been established by Charles II for the relief of the nation’s wounded and aged war veterans back in the seventeenth century. But after decades of continuous war, the facility was now grossly underfunded and overcrowded.

  He’d heard that Miss Jarvis had made the improvement of the hospital one of her projects. As he crossed the sun-drenched main courtyard, he saw her step out of the chapel in the company of a stout gentleman with a swooping auburn mustache and the officious air of a physician. She was dressed in an emerald green walking gown ruched at the hem and finished with darker piping at the neck and sleeves, and carried a delicate silk parasol in a matching shade of green that she tipped at just the right angle to shade her face. A gray-gowned maid, fists clutching the strings of her reticule, hovered at a respectable distance.

  “Ah, there you are, Miss Jarvis,” said Sebastian, walking up to her. “If I might have a word with you?”

  She swung her head to look at him, her lips parting on a quickly indrawn breath. She was a striking woman, with her father’s aquiline nose and intelligent gray stare. Now in her twenty-fifth year, she had medium brown hair she usually wore scraped back in an unbecoming fashion better suited to a governess. But lately she’d taken to having a few wisps cut so that they fell artfully about her forehead. The effect was one of unexpected, misleading softness. None knew better than Sebastian that there was little that was soft about Hero Jarvis.

  She might be disconcerted to see him, but she recovered almost immediately. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, “but Dr. McCain here has most graciously offered to escort me on a tour of the facilities, and I wouldn’t want to inconvenience—”

  “I’m convinced the good doctor will excuse us for a moment,” said Sebastian, giving the stout physician a smile that bared his teeth.

  “Of course,” said the doctor, withdrawing immediately with a polite bow.

  “My efforts here are important,” she told Sebastian in a low voice as they turned to stroll together across the paved courtyard. “It is beyond shameful for a nation of our wealth and grandeur to ask men to risk life and limb in war, and then abandon them to poverty and neglect when they return home wounded and infirm.”

  “Believe me, Miss Jarvis, I have nothing but admiration for what you’re trying to accomplish. I won’t delay you long.” He studied her classical profile. She looked thinner and paler than he remembered. Once, just two months before, Sebastian had held this woman in his arms, tasted the salt of her tears, felt the shudders rack her unexpectedly yielding body. But that had been a moment out of time, when they’d thought they faced certain death together.

  Instead, they had survived. Now, those shared moments of weakness had become a source of embarrassment and regret that could have profound repercussions for them both. He’d known her to shoot a highwayman at point-blank range, to confront certain death with a rare and clearheaded fortitude. But for a young gentlewoman to face the potential shame and ostracism of an unwed birth was something else entirely, and he had no intention of allowing her to suffer alone for what they had done together. The problem was, he wasn’t convinced she would tell him if there were, in fact, repercussions from that fateful afternoon.

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  She knew precisely what he meant. “I am quite well, thank you.” She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her step never faltering. “You’ve no need to concern yourself.”

  He wanted to believe her, but couldn’t. She’d already given him her forthright opinion of marriage; when he’d offered her the protection of his name after their rescue that day, her answer had been swift and unequivocal. Studying the self-possessed features of the woman beside him now, he could find no trace of the vulnerable creature who’d given herself to him in the cold, dark vaults beneath Somerset House. Yet it had happened.

  He said, “The Archbishop of Canterbury has asked me to look into the murder of Bishop Prescott.”

  For an instant, the hand holding the parasol clenched so hard Sebastian heard the delicate bamboo crack. But the calm self-control of her voice never slipped. “Bishop Prescott?” she said airily. “And what, pray tell, does his death have to do with me?”

  “I don’t know. Which is why I was curious when I heard you had requested a copy of Prescott’s most recent appointments.”

  She stared off across the courtyard, to where an emaciated man with one leg hobbled on a single crutch. “Ah,” she said softly. “And now you’re wondering why, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  She kept her gaze on the wounded soldier in his gay, old-fashioned uniform. “In point of fact, it’s my belief the Bishop was being blackmailed.”

  “Blackmailed?” Whatever Sebastian had been expecting her to say, it wasn’t that.

  “Yes.”

  “And precisely what, Miss Jarvis, led you to this conclusion?”

  “When I met with the Bishop yesterday evening, I found him quite disturbed.”

  “You had a meeting with Prescott?”

  She glanced sideways at him. “You hadn’t discovered that yet?”

  “No, I had not. At what time did you meet with him?”

  “Six.”

  “So you were the important appointment the Bishop was reluctant to cancel. Do you mind if I ask why you were meeting with the Bishop of London?”

  She twitched her parasol back and forth in short, sharp jerks. “You may ask, if you wish, my lord. But I have no intention of answering your question. Believe me, it is not at all relevant to your investigation.”

  “Perhaps,” he said quietly. “But I will find out, you know.”

  She swung to face him, her jaw set, her eyes icy with dislike. “Very well, if you insist
. The Bishop asked for my assistance in preparing the speech he was to give before the House of Lords this Thursday.”

  Sebastian studied the smooth line of her cheek, the dark sweep of lashes that half hid her eyes as she looked away. She was a very good liar. But not quite good enough. He said, “The speech on abolition.”

  “That’s right.”

  Sebastian shifted his gaze to the statue of Charles II, decked out like a Roman emperor, that stood in the center of the court. If his understanding of the events of that evening were correct, then Miss Jarvis would have arrived at London House not long after the Reverend Malcolm Earnshaw’s meeting with the Bishop. But Sebastian found it difficult to understand how there could have been anything in the discovery of a decades-old corpse in a small village church to rattle a man as powerful and worldly as the Bishop of London.

  He said, “Did Prescott tell you he was being blackmailed?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “So what precisely did he say that led you to such an unlikely conclusion?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that.”

  “You—” He caught himself up short, took a deep breath, and said more calmly, “Miss Jarvis, do I need to remind you that a man is dead?”

  She held herself very still. “Obviously not, my lord Devlin. But Francis Prescott was my friend. He told me what he did in strictest confidence, and I do not believe that a man’s death relieves his friends of their responsibility to respect his desire for privacy.”

  He stared at her. “You would respect the Bishop’s confidence even if it meant letting his killer go free?”

  Her nostrils flared on a quickly indrawn breath. “No. But if I can preserve the Bishop’s confidence by making some preliminary inquiries myself, then would you not agree that it is incumbent upon me to do so? If I should discover that the information I have is relevant to his death, then I shall of course disclose it to you.”

  “Hence your request for the list of the Bishop’s appointments?”

  “Yes.”

  He watched her glance away again. She might be telling him the truth, but he had a nasty suspicion it was only a half-truth. He said, “Blackmailers don’t necessarily make appointments, you know.”

  Her nostrils flared. “That had occurred to me.”

  “And were you looking for anyone’s name in particular on that list?”

  “In point of fact, I have not yet received the list.”

  Sebastian tightened his jaw. “And when you do receive the list, Miss Jarvis, whose name do you anticipate finding upon it?”

  He didn’t expect her to answer him. But to his surprise, a faint, unpleasant smile curled her lips, and she said, “Lord Quillian’s.”

  “Quillian? Surely you don’t suspect Lord Quillian of murdering the Bishop?”

  One eyebrow arched. “You find that so improbable?”

  “The man is a fop. He wears his shirt points so high he can barely turn his head, and his coats are so tight I swear the seams would split if he tried to bludgeon anyone to death.”

  “You might think so. Yet he has fought two duels—”

  “Twenty years ago.”

  “—and he is an outspoken opponent of abolition.”

  “As are any number of other men in London.”

  “True. Yet how many of those men went so far as to actually threaten the Bishop?”

  Sebastian frowned. “Quillian threatened the Bishop? Did Prescott tell you so?”

  She shook her head. “He had no need. I was walking with the Bishop in Hyde Park on Saturday when Lord Quillian accosted him.”

  “Accosted?”

  “Yes, accosted. He warned the Bishop specifically to give up his support of the Slavery Abolition Act, saying that men who lived in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”

  “That might not necessarily have been a threat.”

  “Perhaps. Except he followed it up by saying, ‘Beware lest your own house should shatter, my lord Bishop.’ ”

  Sebastian glanced over to where Tom was walking the grays up and down the lane near the overgrown entrance to the old Ranelagh Gardens. “You know, of course, that I shall now accost Lord Quillian.”

  “I should sincerely hope so. Why else do you suppose I told you?”

  He grunted. “You don’t actually believe that aging exquisite has anything to do with the Bishop’s death, do you?”

  “On the contrary, I do,” she said, and turned to walk back toward the chapel.

  He fell into step beside her again. “You say the Bishop was your friend?”

  “He was.”

  “So tell me about him.”

  She stared off across the court, to where the stout, mustachioed physician waited patiently with his hands clasped behind his back. Studying her face, Sebastian saw her features contort with an unmistakable pinch of grief. “How do you reduce such a vital, complex man to just a few words? He was . . . he was the most intensely compassionate, caring man I have ever known.”

  “I’ve heard he was an advocate for reform.”

  A strange, sad smile hovered about her lips. “I am an advocate for reform. Francis Prescott was that, and so much more. I’ve seen him give his own coat to a woman he found freezing in the street, and stop his carriage to personally take into his arms the filthy, starving child someone had abandoned at the side of the road.”

  “He sounds like a veritable saint.”

  “A saint?” She thought about it. “No, not a saint. He was a man, like anyone else.”

  “So he had faults.”

  “We all have faults, my lord Devlin.”

  “And what were Bishop Prescott’s faults?”

  She looked vaguely troubled. “I suppose he could at times be accused of behaving uncharitably toward those of French or American origins.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Because of those two countries’ revolutions? But . . . I thought Prescott was an advocate of reform?”

  “Reform, yes; revolution, no. The violence of the French and American revolutions horrified him. Although I think there was more to it than that. He lost three of his own brothers in the wars of the last century—one fighting the French in Canada, one fighting the French in India, and the third fighting the American rebels.”

  “A very martial family, for a bishop.”

  She glanced over at him. “It’s what younger sons do, is it not? Take the cloth, or buy a pair of colors.”

  Sebastian gave a wry smile. As the youngest of three sons born to the Earl of Hendon, Sebastian himself had been destined for a career in the Army, before the deaths of his two older brothers thrust him into the position of heir. Once he became Viscount Devlin, there’d been no more talk of his making a career of the military. Hendon had been furious—and terrified—when Sebastian went off to spend some six years fighting the French anyway.

  He said, “Did you know Prescott was planning to drive out to Tanfield Hill last night, after your meeting with him?”

  She shook her head. “He never mentioned it.” They were almost back to where Dr. McCain and Hero’s maid waited patiently beside the doors to the chapel. She slowed and swung to face him. “Now you really must excuse me, my lord. There is nothing more I can tell you.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  She raised one eyebrow in an expression that was disconcertingly evocative of her father. “Does it matter?” she said, and brushed past him, her parasol tilted at just the right angle, her chin held high, her back uncompromisingly straight and rigid.

  Chapter 10

  Sebastian had no doubt Miss Jarvis was more than capable of tossing the Prince Regent’s well-dressed friend Lord Quillian to the proverbial lions if that was what it took to distract attention from whatever she herself was trying to hide. But on the off chance the middle-aged exquisite might indeed have been involved in the Bishop of London’s untimely demise, Sebastian spent the better part of the afternoon tracking the dandy through the fashionable male shopping precinct
s of Bond Street, Jermyn Street, and Saville Row.

  He finally ran Quillian to ground in the discreet premises of Schweitzer and Davison on Cork Street. A slim man of medium height with lean cheeks, an aquiline nose, and heavily lidded green eyes, Lord Quillian was of the same generation as the Prince. Born a second son, he had come into his inheritance late in his twenties, on the death of his older brother. Like so many of the Prince’s cohorts, the Baron was addicted to games of chance, to free-flowing wine and free-spirited women. But his ruling passion was fashion, the vast majority of his time—as well as much of his considerable fortune—being expended on the arrayment of his person.

  When Sebastian came upon him, Quillian was dressed in fawn-colored breeches of the finest doeskin and a flawlessly tailored coat with silver buttons. He had a silver-headed ebony walking stick tucked up under one arm, and was pensively debating with his tailor the rival merits of superfine and Bath coating.

  “I hear the Beau swears by the Bath coating,” said Sebastian.

  “True,” said Quillian. “But then, Brummell began his career as a Hussar. Once a military man, always a military man.” Glancing sideways, the Baron frowned at Sebastian’s own well-tailored but nonchalant rig. “I daresay you order your coats from Meyer’s on Conduit Street, and always in Bath coating.”

  “Frequently, yes.”

  “Well, there; you see?” He nodded to the tailor. “Let’s say the superfine, shall we?”

  Mr. Schweitzer gave an obsequious bow, and withdrew.

  “Walk with me a ways,” said Sebastian, falling into step beside the exquisite as they left the shop.

  The aging roué cast a dubious eye at the sun shining brightly from the clear sky. “Well, I can walk with you to the end of the street, I suppose. But then I fear I really must call a chair. I’m frightfully susceptible to the sun, you know; if I’m not careful, I quickly turn as brown as a savage.”

  Sebastian blinked at the exquisite’s creamy white complexion. “Just so.” He waited while the dandy paused to inspect the tray of buttons displayed in a nearby shop window, then added, “I assume you’ve heard of the death of the Bishop of London?”