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  Leaving the curricle in Tom’s care, Sebastian cut through the narrow passage that ran alongside the surgeon’s ancient stone house to the small outbuilding at the base of the unkempt yard where Gibson performed his autopsies. It was here that he also practiced surreptitious dissections on bodies filched from London’s churchyards by gangs of unsavory characters known as resurrection men. By law, the dissection of any human corpse except that of an executed felon was forbidden, which meant that if a surgeon wanted to perfect a new technique or further expand his understanding of human anatomy or physiology, he had little choice but to trade with the body snatchers.

  Sebastian was aware of thunder rumbling in the distance and a patter of scattered raindrops as he followed the beaten path through the rank grass. The air filled with the smell of damp earth and death. Gibson had left the outbuilding’s door open; through it, Sebastian could see the pale body of a man stretched out on the surgeon’s granite slab. It was Rhys Wilkinson, and from the looks of things, Gibson was only getting started.

  “There you are, me lad,” said Gibson, looking up with a grin as Sebastian paused in the doorway.

  “Find anything?” he asked, careful not to look too closely at what Gibson was doing to the cadaver before him. Sebastian had spent six years fighting the King’s wars from Italy to Spain to the West Indies; he had seen death in all its ugliest, most heartbreaking and stomach-churning manifestations. He had even killed men himself, more times than he cared to remember. But none of that had left him with Gibson’s calm insouciance when it came to viewing the dissected, mangled, or decomposing bodies of the dead. . . . Particularly when the body belonged to someone he’d called friend.

  “We-ell,” said Gibson, drawing out the word into two syllables, “I’ve only just begun, I’m afraid. Had a coroner’s inquest that lasted far longer than it ought to have. About all I can tell you at this point is the liver and spleen are enlarged. But then, that’s typical for someone with Walcheren fever.”

  “He told me just a few weeks ago that he thought he was getting over the worst of it.”

  “No one ever really gets over Walcheren fever, I’m afraid,” said Gibson. He was a few years older than Sebastian, in his early thirties now. But chronic pain had etched deep the fan of laugh lines beside his green eyes, touched the temples of his dark hair with silver, and left him thin and wiry. “I’m not saying for certain that’s what killed him, mind you. I’ve a few things to look at yet.” He paused. “How’s Annie taking it?”

  “Badly.”

  Gibson shook his head. “Poor girl. She’s been through so much.”

  “She’s game,” said Sebastian.

  “Aye, that she is. But she was looking rather worn down last I saw her.”

  “Things have been difficult for them, what with Wilkinson invalided out and too ill to hold a position. I offered to help, but she would have none of it.”

  “I’m not surprised. She was always a proud woman.” Gibson limped out from behind the slab, his peg leg tapping on the uneven paving. “I take it you’ve heard about Russell Yates?”

  “I have. You wouldn’t by chance know who’s doing Daniel Eisler’s postmortem?”

  Gibson smiled. “I thought you might be interested, so I asked around. Seems there wasn’t one. I gather the magistrate involved doesn’t hold with such outlandish modern practices. I did, however, manage to speak to a colleague of mine—a Dr. William Fenning—who was called to confirm the man’s death at the scene. He said Eisler had been shot at close quarters in the chest. Death was likely virtually instantaneous.”

  “Did he notice anything else?”

  “You mean, at the house?” Gibson shook his head. “I’m afraid not. He was brought in to view the body; he gave his opinion and left. I gather he was late for a dinner party.”

  The two men went to stand outside, their backs to the close room and its grisly contents, the damp wind clean and cool in their faces. Sebastian said, “Do you remember Matt Tyson?”

  Gibson looked over at him. “You mean the lieutenant from the 114th Foot who was court-martialed after Talavera?”

  “That’s the one. I ran into him just now. From the looks of things, he’s sold out.”

  “I’m not surprised. He might have been acquitted, but those kinds of accusations leave an opprobrium that lingers.”

  “Justifiably, in his case,” said Sebastian dryly.

  Gibson shook his head. “I’ve never really believed in evil—at least, not as something with a finite existence outside ourselves. But when I run across someone like Tyson, it makes me wonder if the good nuns might not have been right after all.”

  Gibson fell silent, his gaze on the bunching, heavy gray clouds bearing down low on the surrounding rooftops and on the soot-streaked white bulk of the old Norman keep. And Sebastian knew without being told that the surgeon’s thoughts had returned, like his own, to the man on the slab behind them.

  Sebastian said, “Annie wanted me to tell her the results of the autopsy. You’ll let me know when you’re finished?”

  “Of course.” Gibson hesitated, then said, “You do realize that when one dies of something like an overdose of laudanum, it doesn’t show up? Perhaps someday science will learn how to detect these things, but at the moment it’s beyond us.”

  Sebastian met his friend’s gaze but said nothing.

  Gibson continued. “It just looks as if the body’s systems shut down, which would also be consistent with someone who had long been in ill-health.”

  Sebastian blew out a harsh breath and nodded. “That’s good. Annie’s suffered enough.”

  Neither of them said, She doesn’t need the shame of her husband’s suicide added to everything else. But then, they didn’t need to.

  The knowledge of it was there, in the storm-charged air.

  Chapter 15

  C

  harles, Lord Jarvis, lounged comfortably in an overstuffed armchair beside his host’s hearth, a glass of good French brandy cradled in one palm, his head tipped back to rest against the seat’s high back as he watched his host pace across the carpet. The sound of wind-driven rain slapping against the windowpanes and drumming on the leaves of the trees outside filled the room.

  “The brandy is undeniably excellent,” said Jarvis, pausing to take a delicate sip. “But I don’t think you invited me here for my opinion on your cellars.”

  Otto von Riedesel, the man pacing the room, whirled to face him. Big boned and stocky, and well into his fifth decade, he wore the black broadcloth dolman and black trousers of a colonel in the Black Brunswickers, a volunteer corps who fought the French at Britain’s side. Although the Duke of Brunswick was, technically, Britain’s ally, von Riedesel’s position as the Duke’s representative in London was nevertheless delicate. For while Brunswick was both first cousin and brother-in-law to the Prince Regent, Prinny had long been estranged from Princess Caroline, his plump, slightly mad wife, who was the daughter of the late Duke of Brunswick and sister to the present one.

  “This murder is troubling. Most troubling,” said the colonel, smoothing his hand down over his flowing black mustache. His cheeks were full and ruddy, his nose a bulbous, unrefined blob. Despite his uniform and rank, the colonel’s days of active campaigning were now over. He’d grown soft and, Jarvis was beginning to suspect, dangerously timid.

  “Really? I wouldn’t have said so.”

  The Brunswicker’s heavy brows drew together in a frown. “You vould have me believe all is under control?”

  “It is, yes. Although if you show the world that worried face, you will only succeed in focusing attention on that which you wish to conceal, thus bringing about precisely what you would prefer to avoid.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Von Riedesel brought his own brandy to his lips and drained the glass. “It is not you who vill be ruined if the truth gets
out.”

  “It won’t get out,” said Jarvis.

  Chapter 16

  T

  he rain was coming down hard by the time Sebastian walked in his front door. “Is Lady Devlin at home?” he asked, handing his hat and gloves to his majordomo, a former gunnery sergeant named Morey.

  “She is, my lord,” said Morey, carefully wiping the moisture from Sebastian’s top hat. “I believe you will find her in the drawing room with an elderly gentleman, one Mr. Benjamin Bloomsfield. I’ve just taken up some tea.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sebastian could hear the low drone of an elderly man’s quavering voice as he mounted the stairs to the first floor.

  “I don’t think you’ll find many in London who are mourning his passing,” he heard the man say.

  “He was a shrewd bargainer?” asked Hero.

  “Shrewd? That’s one word for it.”

  Sebastian could see their visitor now, seated in a chair drawn up beside the hearth. The man was indeed aged, his long flowing beard as white as Eisler’s snowy owl, the bony fingers he held templed before him gnarled with arthritis and palsied with age. He wore an ill-fitting black coat, old-fashioned in cut and somewhat the worse for wear. But his light brown eyes were still sharp with intelligence, the sallow, lined flesh of his face settled into a pattern of gentle good humor that spoke of a life spent laughing at the vicissitudes of fate and the absurdities of his fellow men. No one seeing his scuffed shoes and darned stockings would ever imagine that he was one of the wealthiest men in London, with interests that ranged from banking and shipping to fur, wheat . . .

  And diamonds.

  “The truth is that Daniel Eisler was a vicious, unscrupulous scoundrel, and the world is a better place with him out of it.” The old man turned his head as Sebastian paused in the doorway and made a motion as if to push himself out of his chair.

  “No, please, sir, don’t get up,” said Sebastian, going to clasp the old man’s hand. “We’ve never met, Mr. Bloomsfield, but I’ve heard much of your charitable work. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine, young man. I’ve known Miss Jarvis here—excuse me, Lady Devlin, for years now, although I must admit I’d quite despaired of ever seeing her settled with a family of her own. You are to be congratulated for both your good fortune and your good sense.”

  Sebastian glanced over at Hero in time to see a faint flush of color darken her cheeks. Then she looked pointedly away and said with painful politeness, “Would you like some tea, Devlin?”

  He swallowed a smile. “Yes, please.”

  Bloomsfield said, “Your wife tells me you believe this young man the authorities have arrested is innocent.”

  “I do, yes.” A small fire had been kindled to chase away the evening’s growing chill, and Sebastian went to stand before it. “You knew Eisler, did you? I gather he was a widower.”

  Bloomsfield shook his head. “To my knowledge, the man never married. Lived alone for years in that wreck of a house with only two old servants to wait on him.”

  “I’ve seen the house. It’s somewhat overflowing with furniture and art.”

  Bloomsfield huffed a mirthless laugh. “You mean it looks like a glorified pawnshop. Which is essentially what it was.”

  “Do you mean to say Eisler was in the habit of giving loans?” asked Hero, handing Sebastian a cup of tea.

  “I don’t know if I’d call it a habit, exactly. ‘Business’ is more like it. His rates were ruinous and his terms outrageous. He used to insist that his victims—excuse me, his clients—leave several valuable items with him as collateral. Paintings, statues . . . even furniture, if it was fine enough.”

  “And gems?”

  “Oh, yes, he was especially fond of gems. Needless to say, very few of his clients ever managed to reclaim their property—even when they paid off their loans.”

  Sebastian took a sip of his tea. “Someone told me there must be any number of people in London who are glad to see Eisler dead. I’m beginning to understand what they meant.”

  Bloomsfield nodded. “I heard recently of a young nobleman who took the family’s emeralds to have them cleaned before presenting them to his new wife, only to discover they were all paste. His mother’d had them copied and hocked the original stones to Eisler to pay her gambling debts. The young marquis threatened Eisler with legal action—they weren’t hers to sell, after all. But in the end he gave it up.”

  “Why?” asked Hero.

  Bloomsfield lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I never heard. But it’s not unusual. Did you know that more than half the gems in the British Crown Jewels are paste? The originals have been pawned over the years to pay for our various illustrious monarchs’ wars.”

  “Not to mention their mistresses,” said Hero.

  Bloomsfield’s soft brown eyes danced with amusement. “That too.”

  Sebastian said, “I understand Eisler was handling the sale of a large diamond for someone. Did he do that sort of thing? Negotiate the sale of jewels for other people?”

  “Frequently, yes.”

  “Why?” asked Hero. “I mean, I can see why Eisler would do it, since he’d obviously make a fat commission on the transaction. But why wouldn’t a gem’s owner simply sell it openly?”

  “Typically because they don’t want anyone to know that they’re selling. In general, if you hear a collector is selling one or more of his specimens, it’s a fairly good indicator that he’s found himself in financial difficulties. And that’s the kind of information most men don’t care to make common knowledge.”

  “Do you know of any gem collectors who are selling at the moment? Particularly someone with a large blue diamond?”

  Bloomsfield shook his head, although he looked vaguely troubled. “I haven’t heard of anyone, no.”

  “What?” asked Sebastian, watching him.

  “Did you say a large blue diamond?”

  “That’s right. Why?”

  “It’s just . . . They’re very rare, you know. The only specimen I can think of that might fit such a description—” He broke off and shook his head again. “No, that’s impossible.”

  “So you do know of such a diamond?”

  The old man leaned forward in his seat, his hands gripping the chair’s arms, a surge of excitement quickening his voice. “I’m not aware of a large blue diamond currently in anyone’s collection. But I do know of such a specimen that was lost. And what is interesting is that it was lost exactly twenty years ago this month. Are you familiar with le diamant bleu de la Couronne?” He glanced from Sebastian to Hero.

  Both shook their heads. “No.”

  “In English it’s known as the ‘French Blue.’ It was once part of the French Crown Jewels. They say it came out of India as an enormous roughly cut triangular stone of over a hundred carats. Louis XIV bought it for the French Crown and had it recut and set, I believe, into a cravat pin.”

  “Must have made a very large cravat pin,” said Hero.

  Bloomsfield’s eyes twinkled. “True. But then, Louis XIV was quite a large man. His successor Louis XV had it remade as the focal point of a magnificent Emblem of the Golden Fleece.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “It disappeared along with the rest of the French Crown Jewels during the Revolution—the week of 11 September 1792, to be exact. It has never been recovered.”

  “The twenty years is significant,” said Sebastian. “Why?”

  “Because in 1804, Napoléon passed a decree establishing a twenty-year statute of limitations for all crimes committed during the Revolution—although I’ve no doubt the French royal family would dispute the sale of the diamond and claim ownership, if they heard about it.”

  Hero set aside her teacup. “Which would be another good reason for trying to s
ell the diamond quietly.”

  “True,” said Bloomsfield.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, growing louder and louder as the wind dashed a driving rain against the drawing room’s windowpanes.

  Sebastian said, “If Eisler were peddling the French Blue, who would the likely buyers be?”

  Bloomfield sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the fire and blew out a long, troubled breath.

  “Who?” asked Hero, watching him.

  He looked up, his features drawn. “Prinny. That’s who I would try to sell it to, if I were Eisler. The Prince Regent.”

  Chapter 17

  A

  fter Bloomsfield’s departure, Sebastian stood with his back to the fire and watched as his wife calmly poured herself another cup of tea. Both her posture and occupation were typically feminine and domestic. Only, he knew there was nothing typical about Hero.

  She set aside the heavy silver pot and reached for a spoon to stir her tea. “I gather it’s the Frenchman Collot from the unsavory Pilgrim in Seven Dials who told you about this mysterious blue diamond?”

  “It was, yes. He claims Eisler was selling the gem for Thomas Hope.”

  She looked up. “Thomas, not Henry Philip?”

  “That’s right. Hope denies it, of course.”

  “But you don’t believe him.”

  Sebastian smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t have a very trusting nature.” He felt his smile harden.