When Gods Die

The Prince opened his mouth, then closed it. “I’m not certain,” he said after a moment. “I mean, I don’t remember her answering me. But she must have done so.”

“One would think so,” said Devlin. “Unless she were already dead when you entered the room.”

The Prince’s normally ruddy cheeks paled. “Good God. Is that what you think? But…how is that possible? I mean, surely I would have noticed. Wouldn’t I?”

Devlin had his keen gaze fixed on the Prince’s face. And for one sliver of a moment Jarvis knew a rare whisper of misgiving, a brief questioning of the wisdom of his decision to draw the Viscount into this investigation.

“How long between the time you entered the chamber and when Lady Jersey threw open the door from the music room?” said Devlin, his voice deceptively casual.

The Prince plucked peevishly at the edge of his dressing gown. “I think…I rather think I might have fallen asleep.”

The implications were damning. A flicker of something showed in the younger man’s eyes. “Then you do have reason to be quite certain that the lady was not already dead when you first entered the room.”

The Prince’s cheeks flushed from unnaturally pale to sudden dark crimson as he realized the conclusion Devlin had inevitably drawn. “No, no,” he said in a rush. “It’s not what you think. I never touched her. I’m certain I didn’t. My ankle gave way as I was crossing the room toward her, and I sat down on one of the chairs.”

“And fell asleep?”

“Yes. I do sometimes. After a heavy meal.”

Devlin chose—wisely, Jarvis thought—not to respond to that. Pausing before a faux bamboo étagère tucked inside an arched niche, the Viscount ran his gaze over the artfully displayed collection of delicate ivory carvings. “How well acquainted were you with the Marchioness?” he asked, his attention all seemingly for the carvings.

George’s jaw jutted out mulishly. “I barely knew the woman.”

Devlin glanced over at the Prince. “Yet you weren’t surprised to receive a note from her, asking to meet you privately?”

The Prince’s massive torso jerked with his suddenly agitated breathing. “What are you suggesting? It’s Anglessey people should be suspecting, not me! I mean, it is usually the husband who’s found to be the culprit in this sort of thing, is it not?” His moist lips parted, his nostrils flaring as one beringed hand fluttered up to clutch at his chest. “Good heavens. I’m having palpitations. Where is Dr. Heberden?”

Jarvis took a hasty step forward as the doctor appeared suddenly from a curtained embrasure. “That’s enough questions for now, Lord Devlin. If you’ll excuse us, please?”

For one sharply tense moment, Devlin hesitated. Then he bowed curtly and swung away.

“You will, of course, be looking into the Marquis’s possible involvement in all of this?” Jarvis asked in an undervoice as he walked with Devlin to the door.

Devlin kept his expression bland. “It had occurred to me to do so,” he said, then added, “In the meantime, you might ask the Prince’s man to go through the pockets of the coat the Prince was wearing last night. It would help if that note could be found.”

“Of course,” said Jarvis.

Pausing at the entrance to the library that served as an antechamber to the Regent’s bedroom, the Viscount looked around. A tight smile curled his lips, a smile that told Jarvis he knew bloody well the note would never be found. “And perhaps when the Prince has recovered sufficiently, you might ask if he remembers exactly who handed him the note from the Marchioness?”

“When and if Dr. Heberden considers it safe to bring up the subject again, yes. You understand, of course, that protecting the Prince’s delicate sensibilities is of paramount importance.”

“More important than discovering the truth about who killed Lady Anglessey?”

Jarvis held the younger man’s hard stare. “Don’t ever doubt it for a moment.”

LEAVING THE PRINCE’S SUITE, Sebastian paused in the overheated corridor, one hand idly fingering the necklace in his pocket. Some of what the Prince had told him, Sebastian knew, was probably the truth. The trick would be to separate the reality from the layers of invention and sheer obstreperousness.

He was about to turn toward the stables when someone nervously cleared his throat and said, “My lord?”

Sebastian looked around to find a young, pale-skinned man with dark bushy eyebrows and gaunt cheeks hovering nearby, a man Sebastian recognized as one of Jarvis’s secretaries. “Yes?”

The man bowed. “The surgeon has arrived from London, my lord. He’s been shown directly to the Yellow Cabinet, as you requested.”

Chapter 8

Sebastian found Paul Gibson on the floor beside the couch in the Yellow Cabinet, his wooden leg thrust out awkwardly to one side.

“Ah, there you are, Sebastian me lad,” he said, his eyes creasing into a smile as he glanced around at Sebastian’s entrance.