When Gods Die

“No. Not me.” Portland shook his head, the movement causing his chest to heave as he fell to coughing. “Carter needed help getting the body out of his inn. It was my idea to use her death to”—his face twisted in a spasm of pain—“to discredit the Prince. It was working, too. Until you interfered.”

“What are you saying? That Carter killed her?”

Portland’s eyelids flickered closed.

Sebastian gripped the man’s shoulders, shaking him. “Damn you! Who killed her?”

Portland’s jaw had gone slack. Pressing his fingers to the side of the man’s neck, Sebastian caught the thread of a pulse. A man could live for hours, even days, with a gut wound.

Sebastian sat back on his heels, his gaze on the man before him. If he tried to haul the Home Secretary out of the sewers by himself, he’d simply kill the man.

Slipping his hands beneath Portland’s shoulders, Sebastian dragged the man’s limp body to the highest point of the landslide, where he’d hopefully be safe from the rising tide. He left him the lantern, too, in case Portland should come back to consciousness.

Then he retraced his route to the surface.

IT WAS AN HOUR OR MORE BEFORE SEBASTIAN and a troop of constables made it back to the ancient, stone-walled sewer, the lights from their lanterns reflecting eerily off the dark walls and high, soaring ceiling. But when they reached the site of the cave-in, the Home Secretary was gone.

Standing at the top of the pile of rubble, Sebastian looked out across the dark expanse of water. The body of the other man he’d killed lay half-submerged at the base of the rubble. But the Home Secretary still floated, his body lying facedown in the subterranean lake.

“I don’t understand it,” said the Chief Constable, coming to stand beside Sebastian. “The rocks aren’t wet here. The tide couldn’t ’ave come high enough to carry him off. So what happened?”

Sebastian stared down at the smear of blood that led to the water’s edge and said nothing.

Chapter 63

Sebastian limped across the black-and-white marble floor of his entry hall, his boots squishing foul-smelling water with each step. His cravat and hat were gone, his breeches and coat ripped and smeared with malodorous muck. His valet would likely succumb to a fit of the vapors at the sight of him.

Morey hovered near the door, careful not to approach too near.

“Send Sedlow to me right away,” said Sebastian, moving toward the stairs.

“I regret to have to inform your lordship that Sedlow resigned his post this afternoon,” said the majordomo in a wooden voice.

Sebastian paused, then gave a soft laugh. “Of course. I’ll have to make do with one of the footmen. I need a hot bath. Quickly.”

“Yes, my lord.” Morey gave a stately bow and withdrew.

SEBASTIAN, having bathed, was slathering an herb-rich ointment from the apothecary’s onto his various cuts and scrapes when Tom knocked at his dressing room door.

“I got what you wanted on that Lady Quinlan,” said the boy, giving Andrew the footman a puzzled look.

“Yes?” said Sebastian, not turning around.

“She ’ad a scientific demonstration at her ’ouse on Wednesday last—some gent with a bunch of glass tubes full of queer-colored liquids that foamed and smoked. The downstairs maid said she was afeared they’d blow the place sky-high before they was done. ’Er ladyship was there all afternoon. She even ’elped mix the chemicals ’erself.”

Tom paused, his nose wrinkling. “What is that smell?”

“The sewers,” said Sebastian, pulling a fine shirt over his head.

Tom accepted this without comment. “You don’t look surprised,” the boy said, sounding rather disappointed.

“No. I already know who killed Guinevere Anglessey.”

SEBASTIAN ARRIVED AT CURZON STREET to find Audley House standing dark and quiet in the moonlight. Wearing the elegant knee breeches and long-tailed coat of evening dress, he climbed the shallow steps to the front door and found it unlatched. He hesitated a moment, listening to the stillness. Then he pushed the heavy door open and went inside.

Stepping into the darkened hall, he followed the faint flicker of candlelight that showed from the back of the house. The light came from the library, where a single candelabra had been lit upon the mantelpiece. The Chevalier stood beside it, his back to the door as he worked, assembling papers from the desk.

“Your servants seem to have disappeared,” said Sebastian, leaning against the doorjamb.

At the sound of Sebastian’s voice, the Chevalier started violently. He swung around, his pale face drawn and tense. “My mother dismissed them all this afternoon.”

“Going away, are you?”

Varden turned back to the desk. “I am, yes.”

“The Earl of Portland is dead.”

“Good,” said Varden, shoving the papers into a satchel that lay open upon the desk.

Sebastian pushed away from the door and walked into the room. “He didn’t kill her.”

“I know.”

Sebastian went to stand before the empty fireplace, his gaze on the flickering candle flames reflected in the mirror above the mantel. “Tell me about the Savoy letter.”

“How much do you know?”