When Gods Die

“About the plan to oust the Regent? Not much. What concerns me now is what happened to Guinevere Anglessey. How did she end up with the letter?”

He thought for a moment that the Chevalier didn’t mean to answer. Then the man turned away from the desk, his hands coming up to press flat against his face, his chest rising as he sucked in a deep breath. “The Saturday before she died, we met at an inn near Richmond.”

“I see.”

Varden let his hands fall, scrubbing them across his face. “I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t like that. Once she’d conceived the child, we met only as friends. She said anything else would be disloyal to Anglessey. We spent that Saturday wandering through the park, then ordered tea in a private parlor at the local inn. I’d been out late the night before, and what with all the fresh air and the exercise, I fell asleep in the chair. I’d taken off my coat and tossed it aside.” His lips quirked up into a soft smile that faded almost instantly. “Guin was always so tidy. She picked up the coat, meaning to straighten it. The letter simply fell out of the pocket.”

“She read it?”

“Yes. It wasn’t like her, to do something like that. I think she must have been suspicious of some of the things she knew I’d been doing lately. When she saw the Savoy seal—well, she simply couldn’t resist.”

“She confronted you?”

Varden nodded. “When I awoke.”

He went to stand beside the library’s long table, one hand fiddling with the tumble of books scattered across the gleaming wood. “She was horrified at the thought of what we were planning to do. I still don’t understand it. She never had anything but disdain for the house of Hanover. There was even a family legend that some great-great-grandmother of hers had once been mistress to James the Second. But all she could talk about was the miseries of war we’d be visiting on the people—and the danger to me, of course. I tried to make her see that getting rid of the Prince Regent was the only thing that could save England—keep it from going down the same path of violent revolution as the French.”

“She didn’t believe it?”

“No.” He let out his breath in a long sigh, as if he’d been holding it for a lifetime. “I’ll never forget the way she looked at me. As if I were a stranger. Someone she’d never seen before.”

“Why did she take the letter?” Sebastian asked softly.

“I honestly don’t think she meant to. She’d thrown it away from her when we were arguing, as if it were some vile thing she couldn’t bear to touch. The only thing I can figure is it must have fallen into the folds of her cloak. She didn’t put the cloak on when she left—just snatched it up and ran out. I didn’t realize the letter was missing until after she had gone.”

“Surely you didn’t think she would betray you?”

“No. But when I tried to contact her, she refused to see me. I had to practically accost her in the street one morning when she was on her way to ride in the park. She swore she’d destroyed the letter as soon as she discovered she still had it.” He paused, his throat working as he swallowed. “And then she told me she never wanted to see me again.”

Sebastian studied the young man’s taut profile. “But when you told your mother the letter had been destroyed, she didn’t believe you?”

His face contorted with pain. “No.”

“And so your mother wrote Guinevere a note in your hand, asking her to bring the letter to Smithfield. Only, Guinevere didn’t bring the letter. She couldn’t, because she’d already destroyed it. But your mother killed her, anyway.”

“Yes,” said Varden in a torn whisper. “She said she couldn’t allow Guinevere to live. Not with what she knew.”

“When did you put it all together?”

“This afternoon. When I saw the note and you told me about the necklace. I came home and confronted her. She didn’t even try to deny it. She said she’d done it for me.” He dragged in a ragged breath that shuddered his chest. “God help me. She did it for me.”

“Your father was related to the House of Savoy?”

Varden swung his head to look at Sebastian through narrowed eyes. “Yes, although not to the Stuarts. How did you know?”

“Something you said to me once, about impoverished royal relatives. What did they promise you in return for your support? A rich wife?”

A faint touch of color stained the ridges of his high cheekbones. “Yes.”

“No wonder Guinevere never wanted to see you again.”

“Well, what the devil was I supposed to do?” demanded Varden, pushing away from the window. “Spend the rest of my life in poverty, waiting for Anglessey to die? The man could live another twenty or thirty years.”

“Or he could be dead before the end of the summer.”