When Gods Die

Hendon’s jaw tightened in that way it always did whenever Sebastian did something of which Hendon disapproved—or that disappointed him. Once, the Earl of Hendon had boasted of three strong sons to succeed him. But fate had left him with only Sebastian, the youngest and least satisfactory. “I think most would have considered a small pension more than adequate,” said Hendon.

“The boy is useful.”

“Good God. And in what way might a pickpocket be of use to a gentleman of quality?”

“To survive on the streets requires agility, a talent for keen observation, and quick wits. All abilities I can use.” Besides, the boy always wanted to work with horses, Sebastian thought, although he didn’t say it. Hendon would only have scoffed. “He seems to have managed to control his larcenous activities these last four months.”

“Or so you think.”

Sebastian drained his brandy and set the glass aside. “I’d best say good night. I plan to start for London at dawn.”

“London?” Hendon’s lips pursed in disapproval. “I thought the business with this murder would at least keep you away from there for a while.” Of course, it wasn’t London itself Hendon found objectionable; what troubled the Earl was the beautiful young actress he knew Sebastian would be seeing there.

Refusing to be drawn into an argument on that score, Sebastian turned toward the door. “I don’t see what else I can do here. Anglessey has agreed to allow Paul Gibson to transfer the Marchioness’s body to his surgery for a postmortem. Even if Lady Guinevere wasn’t killed in London, someone there might be able to tell me where she went—and why.”

THE NEXT MORNING DAWNED COOL, with a fine mist that drifted in from the sea in heavy, salt-laden patches of white swirling dampness to collect between the rows of tall, stately town houses and in the narrow winding alleyways of the Lanes.

Sebastian held the chestnuts in check until they were clear of the last straggling hamlet. Then he gave the big blood geldings their heads and let them run with the wind before easing them down to an even trot that ate away at the miles. By the time they reached Ed-burton, the strengthening sun had begun to burn away what was left of the fog. On the far side of the village, the rolling expanses of the South Downs could be seen quite clearly, stretching out in all directions. It was there Sebastian’s growing conviction that he was being followed solidified into a certainty.

Chapter 12

Even in the thickness of the fog, Sebastian had been aware of a steady drumming of hoofbeats, staying always a comfortable distance behind them. One horse, he decided, ridden at a steady clip, never gaining, but not falling too far behind, either.

Then the mists began to thin to faint wisps of elusive white that hugged the deeply cut road’s stone walls and brambly hedgerows while laying bare the surrounding fields of green barley and flax. At that point, the shadowy horseman dropped back. But Sebastian’s eyesight was considerably keener than most others’. As the wide vistas of the South Downs opened up beneath a strengthening sun, he began to catch glimpses of a single, dark-clad rider mounted on a big bay, first seen in the distance through a tangle of hazel, then half-hidden by a copse of fine beech.

Thoughtful, Sebastian urged his chestnuts to a faster trot. The mysterious horseman quickened his pace, too. They continued on that way for a mile, two. Sebastian brought his pair down to a walk.

Their shadow dropped back.

“Don’t, whatever you do, look behind us,” Sebastian ordered his young tiger. “But I think…no, I am quite certain, actually, that we are being followed.”

Tom went visibly stiff with the effort of resisting the urge to turn around and look for himself. “Since when?”

“Since we left Brighton, it would seem.”

“What we gonna do?”

Sebastian held the chestnuts to a steady pace. They were winding up a gradual incline, the twisting road thrown into deep shade by a stand of poplars. But at the top of the slope the ground evened out, the road running across a broad common of vivid green pastureland dotted with a peacefully grazing herd of black-and-white milk cows.

Without looking behind, Sebastian whipped his team into an easy gallop so that the man behind them was forced to do the same. They streamed across the common, the sun shining on the chestnuts’ wet flanks, Sebastian urging his team on ever faster until the road crested a sudden rise and fell away rapidly before them in a long, steady sweep.

Sebastian immediately reined in his horses to a brisk walk. The rush of the wind and the thundering of hoofbeats gave way to a soft crunch of wheels and a relative silence in which Sebastian could hear the rapid soughing of Tom’s breath, quickened with excitement. They were only halfway down the slope when the rider on the bay crested the hill behind them at a loping canter.

At the sight of Sebastian, he checked for a moment, then urged his own horse forward at a easy walk.