When Gods Die

She lay as before, one bare foot dangling off the edge of the settee’s yellow velvet cushion, the shimmering emerald green of her gown sliding seductively from naked shoulders. But she was staring at him with wide, curiously blank eyes.

She was such a beautiful woman, Guinevere Anglessey, the gently molded curves of her half-exposed breasts as white as Devonshire cream, her hair shining blue-black in the candlelight. George slid from the chair to his knees, his voice catching on a sob as he took her cold hand in his. “My lady?”

George knew a tingle of alarm. He hated scenes, and if she’d had some sort of fit there would be a hideous scene. Slipping his hands beneath her bare shoulders, he drew her up to give her a gentle shake. “Are you—oh, my goodness, are you ill?” This new and even more horrifying possibility sent a shudder coursing through him. He was very susceptible to infections. “Shall I call Dr. Heberden?”

He wanted to move away from her immediately, but she lay at such an awkward angle, half on her side, that he had a hard time maneuvering her. “Here, let me make you more comfortable, and I’ll have someone send for—”

He broke off, his head jerking around as the double doors to the salon were thrown open. A woman’s gay voice said, “Perhaps the Prince is hiding in here.”

Caught with the Marquis of Anglessey’s beautiful, insensible young wife clasped clumsily in his arms, George froze. Hideously conscious of his ludicrous pose, he licked his suddenly dry lips. “She’s fainted, I daresay.”

Lady Jersey stood with one hand clenched around the doorknob, her cheeks going white beneath their rouge, her eyes wide and staring. “Oh, my God,” she said with a gasp.

The doorway filled with shrieking women and stern-faced men. He recognized his cousin, Jarvis, and Lord Hendon’s murderous son, Viscount Devlin. They were all staring. It was a moment before George realized they were staring not at him but at the jeweled hilt of a dagger protruding from the Marchioness of Anglessey’s bare back.

George screamed, a high-pitched, feminine scream that echoed strangely as the candles dimmed again and went out.

Chapter 2

A cooling breeze skimmed across the Steyne, bringing with it the salty scent of the sea. Sebastian Alistair St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, paused on the flagging outside the Pavilion and drew the sweet air deep into his lungs.

All around him, the dark streets echoed with panicked shouts for carriages and the running feet of sedan-chair bearers as bejeweled ladies and gentlemen in evening breeches streamed from the Pavilion’s open doors into the night. A few threw Sebastian frightened, speculative glances. All gave him a conspicuously wide berth.

“The fools,” said a harsh, angry voice from behind him. “What do they think? That you killed that woman?”

Sebastian swung around to look into the heavy, troubled features of his father, Alistair St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon. Sebastian gave a wry smile. “Presumably they find that a more comforting explanation than the alternative, which is that their regent just stabbed a beautiful young woman in the back.”

“Prinny’s incapable of that kind of violence, and you know it,” snapped Hendon.

“Well, someone certainly killed her. And I, at least, know it wasn’t me.”

“Let’s walk,” said Hendon, waving away his carriage. “I need the air.”

They turned together toward their hotel on the Marine Parade. Neither spoke, their footsteps echoing softly in the darkness. The familiar scents of sea-bathed rocks and wet sand hung heavy in the warm night air, and the moon-flooded streets were haunted by shared memories neither father nor son cared to confront. For years now they had both avoided Brighton whenever possible. But Hendon’s position as Chancellor of the Exchequer combined with the present visit to England by the dispossessed French royal family had made the Earl’s presence here in Brighton unavoidable. Sebastian himself had driven down only for the occasion of Hendon’s sixty-sixth birthday. The Earl’s other living child, Amanda, had stayed away for reasons that were not discussed.

“That woman…” Hendon began, only to pause, his jaw working back and forth as it did when he was thoughtful or concerned. In the faint glow of the nearby streetlamp, his face was pale, his hair a shock of white in the moonlight. He cleared his throat and tried again. “She looked oddly like Guinevere Anglessey.”

“It was the Marchioness of Anglessey,” said Sebastian.

“Good God.” Hendon wiped a splayed hand across his grief-slackened face. “This could be the death of Anglessey.”