When Gods Die

Opening the door to the library, Sebastian expected to find Tom curled up asleep on one of the window seats. Instead, the boy was at the library table, his chin propped on one fist, a flaming branch of candles at his elbow, a slim volume open on the table before him.

He was so engrossed in his reading that at first he wasn’t aware of Sebastian’s arrival. Then the hinges on the door creaked and he looked up with a start.

“My lord!” He slithered from the chair, his face flushing hot crimson before fading to pale.

Sebastian smiled. “What are you reading?”

“I—I do beg your pardon, my lord.”

“It’s all right, Tom. What is it?”

The boy hung his head. “Jason and the Argonauts.”

“An interesting choice.” Sebastian walked over to pour himself a glass of brandy. “Where did you learn to read?”

“I went to school once, afore me da died.”

Sebastian looked around in surprise. It reminded him of how little he knew of the boy’s past, beyond the fact that his mother had been transported to Botany Bay, leaving her son to fend for himself on the streets of London.

“I expected you earlier this evening,” said Sebastian, splashing brandy in his glass.

“The place really started ’oppin’, come evening. I thought I might learn somethin’ if I stuck around.”

“And did you?”

Tom shook his head. “I checked the shops all up and down the lane, but no one owned up to ’aving seen her ladyship.”

Sebastian leaned against the library table and sipped his brandy in thoughtful silence. “The one-legged beggar, was he at his place near the Norfolk Arms?”

“Didn’t see ’im. But I spent some time ’anging around the inn. ’E’s a weery rum customer, the African what owns the place. Weery rum indeed. They say he was a slave once, on a cotton plantation someplace in America afore he killed his master and run off.”

“What’s his name? Did you hear?”

Tom nodded. “Carter. Caleb Carter. He come here fifteen years or more ago. Took up with the widow woman what used to own the Norfolk Arms. She had a daughter then, a pretty little redheaded girl named Georgiana. But the girl took sick and died some two years ago, and the mother, she died of grief not long after.”

“And left Carter the inn?”

“Aye. From what I gather, they’re in the trade, if you know what I mean.”

“Smuggling? That doesn’t surprise me,” said Sebastian, remembering the bottle of fine French brandy on the table in the common room. He pushed away from the table and straightened. “You’d best get some sleep. I’d like you to go there again tomorrow.”

“Aye, gov’nor,” said Tom, stifling a yawn.

“Here.” Sebastian held out the book. “Don’t you want to finish it?”

The boy’s glance dropped hesitantly from Sebastian’s face to his outstretched hand.

Sebastian smiled. “Go on, take it. You can bring it back when you’re done.”

Tom turned toward the door, the book clutched to his chest like a rare treasure.

“Oh and, Tom—”

The boy swung around.

“Be back before nightfall this time, you hear? I don’t want you taking any chances. These are dangerous people we’re dealing with.”

“Aye, gov’nor.”

Still faintly smiling, Sebastian stood in the doorway to watch the boy dash off across the hall. Then, the smile fading, Sebastian turned back into the library to pour himself another drink.

THE NEXT MORNING, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne was lying on a chaise in her dressing room and drinking a cup of chocolate when Sebastian strolled into the room.

She let out a soft moan. “Sebastian? What can Humphrey be thinking? He has strict instructions to allow no one past the door before one o’clock.”

“So he said.” He stooped to plant a kiss on his aunt’s cheek. “I want to know what you can tell me about the Countess of Portland.”

His aunt sat up straighter. “Claire Portland? Good heavens, whatever for?”

Sebastian simply ignored the question. “What do you think of her?”

Aunt Henrietta gave a genteel sniff. “A pretty little thing, obviously. But all bubble and froth if you ask me.”

“She certainly gives that impression. But appearances can be deceiving.”

“Sometimes. But not in this case, I’m afraid.” His aunt fixed him with a fierce stare. “And now, not another word until you tell me your interest in the lady.”

“It appears that at one time, Lady Anglessey thought to marry Claire Portland’s brother, the Chevalier de Varden.”

“Hmmm. Yes, I can see that. Dashingly handsome man, the Chevalier. And nothing piques a girl’s fancy more than a tragic, romantic past.”

“Dear Aunt. One might almost suspect you of nourishing a tendre for the fellow yourself.”

She made a deep rumbling sound that shook her impressive bosom. “I’ve no patience with romantic, handsome young men, and well you know it.”

Sebastian smiled. “Lady Portland. Tell me about her.”

Aunt Henrietta settled herself more comfortably. “Not much to tell, I’m afraid. Her father, the late Lord Audley, left her well dowered. She had a successful season and married the Earl of Portland at the end of it.”

“What about Portland himself?”