When Gods Die

But surely the fate of these doomed princes hung over him. Sebastian suspected that mixed in with the fascination and the envy there was also a powerful element of fear: the haunting realization that what had happened to the Stuarts might someday happen to George, as well.

The Prince Regent kept his growing collection of Stuart papers and memorabilia housed in a special room at Carlton House, a room he was only too happy to show off to anyone who happened to ask. Thus it was that Sebastian found himself, later that afternoon, in a room hung in red silk trimmed with gold tassels and carpeted with a rug woven in the Stuart plaid.

“This was carried by Charles the First on his way to the battle of Naseby,” said the Prince, reverently lifting a heavy old-fashioned sword from one of the glass cases that lined the walls. The cases were unlocked, Sebastian noticed; anyone with access to the room could have removed any item at will.

“And this,” said the Prince, his face glowing with pleasure and pride as he held up a faded collar of the Garter, “was worn by James the Second.” His beefy, clumsy fingers trembled as he smoothed the worn material, and for a moment it seemed as if he were lost in some private reverie. Then he roused himself and, padding across the room on his fat legs, he began to talk about the documents he was collecting for a biography of James II he intended to commission.

Sebastian trailed behind him, pausing to admire a display of seventeenth-century jewelry before coming to a halt in front of a case lined with red velvet. There, nestled in a molded depression obviously created especially for it, lay the jeweled Highland dagger Sebastian had last seen embedded in Guinevere Anglessey’s back.

“Ah, I see you’re admiring the dirk,” said the Prince, coming to stand beside him. “It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it? We know it was carried by James the Second, but some suggest it is much older, that it may even have belonged to his great-grandmother Mary, Queen of Scots.”

His gaze lifting from the dagger to the man who owned it, Sebastian studied the Prince’s half-averted face. His features were animated but untroubled, his cheeks ruddy, his almost feminine mouth turned up in a half smile.

That night in the Yellow Cabinet at the Pavilion, the Prince had held the limp body of Guinevere Anglessey in his arms. He must have seen the weapon thrust into her back, must surely have known it as one from his own prized collection. Yet there was no indication now that he remembered the incident at all.

He had a talent, Sebastian had heard, for simply putting from his mind all memory of things he found unpleasant. The dirk had been returned to its proper place in his collection; as far as the Regent was concerned, that was all that really mattered.

The Prince had moved on now, to a shelf of calf-bound books that had once belonged to Charles II. Sebastian watched him, watched the animation in that plump, self-satisfied face. And he couldn’t help but wonder if the Prince remembered the events of that night in the Yellow Cabinet at all.

The room was stiflingly hot, as were the rooms in all of the Prince’s apartments. But at that moment Sebastian felt a chill. Because a man capable of such self-deception, such self-absorbed focus, must surely be capable of almost anything.

Chapter 39

“It’s a strange ability some have,” said Paul Gibson when Sebastian met him later that day for a pint of ale at a pub not far from the Tower. “It’s as if they somehow revise their memories of unpleasant or uncomplimentary incidents until they come up with something more self-flattering, or at least more palatable. In a sense you could say they aren’t exactly being untruthful when they lie, because they honestly believe their own twisted version of an event. Memories of particularly horrifying episodes can simply be wiped away completely.”

Sebastian leaned his shoulders back against the old wooden partition, one hand cradled around his drink where it rested on the table’s worn surface. “It’s a good thing the Prince was in Brighton that day. Otherwise I’d be inclined to wonder if he hadn’t simply wiped away the unpleasant memory of murdering Lady Anglessey.”

“At least the discovery of the dagger’s origins tells you the murderer must have been someone close to the Prince.”

“Not necessarily. Those cases aren’t kept locked. Hundreds of people could have had access to that room.”

“Perhaps. But I can’t see someone like Bevan Ellsworth prowling around Carlton House.”

“No. But his good friend Fabian Fitzfrederick could certainly have taken it.”

Gibson frowned. “Is he good friends with Fabian Fitzfrederick?”

“It would appear so.”

“But…why would a son of the Duke of York want to bring down the Hanovers?”

Sebastian leaned forward. “Prinny has created a lot of discontent. Perhaps there are two different forces at work here—one aimed at bringing down the Hanovers, and another simply interested in replacing the Regent with his brother, York.”