When Gods Die

Lovejoy’s head fell back, the muscles of his face twitching as he stared up at the smoldering facade. “And the fire?”

“Was set to destroy whatever evidence they might have missed, I suppose.” Sebastian stretched to his feet. “That and to cover up the murder of Caleb Carter.”

Lovejoy shot him a quick look. “You mean the black innkeeper? He’s dead?”

“I found him in the cellars. Someone had slipped a knife between his ribs.”

“But…why?”

“Think about it. Last Wednesday, the Marchioness of Anglessey was seen walking into this inn. As far as we know, no one except her killer ever saw her alive again. A few days later, I show up asking questions about her. Then last night, my tiger watches a shipment of gunpowder being delivered and hears talk of a reversal of the Glorious Revolution of 1688. Something serious is afoot here. But the only link we had to it was Caleb Carter and this inn.”

Sebastian paused to stare up at the smoking, crumbling walls of the building before him. “And now they’re both gone.”

STOPPING AT PAUL GIBSON’S SURGERY at the foot of Tower Hill, Sebastian found Tom asleep in Gibson’s back bedchamber.

“I thought it best,” said Gibson, one cupped hand shielding the flare of his candlestick. “He was exhausted.”

Sebastian stared down at the sleeping boy. “Is he all right?”

“He had a bad fright. But nothing worse.”

Sebastian nodded. There was no need to elaborate. They both knew what could happen to the boys and girls—and men and women—unlucky enough to find themselves in one of His Majesty’s prisons.

“He kept talking about someone named Huey,” said Gibson, leading the way to the parlor.

Sebastian nodded. “His brother. I gather the boy was hanged.”

Gibson sighed. “These are barbarous times in which we live.” He went to pour two glasses of wine. “This conspiracy to depose the Hanovers…any idea who might be involved?”

“To have any chance of success it would need the allegiance of prominent men, both in the army and the government. But do they have that support?” Sebastian shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen any sign of it. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. The Norfolk Arms was surely only at the periphery.”

“Could Anglessey be involved?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. Although I’d be surprised.” Sebastian took the wine from Gibson’s hand and went to sink into one of the tattered leather armchairs before the empty fireplace. “I haven’t found anyone associated with Lady Anglessey’s death who’s at all in a position of power.” He paused. “Except for Portland, of course. And he’s such a rabid Tory, he hardly seems a likely candidate to be advocating revolution.”

Gibson came to stand before the cold hearth. “Any idea yet how Lady Hendon’s necklace fits into all of this?”

Sebastian glanced up into his friend’s open, concerned face. Once, years ago in Italy, he and this man had been to hell and back together. Their friendship had nothing to do with rank or birth, but with a shared moral code and the deep, mutual respect of two men who had tested each other’s mettle and found courage under fire and a levelheaded response to danger.

But even the best of friendships have their limits. Not even to Kat had Sebastian been able to bring himself to say, I don’t want to believe it, but I’m becoming more and more convinced that my mother didn’t drown on that long-ago summer day. Because if she had, this triskelion would have spent the last seventeen years buried in silt someplace at the bottom of the Channel. It wouldn’t be playing a part now in what happened to Guinevere Anglessey.

So Sebastian simply drained his wine and said, “No. It’s still a mystery.”

REACHING THE HOUSE IN BROOK STREET, Sebastian intended to go upstairs, face his valet’s tears over another ruined coat, and change into evening attire. Instead he wandered into the library, poured himself a brandy, and stood staring down at the empty hearth.

There was a time for subtlety and cleverness, and then there was a time for brute force. Sending Tom to scout out the neighborhood of Giltspur Street had been a mistake, he decided. Not only had he placed the tiger in unconscionable danger, but he’d also missed the chance to go back to the Norfolk Arms himself and directly press Caleb Carter for the truth about the Marchioness’s visit to the inn. Now it was too late.

He became aware of a bold hand beating an insistent tattoo at the front door.

“I’m not at home, Morey,” Sebastian said as his majordomo moved to open the door.

“Yes, my lord.”