When Gods Die

“What time was this?” said Sebastian sharply.

“Shortly before Lady Sefton’s breakfast. I’d say sometime in the early afternoon.”

Amongst the fashionable set, breakfasts were held in the afternoon, just as morning visits were held after three o’clock. Sebastian knocked back the rest of his brandy and set the glass aside. “Where might I find Lord Jarvis this evening?”

“Jarvis?” She paused a moment, thinking. “Well, there is Lady Crue’s ball. But I believe I heard something about the Dowager Lady Jarvis making up a party for Vauxhall. Sebastian,” she called after him as he headed for the stairs. “Where are you going?”

“Vauxhall.”

Chapter 50

Pressing a coin into the wherryman’s callused palm, Sebastian stepped onto the quay at Vauxhall. Beside him, a link torch flared against the dark sky to fill the moist, sultry air with the scent of hot pitch.

The earlier rain had brought little relief from the heat. As he entered the gardens through the Water Gate, he found the gravel of the wide main path still showing wet in the shimmering light cast by row after row of glowing oil lanterns. Around him, the thick expanses of lush vegetation steamed.

At the Grove he paused, his gaze sweeping the colonnades. The sweet strains of Handel’s Water Music drifted through the trees from the orchestra’s pavilion in the center, the melody punctuated with maidenly shrieks from the darker recesses of the gardens.

It didn’t take him long to locate Jarvis’s party in a supper box near the center of the Colonnade. The fierce, hawk-nosed old Dowager was there, as was Lady Jarvis, her once pretty face vacant and slack. Sebastian recognized the baron’s two stout, middle-aged sisters, one kneading her hands in silent, endless worry, the other as harsh and irascible-looking as her brother. It had all the appearance of a typical family outing, Sebastian thought—until one remembered that the Dowager had once tried to have her daughter-in-law committed to a lunatic asylum, or that Jarvis had several times offered to have the wastrel husband of his sister Agnes quietly killed.

Jarvis himself, however, was absent, as was his daughter, Hero; the presence of two empty chairs suggested they had stepped out for a brief stroll. Glancing at his pocket watch, Sebastian suspected that father and daughter had escaped the family gathering by going to watch the playing of the fountains. Sebastian kept walking.

He came upon them near the Hermitage. They stood half turned away, their attention caught by the spectacle of dancing water so that they remained unaware of Sebastian’s approach. He was struck, as before, by the similarity between father and daughter. Sebastian had sometimes heard Miss Hero Jarvis referred to as a handsome woman, for she had large gray eyes and a fine, Junoesque build. But he doubted anyone had ever called her pretty, even when she was a child. Her chin was too square, her nose too close an echo of her father’s. She was also far too tall. Sebastian himself stood just over six feet, and she could nearly look him in the eye.

It was she who saw Sebastian first, her gaze lighting on him as she turned, laughing at something Jarvis had just said. She froze, the laughter dying on her lips.

Sebastian sketched an easy bow. “Miss Jarvis,” he said, smiling sardonically as Jarvis himself swung about. “If you will excuse us?”

She hesitated, and Sebastian thought she meant to refuse. The last time they’d met, he’d broken into her house, held a gun to her head, and essentially kidnapped her. But all she said was “Very well.”

She swept past him, pausing only to lean in close and say quietly, “If he fails to return safe and unharmed in five minutes, I shall set the guards after you.”

Sebastian watched her walk away, her head held high, her back straight. “Your daughter seems to fear I mean you some harm.”

“My daughter thinks you ought to be locked up.”

Sebastian turned his gaze to the King’s cousin. “It has recently been brought to my attention that His Royal Highness the Prince Regent was visiting Lady Benson in London the day the Marchioness of Anglessey was murdered. What time did he make it back to Brighton? Four? Six? Or later?”

Jarvis’s fleshy face remained impassive. “I beg your pardon? The Prince never left Brighton that day. There must be some mistake.”

Sebastian held the baron’s hard stare. “The mistake was yours.”

It was Jarvis who glanced away, his jaw tightening as he gazed out over the darkened gardens. “Who told you?” he said at last. “Very few people knew.”

“He was seen.”

They turned to walk together, the gravel crunching beneath their feet, the distant strains of the music drifting to them through the trees. After a moment, Jarvis said, “What, precisely, are you suggesting? That the Prince killed Lady Anglessey in London, and then hauled her lifeless body back to Brighton with him? Don’t be absurd.”