When Gods Die

“No. I suppose not.” Anglessey plucked another leaf and dropped it into the basket he held slung over one arm. “What are you suggesting? That I have a nasty habit of killing my pregnant wives? What possible reason could I have for killing Guinevere?”

“Jealousy, perhaps.”

“Because of the child she carried? You forget how desperately I wanted that child.”

“People in the grip of strong emotion often act against their own interest. It could be she discovered something about you. Something you didn’t want her to know.”

“Guinevere knew about my first wife. I told her of the rumors before we were married.”

“I wasn’t talking about your first wife’s death.”

The old man looked around, puzzled. “Then what?”

“Perhaps she learned of your involvement in a conspiracy to restore the Stuart dynasty to the throne.”

The Marquis looked unexpectedly pensive, his eyes narrowing. The man’s body might be weakening, Sebastian thought, but it would a mistake to assume that his mind was also failing.

“I’ve heard murmurs—innuendo, disgruntled whispers. But I must admit I never credited them. I assumed it was all just wild talk, wishful thinking. Do you mean to say there’s something in it? But…what could it possibly have to do with Guinevere’s death?”

“That’s what I haven’t been able to figure out yet.” Sebastian paused. “I’d like to take a look around your wife’s room, if I may.”

The request obviously caught Anglessey by surprise. He drew in a quick breath, but said, “Yes, of course. If you wish. Nothing has been touched. I know I should let Tess gather Guin’s things together and give them to the poor, but somehow I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it.”

Guin. It’s what Varden had called her, Sebastian remembered. He let his gaze drift over the aged nobleman before him. If Guinevere had been simply shot or even stabbed, Sebastian might have found it easier to consider the Marquis a suspect. But it was hard to see how this frail old man could have played a part in the complicated charade that had followed her murder.

Sebastian turned toward the house, then paused to look back and say, “Is there any possibility that your wife was planning to leave you?”

The Marquis still stood beside the rose, the basket of yellowing leaves gripped in one hand. “No. Of course not.”

“So sure?”

A ragged cough shook the old man’s frame. He turned half away, his hand fisting around a handkerchief he brought to his mouth. When the cough subsided, he tucked the cloth quickly out of sight, but not before Sebastian glimpsed the bright stains of blood against silk.

Anglessey looked up to find Sebastian watching him. A faint band of color touched the old man’s pale cheeks. “So. You see. Why should Guinevere consider leaving me when she’d have been a widow soon enough? According to my doctors, I’ll be lucky to last out the summer.”

“Did your wife know?”

Anglessey nodded. “She knew. It’s ironic, isn’t it? I keep thinking about the day before I was to leave for Brighton. Normally, she was strong about what was happening to me, but I’d had a difficult night and she took it badly. She tried to hide her face from me, but I knew she was weeping. And she said—”

His voice cracked. He looked away in some embarrassment, his eyes blinking, his lips pressed together for a moment before he was able to go on. “She said she couldn’t imagine how she was ever going to live without me.”

SEBASTIAN FOUND GUINEVERE’S ROOMS enveloped in silent darkness, the drapes at the windows drawn closed against the daylight. A light scent hovered in the air, as if the memory of the woman still lingered here, elusive and sad.

He crossed to open the drapes, the thick carpet absorbing his footsteps. The windows overlooked the garden below. From here he could see Anglessey’s conservatory, and the limb of the big old oak that thrust out close enough to give access to the bedchamber, just as Tess Bishop had described it.

Sebastian turned back to the room. The bed’s hangings, like the drapes at the windows and the upholstery of the chairs beside the hearth, were done in a soft yellow. The morning sun filled the room with a warm, cheerful light. He couldn’t have said what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this, this sense of serenity and calm joy. It didn’t seem to fit with what he knew of Guinevere Anglessey, a woman torn between her passion for a lifelong love and her growing affection for her aging, dying husband.

He worked his way methodically through the apartment, starting with the dressing room, not at all certain what he was looking for. The intruder who had come here after Guinevere Anglessey’s death had been desperate to get his hands on something. Had he been successful, Sebastian wondered, or not?