When Gods Die

“Ah, I see. It’s in my own best interest to find this killer—is that what you’re saying?”

“Something like that.”

The Viscount wandered the room, pausing for a moment to inspect one of the mythical creatures rendered in gold on the wall cloth. “If I cared what people thought of me, I might be tempted,” he said without looking around. “Fortunately, I don’t.”

Jarvis smoothly shifted tactics, the smile fading, his voice becoming stentorian and grave. “I fear this murder comes at a critical moment in our nation’s history. Our armies are not doing as well as one might wish on the Peninsula, and there are distressing signs that this year’s harvest may fail. The people are restless. Have you any idea what a scandal of this nature might do to the country?”

Devlin swung around, a disconcerting gleam in his strange yellow eyes. “I certainly have some personal knowledge of what it might do to Prinny’s already faltering popularity.”

Reaching for the decanter again, Jarvis poured himself a brandy, then took a long, thoughtful sip. “I’m afraid this isn’t just about the Prince. You’ve heard what people are saying? That it isn’t only the King who’s mad? They’re saying the entire House of Hanover is tainted.”

Jarvis had no intention of mentioning it, of course, but there was more to it than that. There’d been disturbing reports lately, of dangerous murmurs and furtive whisperings. Some people were suggesting the House of Hanover was more than mad, that it was cursed—and that England would be cursed, too, as long as the House of Hanover sat upon her throne.

The Viscount was looking faintly bored. “Then I suggest you direct the local magistrate to lose no time in tracking down tonight’s killer.”

“According to our most estimable local magistrate, the young Marchioness of Anglessey committed suicide.”

Devlin was silent for a moment before saying, “Quite a feat, from what I saw.”

“Exactly.” Jarvis took another sip of his brandy. “Unfortunately, the kinds of people who normally deal with these matters are simply too afraid of giving offense to their betters to be of any real use. What we need is someone who’s both intelligent and resourceful, and who isn’t afraid to follow the truth wherever it might lead.”

He was no fool, Devlin. A faint, contemptuous smile curved his lips. “So bring in a Bow Street Runner. Hell, hire the entire force.”

“If we were dealing with some murderous thug who’d come in off the streets, that might suffice. But you know as well as I do that something far more serious is afoot here. We need someone who is a part of our world. Someone who understands it, yet also knows how to track a killer.” Jarvis paused significantly. “You did it before. Why not do it again?”

Devlin turned toward the door. “Sorry. I only traveled down to Brighton to spend a few days with my father. I’m expected back in London tomorrow.”

Jarvis waited until the Viscount’s hand tightened around the knob, then said, “Before you walk away, there’s something you should see. Something that actually involves your family directly.”

That stopped him, as Jarvis had known it would. The Viscount swung back around. “What?”

Jarvis set aside his glass. “I’ll show you.”

SEBASTIAN WAS NO STRANGER to death. Six years of cavalry charges, of slashing sabers and stealthy missions behind enemy lines had left him with searing memories of incidents and images that still haunted his dreams. He had to force himself to follow Jarvis through the door to the Prince’s cabinet.

The fire on the hearth had burned down to glowing embers but the room was still warm, the stale air thick with the sweet scent of death. His footsteps echoing hollowly, Sebastian crossed the gaily patterned carpet. Guinevere Anglessey lay on her side, half sliding off the settee where the Prince had dropped her in his agitation. Sebastian stood before her, his gaze traveling the smooth line of her forehead and cheek, the delicate bow of her lips.

She was very young, no more than one- or two-and-twenty. He had met her once, in the company of her husband at a dinner party given by Hendon. He recalled a beautiful woman with a quick wit and dark, sad eyes. Her husband, the Marquis of Anglessey, was close to seventy.

Sebastian glanced back at Jarvis, who had paused, watchful, just inside the door. “The death of anyone so young is tragic,” said Sebastian, his voice even. “But it’s still none of my affair.”

“Take a closer look at her, my lord.”

Reluctantly, Sebastian stared down at the woman before him. The shimmering emerald green satin of her evening gown lay loose about her shoulders, its tapes undone, the bodice shoved down nearly to the tips of her full, smooth breasts. From this angle he could only just see the ornate pommel of the jeweled dagger imbedded in her back. But he had a clear view of the necklace that lay nestled in the shadows near the base of her neck.