Page 61 of What Cannot Be Said

“Unforgivable,” said Jarvis, signalizing one of the hovering footmen to take away the offending pot and replace it with a fresh one. Jarvis himself had broken his fast hours earlier, but the Prince rarely breakfasted before midafternoon.

George took a bite of toast, chewed, and thought of another source of aggravation. “We had Liverpool at us again last night, prosing on endlessly about these bloody Spenceans. I thought you were going to do something about them.”

“We’ve set a few things in motion,” said Jarvis, making a mental note to give Liverpool a cold warning. “But these affairs do take time. One must first identify men willing and able to be used as agents provocateurs, then get them solidly in place before they can begin to make the necessary moves.”

“Arrogant upstart traitors,” muttered the Regent, shifting his gouty leg. “In George II’s day, the bastards’ heads would have been on pikes decorating London Bridge by now.”

“Effective, no doubt. But also decidedly barbaric in addition to being rather malodorous, wouldn’t you say?”

The Prince grumbled again. “I’m hearing from Rhodes that Devlin is still harassing him.”

“Is he?” Personally, Jarvis wished the tiresome royal bastard would take himself back to Jamaica and stay there—although a convenient shipwreck would be more permanent. But all he said was, “Oh, dear; can’t have that, can we?”

Chapter 38

Major Zacchary Finch, his right arm still resting in its sling, was cupping wafers at Manton’s Shooting Gallery on Davies Street when Sebastian came to lean against a nearby wall. The Major glanced over at him, then took careful aim with the pistol held in his good hand and fired, striking the wafer dead center.

“You’re left-handed?” said Sebastian.

“No. But I broke my right arm once as a boy, so I’ve been through this before.” Finch handed the pistol to the attendant and said, “That will be all, thank you.” Then he turned to Sebastian. “I assume you’re here for a reason?”

Sebastian pushed away from the wall. “We need to talk.”

?They walked down Bond Street, toward Piccadilly. The wind was picking up, bunching the thickening masses of gray clouds overhead and sending loose playbills and broadsheets fluttering down the street.

Sebastian said, “I’m told you quarreled with Lady McInnis a few days before she was killed. Is that true?”

The Major was silent for a moment, his features stony as he stared out at the press of phaetons, wagons, carts, and carriages clogging the street beside them. Then a muscle flexed along the side of his tight jaw. “It is, yes. But how the devil did you find out about it?”

“What was the quarrel about?”

“Does it matter now?”

“It might.”

Finch pushed out a harsh, painful breath. “She had bruises”—he touched first one shoulder, then the other, with his left hand—“here, and here. He gave them to her—McInnis, I mean.”

Sebastian nodded. “They were noted in the autopsy. But if—as you claim—you weren’t having an affair, I’m curious as to how you came to see them.”

“I didn’t see them. Well, not at first, I mean. But I chanced to put my hands on her shoulders one day, and she winced. When I asked what was the matter, she tried to pretend it was nothing, but I could tell she was lying.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips and then was gone. “Laura was always such a hopeless liar. The gown she was wearing had one of those wide scooped necklines, so it was a simple enough thing to gently push the cloth aside. The bruises were clear imprints of his fingers, where he’d obviously dug them into her when he’d gripped her hard and shaken her.”

“Did you know he used to hit her?”

“I didn’t know before then, no. But once I saw the bruises, it made sense of some of the things she’d said to me in the past.”

“And that’s what you fought about? The bruises?”

“That’s what started it. I was furious. Seeing how he’d hurt her like that, I... I lost my head. Went on a rant about how I was going to call him out and kill him.” He swallowed hard. “It... frightened her. She was frantic—begged me not to. She was afraid I’d either kill him and be hanged for it, or be killed myself. So I said, ‘Then come away with me, Laura. Please. Now.’ ” He paused. “That’s when she started to cry. She said she wanted to be with me more than anything in the world, but she couldn’t leave Emma and Thisbe.” A faint line of color showed high on his cheekbones. “I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t even thinking about the girls when I said it—what her going away would mean for them. But then Laura, she swore—” His voice cracked, so that he had to pause again for a moment before he could go on. “She swore that once the girls were wed, she would leave England with me and never look back.”

“Thisbe is only twelve. Were you willing to wait another six or eight years?”

“If I had to. I’ve loved Laura for as long as I can remember. It isn’t as if my love was going away.”

Sebastian studied the other man’s half-averted profile. “How long were you a prisoner of war?”

“Four years.”

“You were exchanged?”

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