Page 96 of What Cannot Be Said

Sebastian lit first one candle, then the next, the golden flames leaping up to illuminate the gilded, overwrought glories of an opulent bedchamber fit for the son of a future king.

The man in the wide, red silk-hung tester bed slept on, the pom-pom of his nightcap slipping down over his tousled auburn hair as he let out a loud, resonant snore.

Pulling up a balloon-backed Louis XVI–style chair, Sebastian straddled the seat, slipped a small flintlock pistol from his coat pocket, and settled the gun’s muzzle against the end of Basil Rhodes’s blobby nose.

Basil slept on, each sonorous exhalation filling the air with the stench of expensive French brandy fumes.

“Oh, Basil,” said Sebastian, flicking the tip of the pistol’s cold barrel back and forth against that distinctive Hanoverian nose. Again. And again. “Basil?”

“Hmm?” One eye fluttered open. Closed. Then both eyes flew open wide as the Regent’s favorite bastard half strangled on a swallowed snore, sucked in a rasping terrified gasp, and shrank back against his nest of pillows. “Bloody hell!”

Sebastian showed his teeth in a smile. “You’re not an easy man to awaken, are you?”

“Devlin?” Basil’s eyes darted from Sebastian, to the bunch of candles flickering on the nearby table, to the curtains billowing in the breeze from the open window. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Sebastian used the muzzle of his pistol to push back the brim of his hat. “As I’ve no doubt you are aware, I killed a man out at Bethnal Green last Sunday. Actually, two men were killed, but so far I’ve only been able to identify the one. Dean was his name; Lieutenant Francis Dean, late of the 27th Foot. And I’ve found someone who says Dean was hired by you, first to deliver a rather rude message, then to commit murder—my murder, to be exact.”

Basil snickered. “ ‘Someone’? What ‘someone’? You can’t prove any of that.”

“In a court of law? Probably not. But this isn’t a court of law, is it?”

Sebastian watched as the smug confidence leached out of the royal bastard’s expression.

“Look,” said Basil, his gaze fixed on the muzzle of Sebastian’s gun, his tongue flicking out to wet his dry lips. “I was just trying to get you to quit asking awkward questions, that’s all. You want to know where I was the day that blasted woman got herself killed? I’ll tell you. There’s this house, in Pickering Place. They specialize in—”

“I know what they specialize in,” said Sebastian.

Basil swallowed hard at whatever he heard in Sebastian’s voice. “Ah. Well, then you’ll understand why I was most anxious to make certain that knowledge of my visits to that establishment wouldn’t leak back to Veronica.”

“You aren’t worried that I might now tell her?”

“At this point, she wouldn’t believe you.”

“Probably not. And frankly, as far as I’m concerned, you two deserve each other.”

Basil sniffed. “If there’s supposed to be an insult hidden in there, it escapes me.”

“For now,” said Sebastian.

Basil frowned. “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

“Still?” No longer smiling, Sebastian leveled the muzzle of his pistol right between the eyes of the Regent’s spoiled by-blow and pulled back the hammer with an audible click. “The thing is, you see, my tolerance for men like you was exhausted long ago. So I’m here to make certain you understand two things. First of all, send someone at me again and I’ll kill not only them but you, too. And secondly, rape another one of your housemaids—or anyone, for that matter—and I’ll kill you. It’s as simple as that.”

Basil’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

Sebastian laughed out loud and pushed to his feet. “I suggest you don’t put that theory to the test.” He eased the flintlock’s hammer back into place. “And before you go crying to Daddy again, remember this: There’s six to twelve weeks of open water between here and Jamaica, and people who ‘fall’ overboard are rarely seen again.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” demanded Basil, pushing himself up on his elbows as Sebastian turned away.

“What does that mean?”

Monday, 7 August

On a fine summer’s morning, when the sky was a deep, clear blue and drifts of yellow monkshood and purple harebell filled the open fields with color, Lovejoy took a hackney out to Richmond.

He went first to a picturesque farm that lay nestled in a hollow not far from the park. The plump, pleasant-faced farmer’s wife was crossing the quadrangle with a basket of eggs on her hip when Lovejoy’s hackney pulled up. She paused, one hand coming up to shade her eyes from the morning sun as she watched him step down to the yard.

“Mrs.Blackadder?” he said, touching his hand to his hat. “I’m Sir Henry Lovejoy, of Bow Street.”

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