Page 36 of What Cannot Be Said

“Is that why you quarreled with her last Saturday in Bond Street?”

Rhodes sucked in a quick breath, then let out a startled bark of laughter, his soft blue eyes widening. “Heard about that, did you? Someone’s been busy.”

“So what was the quarrel about?”

“Damned if I can recall,” he said heartily. “Bloody restless woman, she was. Always going on about something unpleasant—foundlings and climbing boys and all sorts of other societal ills one would really rather not think about.”

“I’m told she accused you of abandoning one of your by-blows to a farm out near Richmond with a reputation for killing the infants left in their care.”

Rhodes drew up abruptly and swung to face him. “Where the bloody hell did you get that?”

“Are you saying it’s not true?”

“Of course it’s not true!”

“You never had anything to do with Prudence and Joseph Blackadder?”

Rhodes raised one meaty fist to jab a shaky finger at Sebastian. “I see what you’re trying to do here, my friend. But let me tell you right now, that’s a cock that won’t fight. Laura McInnis was an interfering, sanctimonious bloody pain in the ass who obviously made the mistake of pestering someone she shouldn’t have. But I had nothing to do with what happened to her. You hear me? Nothing.”

“So where were you Sunday afternoon?”

“Not that it’s any of your bloody business, but as a matter of fact I was attending a pugilistic match that day.”

“A mill?” said Sebastian, smiling. “I’d no idea you’d developed an interest in the Fancy.”

Rhodes had half turned away, but at that he swung back with a huff of laughter. “I can’t believe you,” he said, one hand coming up to press against his forehead. “You really think I’d shoot a woman—a woman and her daughter!—because she found out I was less than excited that some stupid wench presented me with a baseborn brat she claimed was mine? Even if it were true—which it is not!—why would I care? And if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a fine one to talk.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rhodes let out another snort of laughter. “You think we haven’t all seen that boy you’ve taken into your household? Cheeky, that—foisting one of your bastards onto your own wife.”

Sebastian had heard the whispers, of course. He supposed they were inevitable, given the resemblance between Patrick and Simon. But all he said was, “Patrick is the orphaned son of a man to whom I owe my life. That is all.”

Basil Rhodes smiled, poked his tongue into his cheek, and winked. “Of course.”

Sebastian forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly. “Be that as it may, you never did tell me how you came to know Lady McInnis well enough to engage in an argument with her in the middle of Bond Street.”

The other man waved one languid hand through the air in a vague gesture. “I suppose she must have been introduced to me by a mutual friend.”

“But you’ve no recollection of the subject of the argument?”

“To be honest, I barely recall having encountered the blasted women. But she was damned opinionated, you know. Opinionated and nosy. From what we’re hearing happened to her, one assumes she must have made the mistake of picking on the wrong person.”

“You wouldn’t have any idea who that person might be, would you?”

“Me? Good God, no.” A burst of laughter and loud voices drew his attention to a group of men clustered at the door of one of the clubs down the street. “And now you really must excuse me. I see some friends I’ve been meaning to meet up with.”

“Of course.”

Sebastian stood for a moment, watching Rhodes walk toward his friends. As he drew nearer to them, he called out a greeting, threw his arms wide, and did a little dance step that drew another round of laughter.

Basil Rhodes might claim to have forgotten the subject of his disagreement with Laura McInnis, but he hadn’t tried to deny that the argument in Bond Street had taken place—which told Sebastian it must have been spectacular enough to have drawn a significant crowd.

And that meant that someone, somewhere, might be able to recall its subject.

Chapter 22

Later that evening, Sir Henry Lovejoy sat in his parlor, drinking a cup of tea while he listened to Viscount Devlin detail one of the most bleak and profoundly disturbing tales he’d yet to hear.

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