Page 42 of What Cannot Be Said

Sir Ivo’s lips tightened into a hard line, and he shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. The girl just lost her mother and sister. I already told Sir Henry I don’t want her disturbed any more than she already is.”

“I understand,” said Sebastian as they watched a boy push a wheelbarrow piled high with fresh manure toward the mews’ arch, the barrow’s wooden wheel rattling over the cobblestones. “I believe your son, Malcolm, has a fencing master?”

“That’s right; Damion Pitcairn. What could he possibly have to do with anything?”

“I don’t think he does. But it’s always possible he knows something he doesn’t realize is relevant.”

The Baronet shrugged. “I don’t see how he could, but if you wish to waste your time chasing after that sort of nonsense, be my guest. And now you really must excuse me.”

“Of course,” said Sebastian. “My apologies again for intruding on what I know must be a difficult time for you.”

McInnis gave a negligent nod and walked off toward the house.

Sebastian stayed where he was, aware of a deep sense of disquiet as he watched the Baronet stroll away. Some men were better than others, he knew, at disguising their grief, and the marriage between Sir Ivo McInnis and the former Miss Laura Priestly had reportedly never been a love match. But the man had also lost one of his own children, a beautiful, innocent girl of sixteen.

And yet his only response to the investigation into her murder was boredom and indifference bordering on irritation.

?The violinist stood alone in the center of the darkened stage of the King’s Theatre at the Haymarket, his instrument tucked between shoulder and chin, his fingers flying over the fingerboard, his body swaying with the music he conjured from the strings with his bow. His movements were supple and smooth, with the fluid grace of a dancer.

Or a master swordsman.

The lingering scents of oranges and greasepaint hung heavily in the air, but the pit before him was empty, as were the rows of gilded boxes hung with velvet curtains that arced high above. He was a young man, tall and slim, with tawny skin, thick dark curls that clustered close to his head, and a fine-boned face that exquisitely combined his Ethiopian, Arab, and European ancestry.

Slipping a coin to the attendant who made as if to stop him, Sebastian went to stand quietly before the stage. The violinist above was lost in his music, his eyes closed as he wove a melody of hopeless passion so piercingly sweet and sad that it tore at the heart and wounded the soul. Then he lowered his bow and opened his eyes, his chest heaving with emotion as he stared down at Sebastian.

“We’re closed for the summer,” said Damion Pitcairn hoarsely.

“I know,” said Sebastian, his own voice coming out surprisingly husky. “That’s a beautiful piece. Your own?” Pitcairn might be young, but Sebastian knew the man had already had several of his compositions publicly performed.

Damion Pitcairn lowered his violin. “Yes, but I’m still working on it.”

Sebastian let his gaze drift thoughtfully around the darkened interior of the vast opera house before bringing his attention back to the young fencing master’s face. “It’s a rare man who is gifted by the gods with even one great talent. But you have been blessed with three.”

“Perhaps,” said Pitcairn, swiping a forearm across his sweating face. “Although some might call those gifts a mocking curse, joined as they are with a certain inescapable reality.”

Sebastian gave a faint shake of his head—not in denial of the truth of what the man said, but in repudiation of the widespread ignorance and prejudice that made his words true.

“I know why you’re here,” said Pitcairn. He hesitated a moment, then added, “Lord Devlin.”

“We’ve met?”

“Not exactly. You attended the exhibition fencing match between Henry Angelo and me arranged for the Prince Regent at Carlton House last year.” A wry smile curled the other man’s lips. “You were the only man there who backed me.”

“And won handsomely because of it. But then, I’d seen you fence before.”

“So had half the other men there.”

Sebastian shrugged. “How long have you been Malcolm McInnis’s fencing master?”

“Ever since that match, so... it would be eighteen months now. Sir Ivo engaged me immediately afterward.”

“You must know Malcolm well, then.”

“Well enough.” The answer was guarded. Cautious.

“What about Lady McInnis? Did you know her?”

“Not really. She was always pleasant whenever I chanced to encounter her, although that wasn’t often.”

---