Page 71 of What Cannot Be Said

“See? It’s even worse than you thought. Although I’ll be damned if I can fathom what that has to do with anything.”

“It’s why you’re determined to persecute me—because you hate the Hanovers.”

Sebastian was tempted to point out that Basil Rhodes was not, legally, a Hanover. But all he said was, “I freely admit that I loathe our current system. I am outraged by our continued toleration of the institution of slavery, and by the sight of children starving to death under bridges, and by the knowledge that the widows of the brave men who fell before Ciudad Rodrigo and Vitoria are being forced to prostitute themselves on the streets to stay alive. But the Hanovers?” He shook his head. “No; I don’t hate them.”

“The problem with you,” said Rhodes, “is that you’re so blinded by prejudice that you don’t know where to look.”

“Oh? So where do you think I should be looking? Do tell.”

“How about the victim’s own brother?”

“Salinger?”

The man’s lips curled up in a smirk that reminded Sebastian forcibly of his royal father. “She had quite the quarrel with him, you know. Right before she died.”

“Oh? And how do you happen to know this?”

Rhodes laid a finger beside his rather blobby nose and winked. “Someone told me.”

Veronica Goodlakes, thought Sebastian. Although if the widow knew of such a quarrel, why the hell hadn’t she mentioned it to Hero?

Rhodes’s smile widened. “Do I gather from your silence that you were unaware of the siblings’ rather violent disagreement?”

“You’re suggesting Lord Salinger killed his own sister and niece? Because of some quarrel—which may or may not have occurred?”

“Oh, it occurred, all right. I’ve seen him playing the role of the grieving brother and frightened father; it’s all so affecting, wouldn’t you say? But there’s another side to our dear Viscount, I’m afraid: a harsh, unforgiving side. After all, we’re talking about a man who consigned his own wife to a lunatic asylum years ago—as soon as she gave birth to his second son—and he’s kept her there ever since. Old Septimus Bain was dead by then, of course; Salinger wouldn’t have dared do it if moneybags had still been alive. But once the old man was dead and Salinger had his wife’s fortune and his heir and a spare, then... poof.” Rhodes brought up both fists to burst them open in a mocking imitation of twin explosions. “Time to make the lovely lady disappear.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, Why? Because he was tired of her, obviously. I’m told she was a charming woman. The smell of the shop might have hung around the old man, but not her. And yet, thanks to her father’s ambitious determination to see her wed to a title, she’s spent all these years hidden away in an asylum while her husband lets everyone think she’s dead.” Rhodes ran the splayed fingers of both hands through his unruly, flyaway hair, raking it away from his forehead. Then he looked over at Sebastian and laughed. “You don’t believe me, do you? You can always ask Salinger, you know. I doubt he’d lie to your face.”

Sebastian studied the royal bastard’s full-cheeked, self-satisfied smirk. Like most people with a flexible attitude toward the truth, Basil Rhodes was a smooth liar. But Sebastian had an uneasy feeling that this, at its core, was an assertion too bizarre, too easily disproven, to make sense as anything other than a disturbing reality.

Chapter 44

Christ, this rain,” swore Sebastian as he pulled up in front of the Duchess of Claiborne’s house on Park Lane a short time later. Water darkened the chestnuts’ hides, ran swift and deep in the gutters, drummed on the leaves of the plane trees in the park across the lane. “You might as well take the curricle back to Brook Street. I’ll grab a hackney when I’m finished here.”

“My lord.” Tom’s wet, sharp-featured face went slack with horror. “Not a hackney!”

“Shocking, I know. But it’s so miserable out that if I’m lucky, no one will be around to see me disgrace myself by appearing in such a humble equipage.” Sebastian handed the boy the reins. “And after you’ve taken care of the chestnuts, I’d like you to see if you can befriend one or two of the servants at Mr.Basil Rhodes’s town house in Cork Street.”

The tiger’s face brightened. “What ye want to know, gov’nor?”

“Mainly if it’s true that no one knows where Rhodes was last Sunday. Also if he’s received any unusual visitors lately—namely someone young, dark-haired, and slim.”

“Gor,” breathed Tom. “You thinking Prinny’s by-blow might be the killer?

Sebastian hopped down to the paving, leaping wide to avoid the rushing gutter. “Let’s just say I’m not ready to discount it as a possibility.”

The door was opened by the Dowager Duchess’s butler, Humphrey, his normally disapproving face lightened by what looked suspiciously like a malicious smile as he eyed the rain running off the brim of Sebastian’s hat and soaking the multiple capes of his greatcoat.

“Good morning, my lord. Bit wet out today, is it not? I take it you’re here to see Her Grace?” Humphrey glanced toward the street, where Tom was pulling away from the kerb. “Unfortunately, Her Grace is not, at present, at home.”

“Good try,” said Sebastian, eyeing Humphrey’s obvious glee with misgivings. “But it’s barely eleven o’clock.” The Duchess was famous for never leaving her bedroom before twelve or one o’clock.

“True, true. But Her Grace has indeed gone out, nonetheless.” Humphrey looked pointedly at the now-empty, rain-washed street, and his smile widened enough to show a hint of teeth. “Oh, dear; I see your young groom has already departed with your curricle. Shall I send one of the footmen to procure a hackney to convey you back to Brook Street?”

?The decrepit old hackney summoned by the Dowager’s footman reeked of damp and rot and decay, with so much moldering straw spread on its floorboards that Sebastian was still brushing stray bits of dried vegetation from the hem of his driving coat when he was met in his entrance hall by Morey.

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