Page 76 of What Cannot Be Said

Sebastian nodded. “That’s what I figured.”

He became aware of Gibson staring at him. “Do you have any idea who’s doing this?”

Sebastian met his friend’s narrowed, bloodshot eyes. “Hopefully not.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Sebastian brought his gaze back to the dead man’s ravaged chest. “You think he was down on the floor when he was stabbed?”

“I’d say so, yes.”

“What about the angle of the shot? Can you tell me anything about that?”

Gibson looked vaguely puzzled. “Can’t say I’ve checked. Why? You thinking this killer might be unusually tall or short?”

“Maybe. Just check, will you?”

?Sebastian’s next stop was Park Lane. This time there was no trace of a smile on the butler’s face when he opened the Duchess of Claiborne’s front door.

Humphrey groaned. “My lord. You can’t. It’s barely nine o’clock.”

“Oh, good, so she hasn’t gone out yet,” said Sebastian, and headed for the stairs.

?Aunt Henrietta was sitting up in bed, sipping a cup of hot chocolate and reading the Times, when Sebastian knocked on her door.

“I heard you talking to Humphrey, so you may as well come in, Devlin,” she called out.

“Good heavens,” he said when he saw her. “What are you doing awake at nine o’clock in the morning?”

She set aside her chocolate cup. “As it happens, I was reading about the hordes of idiots who are streaming down to Plymouth to hire every yacht, fishing vessel, and rowboat available. It’s said they’re clustering around the ship by the thousands, with everyone desperate to catch a glimpse of Napoléon. Did you know the sailors on the Bellerophon have gone so far as to set up notice boards on which they post the times when the Emperor is expected to take his walks on deck?”

“No, I didn’t know. But surely you didn’t wake up this early to read the latest news about Bonaparte?”

She leaned back against her pillows and gave a disgruntled huff. “I’m awake at this ungodly hour because every single one of last night’s events was so wretchedly dull that I was in bed by one o’clock. If this keeps up I may be tempted to go to Bath or some such equally horrid place.”

“Bath?” said Sebastian. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s either that or Brighton.”

“Isn’t Claiborne down at the Hall?”

“He is. But so is that ridiculous idiot he married, and how anyone can abide being around her for more than two hours at a stretch is beyond my imagination.” She thrust aside her paper. “Enough of this. What do you want from me now?”

He went to stand at one of the velvet-hung windows, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze on the wet, flawlessly manicured gardens below. He had a feeling he didn’t want to hear what he was about to learn. “Lady Salinger, the current Viscount’s wife—when did she die?”

“Oh, dear.”

Sebastian turned to look at the Duchess. “So it’s true, then, is it? She’s not dead?”

“I suppose she may as well be.”

Sebastian studied her pinched features. “Why? What happened?”

The Duchess sighed. “She was an attractive woman, you know; quite small and delicately built, with lovely pale blond hair, soft blue eyes, and a heart-shaped face. Her daughter—Arabella—looks a fair bit like her, but Georgina was much prettier.”

Sebastian nodded. It sounded as if Lady Salinger had looked much like her younger son, Percy.

“Old Septimus Bain was a hopelessly crass, pushing mushroom,” Aunt Henrietta was saying, “but he was wise enough to have hired a succession of superbly educated and well-bred governesses to bring up his daughter. Her manners were flawless. She had quite charming ways, as well. She was one of those people who has a knack for making almost everyone like them. Except...”

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