When Maidens Mourn (10 page)

D’Eyncourt opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it and shook his head.

“You do know of someone,” said Sebastian, watching him closely. “Who is it?”

“Well…” D’Eyncourt licked his thin lips. “You are aware, of course, that my cousin fancied herself something of a bluestocking?”

“I would have said she could more accurately be described as a respected antiquary rather than as a bluestocking, but, yes, I am aware of her scholarly activities. Why?”

D’Eyncourt pulled a face. “Most women who indulge in such unsuitable activities have enough regard for the reputations of their families to adopt a male nom de plume and keep their true identities a secret. But not Gabrielle.”

“My wife also chooses to publish under her own name,” said Sebastian evenly.

D’Eyncourt gave an uncomfortable titter and looked faintly unwell. “So she does. No offense intended, I’m sure.”

Sebastian said, “Are you suggesting that Miss Tennyson’s investigations into the history of Camlet Moat might have contributed in some way to her death?”

D’Eyncourt gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know nothing of this latest start of hers. I was referring to a project she undertook
some two or three months ago; something to do with tracing the original line of London’s old Roman walls or some such nonsense. Whatever it was, it involved venturing into several of the more unsavory districts of the city. Not at all the proper sort of undertaking for a lady.”

“You say this was two or three months ago?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“So what makes you think it could have anything to do with her recent death?”

“Last week—Thursday, to be precise—I was on my way to meet with a colleague in the Strand when I happened to see Gabrielle arguing with a very rough customer near the York Steps. Thinking her in some sort of difficulty, I naturally approached with the intention of intervening. Much to my astonishment, she was not at all appreciative of my attempts on her behalf. Indeed, she was quite curt. Insisted there was no need for me to concern myself—that the individual I had seen her with was someone she had encountered when she discovered that the foundations of his tavern incorporated some extensive vestiges of the city’s original Roman walls.”

“Did you happen to catch the man’s name?”

D’Eyncourt shook his head. “Sorry. But it shouldn’t be that difficult to discover. I believe she said the tavern was called the Devil’s Head or the Devil’s Tower or some such thing. The man was a most unsavory-looking character—tall, with dark hair and sun-darkened skin, and dressed all in black except for his shirt. I thought at the time he reminded me of someone I know, but I couldn’t quite place the resemblance.”

“What makes you think he was a threat to her?”

“Because of what I heard him say, just before they noticed me walking up to them. He said”—d’Eyncourt roughened his voice in a crude imitation of the man’s accent—“‘Meddle in this and you’ll be sorry. Be a shame to see something happen to a pretty young lady such as yourself.’”

S
ebastian was silent for a moment, trying to fit this incident into everything else he’d been told.

“Of course she tried to deny it,” said d’Eyncourt. “Claimed he’d said no such thing. But I know what I heard. And it was obvious she was more than a little discomfited to be seen talking to this individual.”

Sebastian studied the other man’s narrow, effete features. But d’Eyncourt had spent a lifetime twisting incidents and conversations to serve his own purposes; his face was a bland mask.

Sebastian said, “What do you think it was about?”

D’Eyncourt closed his journal and rose to his feet. “I’ve no notion. You’re the one who dabbles in murder, not I. I have far more important tasks with which to concern myself.” He tucked
The Courier
beneath his arm. “And now you must excuse me; I’ve a meeting scheduled at Carlton House.” He gave a short bow nicely calculated to convey just a hint of irony and contempt. Then he strolled languidly away, leaving Sebastian staring after him.

“Your drink, my lord?”

The waiter standing at Sebastian’s elbow needed to repeat himself twice before Sebastian turned toward him. “Thank you,” he said, taking the brandy from the waiter’s silver tray and downing it in one long, burning pull.

It was when he was leaving White’s that Sebastian came face-to-face with a familiar barrel-chested, white-haired man in his late sixties. At the sight of Sebastian, the Earl of Hendon paused, his face going slack.

For twenty-nine years Sebastian had called this man father, had struggled to understand Hendon’s strangely conflicted love and anger, pride and resentment. But though the world still believed Sebastian to be the Earl’s son, Sebastian, at least, now knew the truth.

Sebastian gave a slow, polite bow. “My lord.”

“Devlin,” said Hendon, his voice gruff with emotion. “You…you are well?”

“I am, yes.” Sebastian hesitated, then added with painful correctness, “Thank you. And you?”

Hendon’s jaw tightened. “As always, yes, thank you.”

Hendon had always been a bear of a man. Through all his growing years and well into his twenties, Sebastian had been aware of Hendon towering over him in both height and breadth. But as the moment stretched out and became something painful, Sebastian suddenly realized that with increasing age, Hendon was shrinking. He was now the same height as Sebastian, perhaps even shorter. When had that happened? he wondered. And he felt an unwelcome pang at the realization that this man who had played such a vital role in his life was growing older, more frail, less formidable.

For one long, intense moment, the Earl’s fiercely blue St. Cyr eyes met Sebastian’s hard yellow gaze. Then the two men passed.

Neither looked back.

Sebastian found Hero seated at the table in his library, a pile of books scattered over the surface.

She had changed into a simple gown of figured muslin with a sapphire blue sash and had her head bent over some notes she was making. He paused for a moment in the doorway and watched as she caught her lower lip between her teeth in that way she had when she was concentrating. He’d often come upon her thus, surrounded by books and documents at the heavy old library table in her father’s Berkeley Square house. And for some reason he could not have named, seeing her here at work in the library of their Brook Street home made their marriage seem suddenly more real—and more intimate—than the long hours of passion they’d shared in the darkness of the night. He found himself smiling at the thought.

Then she looked up and saw him.

He said, “So you did come home.”

She leaned back in her chair, her pen resting idle in her hand. “I did. And did you find Mr. d’Eyncourt?”

“At White’s.” He went to rest his palms on the surface of the table and lean into them, his gaze on her face. “I need to know the route of London’s old Roman walls. Can you trace me a map, with references to existing streets and landmarks?”

“Roughly, yes.”

He handed her a fresh sheet of paper. “Roughly will do.”

She dipped her pen in the ink. “What is this about?”

As she began to sketch, he told her of his interview with Gabrielle’s cousin. “Do you have any idea what d’Eyncourt may have been talking about?”

“I do, actually. Several months ago, Gabrielle undertook to trace the remnants of the old city walls for a volume on the history of London being compiled by Dr. Littleton.”

Sebastian frowned. “Isn’t that the same volume you’ve been working on?”

“It is. Although I have been looking into the surviving vestiges of London’s monastic houses.” She finished her diagram and slid it across to him. “How exactly do you intend to go about finding this tavern owner?”

He stood for a moment, studying her sketch. She’d actually drawn two wall circuits, one older and smaller than the other. The northern stretch of the oldest wall had run roughly along the course of Cornhill and Leadenhall Street, then down along Mark Lane before turning east to Thames Street and Walbrook. The later, larger circuit ran from the Tower to Aldgate and Bishopsgate, before turning westward to St. Giles churchyard and then veering south to Falcon Square. He traced the line to Aldersgate and Giltspur Street, angling over to Ludgate and the Thames, then eastward back toward the Tower again.

“That’s a lot of wall,” he said, folding the map. “I’ll give it to Tom and see what he can find.”

“You do realize that Gabrielle could have told her cousin a lie to put him off. I don’t think they were exactly close.”

“She may have. But I wouldn’t be surprised if the part about the tavern and the Roman wall, at least, was true.” He nodded to the books scattered across the table’s surface. “What is all this?”

“I’ve been brushing up on my knowledge of King Arthur and Guinevere and the Knights of the Round Table.”

He reached for the nearest book, a slim, aged volume covered in faded blue leather, and read the title embossed in gold on the spine. “
La donna di Scalotta
.” He looked up. “What is it?”

“An Italian novella about the Lady of Shalott.”

He shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

“I wasn’t familiar with it, either. But I remembered Gabrielle telling me she was working on a translation.”

He leafed through the volume’s aged pages and frowned. “I certainly wouldn’t want to try to translate it.” Sebastian’s Italian had come largely from the soldiers, partisans, and bandits he’d encountered
during the war and had little in common with the volume’s archaic, stylized language. “When was it originally written?”

“The thirteenth century, I believe.”

“Do you think it might somehow be related to the excavations at Camlet Moat?”

“I don’t believe so, no. Gabrielle was interested in all aspects of the Arthurian legend; this is a relatively unknown part of it.” She turned her head as the sound of the front doorbell echoed through the house. “Are you expecting someone?” she asked, just as Sebastian’s majordomo, Morey, appeared in the doorway.

“A Mr. Hildeyard Tennyson to see you, my lord. He says he is the brother of Miss Gabrielle Tennyson. I have taken the liberty of showing him to the drawing room.”

H
ildeyard Tennyson wore the haggard, stunned expression of a man whose world has suddenly collapsed upon him, leaving him shattered and numb.

Dressed in riding breeches and dusty boots that told of a long, hard ride back to town, he stood beside the front windows overlooking the street, his hat in his hands, his back held painfully straight. Of above-average height, with his sister’s thick chestnut hair and chiseled features, he looked to be in his early thirties. He turned as Sebastian and Hero entered the room, displaying a pale and grief-ravaged face. “My apologies for coming to you in all my dirt,” he said, bowing. “I’ve just ridden in from Kent.”

“Please, sit down, Mr. Tennyson,” said Hero gently. “I can’t tell you how sorry we are for your loss.”

He nodded and swallowed hard, as if temporarily bereft of speech. “Thank you. I can’t stay. I’m on my way up to Enfield to hire some men to help extend the search for the children into the woods and surrounding countryside. But I heard from one of the magistrates at Bow Street that you’ve offered to do what you can to
help with the investigation, so I’ve come to thank you…and, I must confess, in the hopes that you might have found something—anything at all—that might make sense of what has happened.” He fixed Sebastian with a look of desperation that was painful to see.

Sebastian went to pour brandy into two glasses. “Sit down,” he said in the voice that had once commanded soldiers into battle. “It will be getting dark soon. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll go home, rest, and give some thought as to where and how your energies can be most efficiently exerted in the morning.”

Tennyson sank into a chair beside the empty hearth and swiped a shaky hand over his face. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just—” He paused to blow out a harsh breath. “It feels so damnably wrong—begging your pardon, Lady Devlin—not to be doing
something
. I blame myself. I should have insisted Gabrielle and the boys come with me to Kent.”

“From what I know of Gabrielle,” said Hero, taking the chair opposite him, “I’m not convinced you would have succeeded even if you had tried to insist.”

Gabrielle’s brother gave a ghost of a smile. “You may be right. Not even our father could compel Gabrielle to do something she didn’t wish to do. She was always far more headstrong than I, despite being four years my junior.”

“There were only the two of you?” asked Sebastian.

Tennyson nodded. “We had several younger brothers who died when we were children. Gabrielle was quite close to them and took their deaths hard. I’ve often wondered if it wasn’t one of the reasons she was so eager to have George and Alfred come stay with her this summer.”

Sebastian handed him the brandy. “Would you say you and your sister were close?”

“I would have said so, yes.”