What Darkness Brings (2 page)

Chapter 2

“B
ut it was supposed to be
mine
,” wailed George, Prince Regent of Great Britain and Ireland, his plump, feminine face florid with rage as he paced wildly up and down the marble-floored room. “What the devil was Eisler thinking, getting himself murdered like this before he could deliver it to me?”

“Shockingly inconsiderate of the man,” agreed the King’s powerful cousin, Charles, Lord Jarvis, without the slightest betraying hint of amusement in his voice. “Only, do calm yourself, Your Highness; you don’t want to bring on one of your spasms.” He caught the eye of the Prince’s private physician, who was hovering nearby.

The doctor bowed and withdrew.

Jarvis’s immense power did not derive from his kinship with the King, which was distant. It was his peerless blend of stunning intelligence and unswerving dedication to the preservation of the monarchy combined with a cold, unblinking ruthlessness that had made him indispensable first to George III, then to the Prince Regent. For thirty years, Jarvis had maneuvered from the shadows, deftly blunting the inevitable repercussions of a dangerous combination of royal weakness and incompetence complicated by a hereditary tendency toward insanity. If not for Jarvis’s capable stewardship, the English monarchy might well have gone the way of the French, and the Hanovers knew it.

“Any idea who is responsible for this outrage?” demanded the Prince.

“Not yet, my lord.”

They were in the Circular Room of Carlton House, where George had been hosting a musical evening when some fool carelessly dropped the news of the murder of Daniel Eisler within the Prince’s hearing.

They’d had to clear the room quickly.

The Regent continued pacing, his movements surprisingly quick and energetic for a man of his girth. Once, he’d been a handsome prince, beloved by his people and welcomed with cheers wherever he went. But those days were long gone. The Prince of Wales—or Prinny, as he was often called—was now in his fiftieth year, grown fat with self-indulgence and dissipation, and despised by the nation for his spiraling debts, his endless extravagant building projects, and his increasing fondness for expensive jeweled trinkets.

“I’ve already commissioned Belmont to design a special piece around it,” said the Prince. “And now you’re telling me the diamond is gone? Vanished? Where am I to find another blue diamond of such size and brilliance? You tell me that! Hmm?”

“When the murderer is apprehended, the diamond will presumably be recovered,” said Jarvis as the Prince’s physician reentered the room, a small vial in his hand. Behind the doctor came one of Jarvis’s own men, a tall, mustachioed ex–military officer of the type with whom Jarvis liked to surround himself.

“Well?” Jarvis demanded of his henchman.

“They’ve nabbed the murderer,” said the officer, leaning for-
ward to whisper in Jarvis’s ear. “I think you’ll find his identity interesting.”

“Oh?” Jarvis kept his gaze on the Prince, who was obediently swallowing his doctor’s potion. “And why is that?”

“It’s Yates. Russell Yates.”

Jarvis tipped back his head and laughed.

Jarvis held a scented pomander to his nose, the heels of his dress shoes clicking on the worn paving stones as he strode down the frigid, rush-lit prison corridor. Normally, he ordered prisoners brought to his chambers at the Palace. But under the circumstances, seeing this man in his cell seemed more . . . delectable.

The stocky turnkey paused outside a thick, nail-studded door, the heavy iron key raised, one bushy eyebrow cocked in a wordless question.

“Well, go on, then; open it,” said Jarvis, breathing in the scent of cloves and rue.

The man fit the key in the large lock and turned it with a click.

The feeble light of a single smoking tallow candle filled the narrow room beyond with dark shadows. A man standing beside the cell’s barred window turned abruptly, chains clanking, as the draft of the opening door caused the flame to flicker and almost go out. He was a young man, in his thirties, his body powerful and well muscled, his handsome face filled with an expression of anticipation that faded when his gaze fell on his visitor.

Jarvis wondered whom the man had been expecting. His lovely wife, perhaps? The thought made Jarvis smile.

The two men regarded each other from across the width of the small room. Then Jarvis drew a jeweled snuffbox from his pocket and said, “We need to talk.”

Chapter 3

Monda
y, 21 September

T
he morning dawned dull and overcast, the air crisp with an unseasonably sharp reminder of winter days to come. Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, drew up on the verge of the carriageway, the breath of his elegant, highbred chestnuts showing frosty white as they snorted and hung their heads. It was nearly seven, and they’d been out all night.

For a moment, Sebastian paused, his gaze narrowing as he studied the cluster of constables near the bank of the canal. They were on the southwestern edge of Hyde Park, far from the carefully groomed fashionable rides and promenades favored by the residents of Mayfair. Here, the grass grew rough, brush choked the clusters of trees, and what few paths existed were narrow and seldom traveled.

He handed the reins to his tiger, a half-grown groom named Tom who scrambled forward from his perch at the rear of the curricle. “Best walk ’em,” said Sebastian, dropping lightly to the ground. “There’s a nasty bite to that wind, and they’re tired.”

“Aye, gov’nor.” Tom’s scattering of freckles stood out stark against his pale skin. He had a sharp-featured face, held tight now with exhaustion and suppressed emotion. He was thirteen years old, a onetime street urchin and pickpocket who had been with Sebastian for nearly two years. They were master and servant, but they were also more than that, which was why Tom felt compelled to add, “I’m sorry ’bout your friend.”

Sebastian nodded and turned to cut across the meadow, the soles of his Hessian boots leaving a faint trail of crushed grass behind him. He had spent the past ten hours in an increasingly concerned search for his missing friend, a devil-may-care, charming scapegrace of a Taffy named Major Rhys Wilkinson. At first, Sebastian had wondered if Wilkinson’s wife might be overreacting when she asked for his help; he’d suspected Rhys simply popped in for a pint someplace, fell in with old friends, and forgot the time. But Annie Wilkinson kept insisting Rhys would never do that. And as night bled slowly into dawn, Sebastian himself had become convinced that something was terribly wrong.

As he approached the stand of oaks near the canal, a familiar middle-aged man, small and bespectacled and wrapped in a great-
coat more suited to the dead of winter than a chilly September morning, broke off his conversation with one of the constables and walked forward to meet him.

“Sir Henry,” said Sebastian. “Thank you for sending me word.”

“Sorry news, I’m afraid,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy. Once of Queen Square’s public office, Sir Henry was the newest of Bow Street’s three stipendiary magistrates, a man who undertook his responsibilities with a seriousness born of his own personal tragedies and a dour religious outlook. He and Sebastian might be unlikely friends, but friends they were.

Sebastian gazed beyond the magistrate, to where the lifeless body of a tall, dark-haired man in his early thirties lay curled on its side next to a rustic bench. “What happened to him?”

“Unfortunately, that’s not readily apparent,” said Lovejoy as they walked toward the body. “There are no discernable signs of violence. He was found lying much as you see him. It’s as if he sat down to rest and then collapsed. I understand he has been ill for some time?”

Sebastian nodded. “Walcheren fever. He fought it as long as he could, but in the end he was invalided out of the service.”

The magistrate tut-tutted softly. “Ah, yes; terrible business, that. Terrible.” The 1809 assault on the Dutch island of Walcheren was the kind of military debacle most Englishmen tried to forget. The largest British expeditionary force ever assembled up to that time had embarked with the ambitious aim of taking first Flushing and then Antwerp, in preparation for a march on Paris. Instead, they’d been forced to withdraw from the island after only a few months, in the grip of a medical disaster. In the end, more than a quarter of the forty thousand men involved succumbed to a mysterious disease from which few ever recovered.

Sebastian hunkered down beside his friend’s body. The two men had met nearly ten years before as subalterns, when Sebastian bought his first commission as a raw cornet and Wilkinson had just won promotion to the same rank. The son of a poor vicar who’d served with the common soldiers as a “gentleman volunteer” for three long years before a vacancy opened up, Wilkinson made no attempt to hide his good-humored scorn for the young Earl’s heir, whose wealth enabled him to step straight into a rank Wilkinson himself had had to fight to earn. Sebastian won the older man’s respect only slowly; friendship between them had taken even longer. But it had come.

Wilkinson still wore the proud swooping mustache of a cavalry officer. But his clothes were those of a gentleman down on his luck, the cuffs of his shirt neatly darned at the edges, his coat showing the effects of one too many brushings. Once, he’d been a strapping officer, tanned dark by the sun and full of life. But years of illness had wasted his once powerful body and left his skin sallow and sunken. Reaching out, Sebastian touched his friend’s cheek, then brought his hand back to rest on his own thigh, fingers curled. “He’s stone-cold. He must have been here all night.”

“So it would seem. Hopefully Paul Gibson will be able to tell us for certain after the postmortem.”

Like Sebastian and Wilkinson, Gibson had once worn the King’s colors. A regimental surgeon, he’d honed his craft on the charnel-house battlefields of Europe. No one was better at ferreting out the secrets a dead body might have to tell—which was why Gibson was the last person Sebastian wanted examining this body.

He swiped one hand across his beard-roughened face. “Is that necessary? I mean, if he died of the fever . . .”

Lovejoy looked vaguely surprised. Normally, Sebastian was a vocal proponent of the still relatively new and highly controversial practice of autopsying the bodies of victims of murder or suspicious death. “Still best to be certain—wouldn’t you say, my lord? Although I don’t doubt you’re right. From the looks of things, he sat down on the bench to rest and suffered a seizure of some sort. Poor man. One wonders what possessed him to push himself by walking so far. And at night, after the park was closed.”

Sebastian was afraid he knew only too well why Wilkinson had chosen to lose himself in the farthest reaches of the park, after hours. But he felt no need to share that fear with Lovejoy.

He pushed to his feet. “How’s his wife taking it?”

Lovejoy cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Badly, I’m afraid. I understand he also leaves a child?”

“Emma. She’s only just turned four.”

“Tragic.”

“Yes.” Sebastian was suddenly aware of an intense exhaustion combined with an urgent need to hold his own wife in his arms and simply bury his face in the soft fragrance of her dark hair. He was a man who had been married less than six weeks, and he’d just spent the entire night away from his wife’s bed.

Nodding to the magistrate, he turned toward his waiting curricle. The larks in the nearby elms were in full throat, the light strengthening, the mist beginning to lift. But as he crossed the meadow, he noticed a familiar figure walking toward him with a dark top hat and greatcoat glistening from the morning dew.

Tall and barrel-chested, with a big head and blunt features, Alistair St. Cyr, Fifth Earl of Hendon and Chancellor of the Exchequer, was in his late sixties now. Once, Hendon had boasted of three strong sons. Then death had taken the eldest, Richard, and the middle son, Cecil, leaving Hendon with only the youngest, Sebastian—the son who was least like the Earl and who had always seemed to confuse and dismay him.

The son who was not, in fact, Hendon’s child, although that was a truth only lately and disastrously revealed.

Sebastian was still the Earl’s heir and, as far as the world knew, his son. The few who knew otherwise had their own reasons for keeping quiet. But since the truth’s painful revelations that May, Sebastian and Hendon had publicly exchanged only the most formal and brief of greetings. In private, they had not spoken at all. For Hendon to seek Sebastian out now could only mean trouble. Sebastian’s thoughts flew, inevitably, to his new wife and the child she carried within her.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he demanded without preamble as the men came up to each other.

Hendon swiped one meaty palm across his lower face, and Sebastian realized with shock that, like Sebastian, the Earl had yet to shave that morning. “I take it you haven’t heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Russell Yates has been committed to Newgate to stand trial for murder.”

Sebastian exhaled a long breath and stared out over the nearby, breeze-ruffled treetops. He had only a passing acquaintance with Yates, a flamboyant and somewhat enigmatic ex-privateer who’d taken London society by storm. But Yates’s wife . . .

The beautiful, talented, vital woman who was Yates’s wife had once been the love of Sebastian’s life—until he lost her to Hendon’s twisted trail of lies and half-truths and soul-shattering revelations.

“Murder?” said Sebastian. “Of whom?”

“A diamond merchant by the name of Daniel Eisler.”

“Never heard of him.”

Hendon shifted his lower jaw from side to side in that way he had when considering a problem or when dealing with something or someone who violated his carefully drawn moral codes. “In that, you are fortunate. The man was vile.”

“Have you seen Kat?”

Hendon nodded. “She came to me at once, hoping that I could somehow use my influence to intervene. But this is beyond me, I’m afraid.” He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. “I’ve never claimed to understand this marriage of hers to Yates. But I do know she has become exceedingly close to the man this past year. She’s . . . worried.”

“Kat?” Kat Boleyn was not a woman who frightened easily.

Hendon said, “I realize that in the past I have been critical—perhaps even dismissive—of your obsession with murder and justice. All of which makes it rather hypocritical of me to be asking for your help in this now. But from what I’ve been able to discover, the case against Yates is strong. There’ll be a coroner’s inquest sometime this week, but there’s no doubt but what they’ll support the magistrate’s findings.”

“Are you certain he didn’t actually do it?”

“Kat insists he is innocent. Although from the looks of things, the only hope he has of escaping the hangman’s noose is if you can somehow manage to figure out who the real killer is.” Hendon cleared his throat uncomfortably, his voice tense. “Will you do it?”

“I’d do anything for Kat. You know that.”

For Kat. Not for you.
The unsaid words hung in the air between them.

Hendon’s vivid blue eyes blinked. St. Cyr eyes, they called them, for they had been the hallmark of the family for generations. Kat had eyes like that.

Sebastian’s own eyes were a strange, feral-like yellow.

Hendon said, “I must make it clear that she did not want me to ask you to do this.”

“Why the hell not?”

“You know why.”

Sebastian met the Earl’s frank gaze. He knew it wasn’t simply Sebastian’s own recent marriage that had given Kat pause; it was a matter of whom he had married.

And it troubled him profoundly to realize that the woman he’d loved for most of his adult life had felt she couldn’t come to him when she needed him the most.