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Authors: C. S. Harris
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house should shatter, my lord Bishop.’ ”
Sebastian glanced over to where Tom was walking the grays up and down the lane near the overgrown entrance to the old Ranelagh Gardens. “You know, of course, that I shall now accost Lord Quillian.”
“I should sincerely hope so. Why else do you suppose I told you?”
He grunted. “You don’t actually believe that aging exquisite has anything to do with the Bishop’s death, do you?”
“On the contrary, I do,” she said, and turned to walk back toward the chapel.
He fell into step beside her again. “You say the Bishop was your friend?”
“He was.”
“So tell me about him.”
She stared off across the court, to where the stout, mustachioed physician waited patiently with his hands clasped behind his back. Studying her face, Sebastian saw her features contort with an unmistakable pinch of grief. “How do you reduce such a vital, complex man to just a few words? He was . . . he was the most intensely compassionate, caring man I have ever known.”
“I’ve heard he was an advocate for reform.”
A strange, sad smile hovered about her lips. “I am an advocate for reform. Francis Prescott was that, and so much more. I’ve seen him give his own coat to a woman he found freezing in the street, and stop his carriage to personally take into his arms the filthy, starving child someone had abandoned at the side of the road.”
“He sounds like a veritable saint.”
“A saint?” She thought about it. “No, not a saint. He was a man, like anyone else.”
“So he had faults.”
“We all have faults, my lord Devlin.”
“And what were Bishop Prescott’s faults?”
She looked vaguely troubled. “I suppose he could at times be accused of behaving uncharitably toward those of French or American origins.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Because of those two countries’ revolutions? But . . . I thought Prescott was an advocate of reform?”
“Reform, yes; revolution, no. The violence of the French and American revolutions horrified him. Although I think there was more to it than that. He lost three of his own brothers in the wars of the last century—one fighting the French in Canada, one fighting the French in India, and the third fighting the American rebels.”
“A very martial family, for a bishop.”
She glanced over at him. “It’s what younger sons do, is it not? Take the cloth, or buy a pair of colors.”
Sebastian gave a wry smile. As the youngest of three sons born to the Earl of Hendon, Sebastian himself had been destined for a career in the Army, before the deaths of his two older brothers thrust him into the position of heir. Once he became Viscount Devlin, there’d been no more talk of his making a career of the military. Hendon had been furious—and terrified—when Sebastian went off to spend some six years fighting the French anyway.
He said, “Did you know Prescott was planning to drive out to Tanfield Hill last night, after your meeting with him?”
She shook her head. “He never mentioned it.” They were almost back to where Dr. McCain and Hero’s maid waited patiently beside the doors to the chapel. She slowed and swung to face him. “Now you really must excuse me, my lord. There is nothing more I can tell you.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
She raised one eyebrow in an expression that was disconcertingly evocative of her father. “Does it matter?” she said, and brushed past him, her parasol tilted at just the right angle, her chin held high, her back uncompromisingly straight and rigid.
Chapter 10
Sebastian had no doubt Miss Jarvis was more than capable of tossing the Prince Regent’s well-dressed friend Lord Quillian to the proverbial lions if that was what it took to distract attention from whatever she herself was trying to hide. But on the off chance the middle-aged exquisite might indeed have been involved in the Bishop of London’s untimely demise, Sebastian spent the better part of the afternoon
Sebastian glanced over to where Tom was walking the grays up and down the lane near the overgrown entrance to the old Ranelagh Gardens. “You know, of course, that I shall now accost Lord Quillian.”
“I should sincerely hope so. Why else do you suppose I told you?”
He grunted. “You don’t actually believe that aging exquisite has anything to do with the Bishop’s death, do you?”
“On the contrary, I do,” she said, and turned to walk back toward the chapel.
He fell into step beside her again. “You say the Bishop was your friend?”
“He was.”
“So tell me about him.”
She stared off across the court, to where the stout, mustachioed physician waited patiently with his hands clasped behind his back. Studying her face, Sebastian saw her features contort with an unmistakable pinch of grief. “How do you reduce such a vital, complex man to just a few words? He was . . . he was the most intensely compassionate, caring man I have ever known.”
“I’ve heard he was an advocate for reform.”
A strange, sad smile hovered about her lips. “I am an advocate for reform. Francis Prescott was that, and so much more. I’ve seen him give his own coat to a woman he found freezing in the street, and stop his carriage to personally take into his arms the filthy, starving child someone had abandoned at the side of the road.”
“He sounds like a veritable saint.”
“A saint?” She thought about it. “No, not a saint. He was a man, like anyone else.”
“So he had faults.”
“We all have faults, my lord Devlin.”
“And what were Bishop Prescott’s faults?”
She looked vaguely troubled. “I suppose he could at times be accused of behaving uncharitably toward those of French or American origins.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Because of those two countries’ revolutions? But . . . I thought Prescott was an advocate of reform?”
“Reform, yes; revolution, no. The violence of the French and American revolutions horrified him. Although I think there was more to it than that. He lost three of his own brothers in the wars of the last century—one fighting the French in Canada, one fighting the French in India, and the third fighting the American rebels.”
“A very martial family, for a bishop.”
She glanced over at him. “It’s what younger sons do, is it not? Take the cloth, or buy a pair of colors.”
Sebastian gave a wry smile. As the youngest of three sons born to the Earl of Hendon, Sebastian himself had been destined for a career in the Army, before the deaths of his two older brothers thrust him into the position of heir. Once he became Viscount Devlin, there’d been no more talk of his making a career of the military. Hendon had been furious—and terrified—when Sebastian went off to spend some six years fighting the French anyway.
He said, “Did you know Prescott was planning to drive out to Tanfield Hill last night, after your meeting with him?”
She shook her head. “He never mentioned it.” They were almost back to where Dr. McCain and Hero’s maid waited patiently beside the doors to the chapel. She slowed and swung to face him. “Now you really must excuse me, my lord. There is nothing more I can tell you.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
She raised one eyebrow in an expression that was disconcertingly evocative of her father. “Does it matter?” she said, and brushed past him, her parasol tilted at just the right angle, her chin held high, her back uncompromisingly straight and rigid.
Chapter 10
Sebastian had no doubt Miss Jarvis was more than capable of tossing the Prince Regent’s well-dressed friend Lord Quillian to the proverbial lions if that was what it took to distract attention from whatever she herself was trying to hide. But on the off chance the middle-aged exquisite might indeed have been involved in the Bishop of London’s untimely demise, Sebastian spent the better part of the afternoon
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