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Authors: C. S. Harris
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fool.”
Sebastian watched the Baron’s hand tighten around the silver head of his walking stick. Sebastian owned a similar piece; the ornate handle unscrewed to reveal a long, slim dagger.
He said, “I’ve heard speculation that someone may have been trying to blackmail Prescott. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Blackmail? Truly?” Quillian’s lips stretched into a thin, tight smile, but his eyes were hard. “Are you suggesting there was something in His Righteousness’s past that could have left the man open to blackmail? How very . . . entertaining. If only one had known of this sooner, one might have made use of it.”
Sebastian studied the exquisite’s carefully powdered face. “You’re saying you don’t know of anything in the Bishop’s past that might have made him vulnerable to blackmail?”
“Blackmail is so . . . sordid. Don’t you agree?”
“Like murder,” said Sebastian.
“Exactly. If you want my opinion—and I take it you must, since you have obviously sought me out to discuss this dreadful matter—the authorities could do worse than to look into the movements of that horrid Colonial.”
“Colonial? You mean an American?”
“That’s right. Franklin, I believe his name is. I understand he used to be governor of New Jersey or some such place, before the recent unpleasantness.”
“You mean William Franklin? Benjamin Franklin’s son?”
“Yes, that’s the one. He was leaving the Bishop’s chambers just as I arrived on Monday afternoon.”
“You saw the Bishop this past Monday?”
“I did,” said the dandy, swinging his walking stick by the handle. “It was my hope to persuade the Bishop of the advisability of giving up his intention of delivering an impassioned attack on slavery before the Lords this Thursday.”
“By appealing to his better nature?”
“Hardly. By threatening to have him blackballed from his clubs.” Quillian sniffed. “You’ll agree, I assume, that there is considerable difference between threatening to blackball a man and threatening to blackmail him? Hmmm?”
Actually, threatening to blackball a man struck Sebastian as a form of blackmail, but all he said was, “And Franklin?”
“As I said, the man was leaving as I arrived. Their exchange had obviously been heated, for as I entered the antechamber, I heard the Bishop say it would be a dark day in hell before he ever had dealings with a traitor’s son. To which Franklin replied . . .” Here the exquisite hesitated, as if suddenly overcome by an eleventh-hour attack of scruples at the realization that he might be implicating a man in murder.
Sebastian dutifully prompted, “Yes?”
“To which Franklin replied, ‘Hell is where men such as yourself belong.’ ” Quillian glanced over at Sebastian expectantly.
Sebastian said, “You’re suggesting, I take it, that Franklin meant it as a threat?”
“Well, it could certainly be construed as such, could it not?”
“Perhaps. You wouldn’t have any idea what their exchange was about?”
“I’m afraid not.” Quillian brought the back of one hand to his forehead. “Merciful heavens. I do believe I am in danger of beginning to perspire. This is all your fault, you know. Expecting me to walk down the street like some milkmaid making deliveries.” He raised his voice. “Chair! Chair, I say!”
A couple of chairmen lounging before a nearby public house jerked to attention and rushed toward him. “Carlton House,” said Quillian, settling back against the sedan chair’s quilted squabs.
“One more thing,” said Sebastian, resting a hand on the chair frame to delay him. “Exactly where were you last night?”
Quillian’s eyes widened in a show of indignation. “Why, with the Prince.”
“All evening?”
“Of course,” he snapped, and nodded to the chairmen to move on.
Sebastian took a step back, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun as he watched the chairmen trot
Sebastian watched the Baron’s hand tighten around the silver head of his walking stick. Sebastian owned a similar piece; the ornate handle unscrewed to reveal a long, slim dagger.
He said, “I’ve heard speculation that someone may have been trying to blackmail Prescott. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Blackmail? Truly?” Quillian’s lips stretched into a thin, tight smile, but his eyes were hard. “Are you suggesting there was something in His Righteousness’s past that could have left the man open to blackmail? How very . . . entertaining. If only one had known of this sooner, one might have made use of it.”
Sebastian studied the exquisite’s carefully powdered face. “You’re saying you don’t know of anything in the Bishop’s past that might have made him vulnerable to blackmail?”
“Blackmail is so . . . sordid. Don’t you agree?”
“Like murder,” said Sebastian.
“Exactly. If you want my opinion—and I take it you must, since you have obviously sought me out to discuss this dreadful matter—the authorities could do worse than to look into the movements of that horrid Colonial.”
“Colonial? You mean an American?”
“That’s right. Franklin, I believe his name is. I understand he used to be governor of New Jersey or some such place, before the recent unpleasantness.”
“You mean William Franklin? Benjamin Franklin’s son?”
“Yes, that’s the one. He was leaving the Bishop’s chambers just as I arrived on Monday afternoon.”
“You saw the Bishop this past Monday?”
“I did,” said the dandy, swinging his walking stick by the handle. “It was my hope to persuade the Bishop of the advisability of giving up his intention of delivering an impassioned attack on slavery before the Lords this Thursday.”
“By appealing to his better nature?”
“Hardly. By threatening to have him blackballed from his clubs.” Quillian sniffed. “You’ll agree, I assume, that there is considerable difference between threatening to blackball a man and threatening to blackmail him? Hmmm?”
Actually, threatening to blackball a man struck Sebastian as a form of blackmail, but all he said was, “And Franklin?”
“As I said, the man was leaving as I arrived. Their exchange had obviously been heated, for as I entered the antechamber, I heard the Bishop say it would be a dark day in hell before he ever had dealings with a traitor’s son. To which Franklin replied . . .” Here the exquisite hesitated, as if suddenly overcome by an eleventh-hour attack of scruples at the realization that he might be implicating a man in murder.
Sebastian dutifully prompted, “Yes?”
“To which Franklin replied, ‘Hell is where men such as yourself belong.’ ” Quillian glanced over at Sebastian expectantly.
Sebastian said, “You’re suggesting, I take it, that Franklin meant it as a threat?”
“Well, it could certainly be construed as such, could it not?”
“Perhaps. You wouldn’t have any idea what their exchange was about?”
“I’m afraid not.” Quillian brought the back of one hand to his forehead. “Merciful heavens. I do believe I am in danger of beginning to perspire. This is all your fault, you know. Expecting me to walk down the street like some milkmaid making deliveries.” He raised his voice. “Chair! Chair, I say!”
A couple of chairmen lounging before a nearby public house jerked to attention and rushed toward him. “Carlton House,” said Quillian, settling back against the sedan chair’s quilted squabs.
“One more thing,” said Sebastian, resting a hand on the chair frame to delay him. “Exactly where were you last night?”
Quillian’s eyes widened in a show of indignation. “Why, with the Prince.”
“All evening?”
“Of course,” he snapped, and nodded to the chairmen to move on.
Sebastian took a step back, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun as he watched the chairmen trot
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