Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
St Luke’s, Chelsea
Some men stepped into church and came out reborn.
Gabriel’s rebirth came with the trust and tenderness in Olivia’s eyes last night, in her thighs tightening around him, drawing him deeper, welcoming him in a way that awakened something he thought long dead.
He loved her.
He’d held her for an hour as she slept, trying to pinpoint when that truth had taken hold. He would die for her. He had known it since the night he sensed her distress and tore back to World’s End, since the fear of losing her had slashed through him and stolen his breath.
With her, he saw a future. Something bound them together, something no mortal man could sever. And woe betide the fool who tried.
He’d wanted her again the moment dawn touched the room, but she’d slept so deeply in his arms he hadn’t had the heart to wake her. After all she’d endured, she deserved rest. She deserved peace.
And yet fear clung to him, a vagrant begging for a penny he did not have to give. No matter how he tried to shake it, the wretched thing followed at his heels, whispering of dangers he could not name, of shadows waiting to steal what he held most dear.
Even the hush of St Luke’s and the holy presence did little to calm his restless spirit. Not when the devil lingered at his door.
“You’re certain the rector won’t be here?” Olivia observed the empty pews, her gaze lifting to the lofty nave and majestic stained window. “With our luck, he’ll have misplaced the records, and we’ll never know who owns that wretched plot.”
“I believe the rector is giving a sermon at the Ladies’ Benevolent Society on the Christian duty of justice.” Gabriel approved of the old maxim, an eye for an eye, and intended to punish everyone who’d conspired against them. “It includes luncheon.”
“How do you know?”
He gestured to the vestibule. “It’s on the noticeboard outside.”
She turned to him and smiled. “I must have missed it. The late night has left me fatigued this morning. Thankfully, little escapes your notice.”
“Other than the mysteries surrounding your father’s riddle and the childhood friend who may or may not be dead.”
He suspected the answers to both were a clue away.
It was imperative they found it quickly.
“On a more important note,” he said, his thoughts narrowing to nothing but her. “I wondered if you might care to lose an hour’s sleep tonight.”
She didn’t play coy or feign flirtation. “If you’re inviting me to your bed, Gabriel, just say so.”
“It is an invitation, but not necessarily to a bed.”
Her tongue swept lightly across her bottom lip.
God help him—she was remembering it too: their bodies moving as one, every delicious tremor, the way he’d wrung every last whimper from her, broken her breath into ragged little gasps he still heard in his head.
Oh, Gabriel … Gabriel.
His cock stirred at the memory.
If she touched him now, they’d be arrested for indecent conduct.
“If not in bed, where then? How will you divert my mind from our current predicament?”
Oh, he could think of a hundred ways.
None of them fit for church.
He chose the most likely to please a woman with a passionate heart and an inquisitive mind.
“Julius Caesar is playing at the King’s Theatre tonight, and I have a private box.
It’s time we were seen together in public, and the tragedy may shed light on your father’s warning. Beware the Ides of March.”
Excitement lit her eyes, and he would never be the reason it faded.
“It will give me a chance to wear one of the gowns the countess sent, and there has to be some connection to the play. Why else would my father take such pains to hide the clue?”
“It is a play about murder and political ambition.” The image hidden in the miniature was warning enough: unrest, conspiracy, danger closing in. “Which is why I must insist you sleep in my room until we identify the traitor in the house.”
Before she could respond, footsteps echoed along the aisle.
“Hello? May I help you? Are you here to see Reverend Clay?”
Gabriel turned to find a short, tubby fellow in a black cassock approaching. “And you are?”
“Mr Plunket, sir. The verger here at St Luke’s. I’m afraid the rector is away for most of the day, giving a sermon at—”
“The Ladies’ Benevolent Society, I know. We’re here at the magistrate’s behest to search the burial records and the sexton’s books, if they’re kept here.”
Gabriel presented his calling card.
Plunket accepted it. The instant he read the name, his hand gave a sharp tremor. “My lord … my lady.” He dipped into a hurried bow, nearly dropping the card in his haste. “Forgive me. Perhaps I might be of service.”
“Good. We welcome your assistance, Mr Plunket.”
The man would likely prove more helpful than the Reverend Clay, whose word could not be trusted.
“Of course, my lord.” His manner changed at once. “This way.” He hurried ahead, cassock swaying about his ankles, and gestured to a narrow door beside the vestry as he led them down the nave. “The burial registers are kept in the clerk’s office. We maintain records going back near a century.”
Gabriel held the door for Olivia, the scent of old paper and damp cloth drifting out to greet them.
Plunket bustled to a tall oak cupboard and produced a ring of keys. “Which records did you wish to see, my lord? We’ve the churchyard registers, the new ground, and there’s an older set for the plots out east of the rectory.”
“Yes, the old burial ground,” Gabriel said.
Plunket paused mid-motion, a flicker of something crossing his face, then nodded. He selected a long, leather-bound volume from the shelf. Dust motes spiralled as he carried it to the clerk’s desk.
“Folk rarely ask to see these, my lord.” He placed the register down, the heavy leather thumping against the wood.
“Not unless there’s been a dispute over a plot—families arguing over who owns which corner, who was buried where, that sort of thing.
” He flipped the cover open, but seemed possessed of a need to keep talking.
“Or if there’s confusion about dates. What year did you say you were searching for? ”
Gabriel looked at Olivia, hoping she remembered.
She frowned slightly. “The inscription gave the year in Roman numerals … MDCCCXIII. I believe that’s 1813.” Almost as an afterthought, she said, “Yes, the fifteenth of March, 1813.”
Gabriel stilled. Plunket seemed unaware of the importance as he turned another brittle page and sneezed into his handkerchief.
“The fifteenth of March,” Gabriel echoed. “The Ides of March. When Caesar was struck down in the senate.”
Olivia’s eyes widened, but Plunket appeared none the wiser.
This conversation was best kept for the privacy of their carriage.
“Our search relates to the Roman-style mausoleum,” she said. “We need Mr Hathaway’s last known abode and the name of the officiant who performed the ceremony.”
The verger found the relevant month and flipped back and forth through the pages. He drew a magnifying glass from the desk drawer and ran his gaze down the list of names. “Hathaway, you said, my lady? Any chance there might be an error with the name?”
“No, I’m quite certain.” She flinched, just a fleeting tremor only a man who couldn’t take his eyes off her might notice. Something had caught her attention. “There’s no mistake.”
The verger looked at her, almost embarrassed to continue. “There’s no one listed by that name in the whole month of March. Nor in April.”
Had it been any other date, Gabriel would have returned to the mausoleum to check their facts. But this date? Its absence sharpened his suspicions.
“You do have the sexton’s records here?”
“Yes, yes, my lord.” Plunket practically shook with the need to please. “They’re in the parish chest.” He gestured to an oak trunk tucked away in an alcove.
“Someone would have recorded a tomb of that scale.”
They waited while the verger knelt beside the chest and rummaged through the musty contents. For a good ten minutes, he sifted among the disorganised tomes, muttering and blowing dust from their covers, until at last he unearthed the correct volume. He opened it, turned a few brittle pages—
—and found nothing.
No Hathaways.
No purchase of a mausoleum of that grandeur.
Not so much as a passing reference.
Plunket blinked down at the page, confusion knitting his brow.
“That’s … most irregular. A structure of that size would require a record of fees paid.
” He rubbed a thumb along the margin as if a name might magically appear.
“You may wish to speak to Reverend Clay, my lord. Though he’s only been the rector here these past ten years. ”
Ten years. A bloody decade.
The word ought to be struck from every page in every book.
Plunket closed the tome with a soft thud. “I’m afraid the previous rector can’t help, my lord. Poor soul retired to the coast and perished not long after. Slipped on the coastal steps during a storm, or so I was told.”
Or pushed to silence him.
“Where will I find the new sexton?” Gabriel asked, keeping his tone even. “And surely there are Hathaways living in the parish.”
“None that I recall, my lord.” Plunket cast a glance towards the door. “Mr Nesbit should be in the churchyard tending the graves. If he’s not there, I suggest trying The Bear Tavern. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
Armed with a description of the sexton, they left the church and crossed directly into the adjoining graveyard.
Order reigned here. The stones stood mostly straight, some worn to a soft blur of names, others newer and unmarked by time. Flower posies rested at a few graves, and an elderly couple gathered by a headstone, speaking in hushed tones. The paths were swept, the grass trimmed.
“It’s hard to believe the same sexton tends both graveyards,” Olivia said. “It’s clear where he spends his efforts.”
Gabriel stopped a gardener busy clipping back the long summer grass. “Might you tell me where I’ll find Mr Nesbit?”