Chapter 2
Grosvenor Square, London
Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, repositioned his black knight and said, “Check.”
His opponent, Alistair St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon and for some years Chancellor of the Exchequer, frowned as he leaned back in his overstuffed leather chair, one hand coming up to cup the smooth wooden bowl of his pipe.
The two men faced each other across a well-used chessboard set up between them and illuminated by the soft golden pool of light cast by a nearby brace of candles.
A half-empty glass of brandy rested at each man’s elbow; the fire dancing on the library hearth nearby filled the book-lined room with a cheerful crackle.
The sprawling Grosvenor Square town house was the Earl’s London residence and had been for many years.
A big, barrel-chested man in his early seventies, he had a thinning shock of white hair, a heavy-featured face, and the deep, vibrantly blue eyes that had been the hallmark of the St. Cyrs for centuries.
Sebastian was younger, in his mid-thirties, tall and lean, with dark hair and strange yellow eyes that most men found disconcerting.
He was known to the world as Hendon’s only surviving son and heir, although he was not in fact Hendon’s biological child.
There had been a time when that painful truth—and the manner of its revelation—had driven a seemingly irreparable breach between the two men. But those days were now in the past.
“Not checkmate?” said Hendon, his teeth biting down on his pipe’s stem as he studied the board.
“Not yet,” said Sebastian, reaching for his brandy and taking a slow swallow. “There is a way.”
“For all the good it will do me,” grumbled Hendon.
Sebastian smiled. “You used to tell me—” he began, then paused, his head turning at the rattle of a curricle and team drawing up in the street outside. “Expecting someone?”
“No. Why?” said the Earl, just as the sound of a heavy fist beating a frantic tattoo on the front door reverberated through the house.
A man’s familiar shrill voice came to them as Hendon’s butler opened the door. “He is here, isn’t he? My uncle—Devlin, I mean. With Grandfather? Oh, God; please tell me he’s here!”
Hendon frowned. “Bayard?”
“Bayard,” said Sebastian, his voice flat.
Now nearly twenty-seven, Bayard was Hendon’s grandson by the Earl’s firstborn child and only daughter, Amanda, the Dowager Lady Wilcox.
He had come into his title some five years before, on the death of his father, the previous Baron Wilcox.
And while Sebastian couldn’t help feeling sorry for the younger man in some ways, he’d always suspected Bayard took after his late father too much for comfort.
“My lord,” they heard Hendon’s butler, Hervey, say, his voice kept deliberately low and soothing. “If you’ll just—”
“Where are they?” demanded Bayard, his bootheels clattering as he quickly crossed the entry’s marble floor. “The library?”
Hendon pushed to his feet as the door to the library flew open and his disheveled grandson burst into the room. “Bayard? What the devil?”
Bayard’s hat was gone, his cravat askew, his brown hair wildly disordered, his soft, plump face pasty white.
His greatcoat hung open, and what looked like charcoal and unidentifiable muck smeared his extravagantly tailored navy blue coat, white-and-navy-striped silk waistcoat, and pale yellow pantaloons.
He brought with him the pungent odors of woodsmoke, cheap gin, and urine.
“Sir,” he said, bowing jerkily to his grandfather.
But it was to Sebastian that he turned. “Devlin! Thank God you’re here.
You must help me! I—” He broke off, his breath coming in shallow pants as he brought up trembling hands to rake his limp straight hair back from his forehead.
“Oh, God; I don’t know what to do! He’s dead, and I don’t even understand what happened.
I went to take a piss, you see, and I guess I must have stumbled and passed out, because when I came to, the fire was blazing and he was in it! ”
“Who? Who the devil are you taking about?” said Hendon.
“Toole! Marcus Toole.”
“Sir Samuel Toole’s son?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Where?” said Sebastian. “Where did this happen?”
“At the top of Primrose Hill.”
“What the hell were you doing there?”
Lying just to the north of London, beyond what was now being called Regent’s Park, Primrose Hill was an unusual two-hundred-foot-high hill that rose somewhat like a massive ancient burial mound.
Perhaps because of that it had lately become popular with those seeking to resurrect the culture and religion of Britain’s legendary pre-Roman inhabitants, the Celts, and the mysterious Druid priesthood for which they were famous.
“It was Toole’s idea. We were drinking at Chalk Farm Tavern, and Toole—” Bayard’s voice faltered as his grandfather let out a startled oath, for as popular as the tavern’s tea gardens were during the day, the place’s proximity to the road from Hampstead Heath gave it an unsavory reputation after dark.
Bayard sucked in a deep breath and began again. “Toole, he got this idea in his head that he wanted to climb to the top of Primrose Hill—on account of the Druid ceremonies they’re always having up there, you see.”
“God help us,” said Hendon. “Please tell me you haven’t taken to dressing up in white robes to mumble a bunch of heathen nonsense under the full moon.”
“What? Good God, no. We were laughing about how batty the lot of them are. It was just a lark.”
“So you climbed to the top of the hill,” said Sebastian. “And then what happened?”
“We built a fire.” Bayard’s voice shook, and he had to swallow hard.
“There are all sorts of old firepits put there, you know, I suppose on account of whatever it is those Druid fellows do there. Someone’d even left a bundle of unburnt wood, so Toole, he starts this big, roaring fire.
And then, like I said, I went to take a piss, and the next thing I know, when I open my eyes, the fire is blazing up like it’s Guy Fawkes Day and Toole is in it! Dead!”
Sebastian and Hendon exchanged silent glances.
“What? You don’t believe me?” said Bayard, his face taut as he looked from one man to the other. “Don’t you understand? Someone must be targeting us! First Gil, and now Toole!”
“Gil?” said Sebastian.
“Gilbert Keebles. You must have heard what happened to him.”
“Ah, yes,” said Hendon.
“No,” said Sebastian, who had only recently returned to London with his family after a several months’ stay at his Hampshire estate.
Bayard looked incredulous. “It’s only been a couple of weeks since he was killed!”
“How?” said Sebastian.
“Somebody stabbed him and threw him in the Thames. There’s six of us who’ve been friends since we were in short coats, and now two of us are dead—murdered! It can’t be a coincidence. It’s like someone is deliberately killing us one by one! What if they mean to kill me next?”
Sebastian found that unlikely, but he simply drained his brandy and set the glass aside. “I take it you have your carriage waiting outside?”
Bayard shook his head. “I’ve got Toole’s curricle—that is, if his stupid team haven’t wandered off by now. But they’re blown—I drove them hard coming back into town.”
Hendon stared at his grandson. “Are you telling me you left the man’s horses in the street unattended? Where is Toole’s groom?”
“That bloody bastard? He was supposed to be waiting for us at the base of the hill, but I had to walk all the way back to Chalk Farm to find him. And then the worthless idiot was dead drunk, so I left him there and took the curricle.”
“Good God,” said Hendon, starting for the door. “I’ll get someone to tend to the horses right away. And if you’re planning to go back out there, Devlin, I might as well go ahead and have the stables get my carriage ready while I’m at it. It’ll be quicker than sending to Brook Street for yours.”
“You are going to help me, aren’t you, Uncle?” said Bayard. “I mean, you’ve dealt with this sort of thing before. You’ll know what to do.”
“I’ll go have a look, yes.”
Bayard’s features took on a pinched, sickly look. “There’s no need for me to go out there with you, is there?”
“Actually, there is,” said Sebastian. “Tell me this: How did you know where to find me?”
“I went by Brook Street first, and Lady Devlin said you were here.”
“You told her why you wanted me?”
“Sort of.”
“I’ll send one of the footmen with a note to Hero, explaining where you’ve gone,” said Hendon, coming back into the room. He glanced at his grandson. “And to your new bride as well, Bayard?”
“What? Oh, no need to bother. Fanny knows better than to be expecting me anytime soon.”
“Indeed,” said Hendon. He waited until Bayard had taken himself off, mumbling something about finding a pisspot, then said to Sebastian, “Will you notify Bow Street?”
“Not until I’m certain this isn’t some prank or drunken muddle.
Knowing Bayard, I wouldn’t be surprised if we find Marcus Toole passed out beside his fire.
Unless of course he’s managed to make his way back to Chalk Farm Tavern, in which case he is no doubt as we speak shouting down the house because he thinks someone’s pinched his curricle. ”
“It does sound like a farrago of nonsense.”
“It does. But…” Sebastian paused.
Hendon looked over at him. “But?”
“What if it’s not?”