Chapter 34
“Tell me what happened,” said Sebastian, splashing brandy into two glasses.
He had brought Zacharia Royston-Jones into the library, where the older man now sat in one of the leather chairs drawn up before the fire, his elbows propped on his spread knees and his bowed head resting in his hands.
The merchant looked up as Sebastian held out one of the brandies.
A medium-sized, thickset man with broad shoulders, a large nose, and prominent chin, the merchant was probably somewhere in his late sixties.
Like many men of his generation, he wore the frock coat and old-fashioned breeches that had been the style in his youth.
There was no mistaking their fine materials or exquisite tailoring.
Yet there was a vaguely disheveled quality about him: His shoulders slumped, his powdered wig was askew, and his eyes looked pinched and hurting.
“There isn’t much to tell, I’m afraid,” he said, taking a deep gulp of his drink. “According to his servants, Emmanuel went out yesterday evening shortly before eight and never returned.”
“Did he take his carriage?”
“He didn’t, no. He set off walking—toward Bond Street, according to his butler.”
“And he told no one where he was going?”
“No one.”
“He’s never done anything like this before?”
“No. Or at least, not in years.”
“How was he dressed?”
“As one would when planning to spend the evening at one’s club. Except no one at any of the clubs has seen him. I spoke to Theo Bridgewood and Wilcox, but both say they haven’t seen him in weeks.”
“Did you try asking his cousin where he might be?”
The merchant’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “The crazy little Irish girl? What would she know?”
Sebastian let it pass. “But you have informed Bow Street?”
Royston-Jones nodded. “I’ve just come from there, for the third time.
” He brought up a shaky hand to rub his eyes with a splayed thumb and forefinger.
“I don’t know what else I can do, which I suppose is why I’m here.
You don’t know of anything—anything at all—that might explain what’s happened to him? ”
“No. I’m sorry,” said Sebastian. “Have you spoken to his valet?”
Zacharia Royston-Jones nodded again. “I asked him if Emmanuel has seemed troubled or afraid in any way lately, and he just looked at me and said, ‘Both.’ ”
“Did he elaborate?”
“He didn’t exactly need to, did he? I mean, everyone knows Emmanuel has been struggling ever since Annie took sick and died like that. And who wouldn’t be afraid with some madman picking off his friends one by one?”
“The valet knew of nothing else? Nothing more recent or specific?”
“No.” As if unable to sit still any longer, Zacharia Royston-Jones pushed to his feet and went to stand at the front windows, the brandy clutched in one hand, the other hand opening and closing at his side. “I’m told Bow Street thinks Radicals are behind these recent murders.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You don’t agree?”
Sebastian took a long, slow sip of his own brandy. “No. I think something else is going on here.”
Royston-Jones turned to stare at him. “Something like—what?”
Sebastian studied the older man’s craggy, worried face. “How much do you know about your son’s friends?”
Royston-Jones snorted. “Havey-cavey bunch of blighters, if you ask me—not that anyone ever did, mind you. And with good reason, considering I’m the one who sent him off to that fancy school and told him to be damned sure and make the right sort of friends.
” He gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “The right sort. Bloody hell. Oh, they’re the right sort, all right.
The get of sirs and lords, and bounders every last one of ’em.
And there’s no need to be telling me I’ve no one but myself to blame. Think I don’t know it?”
When Sebastian remained silent, the merchant swiped a trembling hand across his face. “You reckon that’s what this is all about? That lot have finally gone and done something nasty to the wrong man, and he’s payin’ them back for it—with interest?”
“I don’t have any proof, but it seems distinctly possible, yes.”
“Son of a bitch,” he swore, starting to turn away. Then he swung back around to face Sebastian again. “What the hell did those stupid jackasses do that would drive someone to murder? Murder! Do you know?”
“I’ve heard of a half dozen things that might conceivably have inspired someone with a thirst for revenge, but I can only guess at what I haven’t heard.”
Royston-Jones nodded. “Last time I saw Emmanuel, he was telling me about how he ran into that lot a few weeks ago in St. James’s Street and was standing there, talkin’ to ’em, when some poor sod comes up swearing about how he was gonna see ’em all in hell for tearing his coffeehouse apart.”
Adam York, thought Sebastian. But all he said was, “Do you remember any other similar incidents Emmanuel might have told you about?”
Royston-Jones shook his head. “I’ve never made a secret of what I think of that lot and their antics. Emmanuel usually knows better than to talk about them around me.”
“I was under the impression he’d been keeping his distance from them lately.”
“Has he? I didn’t know that.”
“He never said anything to you about it—about why he’d quit seeing much of them?”
“No. We’ve never been what you might call close.
I know he’s always thought I pushed him too hard when he was a lad, but…
” He swallowed. “All I ever wanted was for him to have the chance to be what I can never be: a gentleman. A man respected for more than his wealth. A man who doesn’t need to worry that people are snickering behind his back, calling him an uncouth mushroom, and laughing about the way he talks, about how he hasn’t a notion of how to go on in polite society.
Think I don’t know what people say about me?
I know. And I wanted somethin’ more for Emmanuel. Is that so wrong?”
“He’s a fine young man,” said Sebastian. “A son any father would be proud of.”
Royston-Jones raised his brandy to his lips and drained it in one long pull before saying bluntly, “You think he’s dead, don’t you?”
Sebastian shook his head, although it was a lie.
Impossible not to remember that last Sunday Phineas Upcott had similarly left his rooms without saying where he was going.
It was only by chance that his body had been discovered so quickly.
But Sebastian wasn’t about to say any of that to this frightened, grief-stricken father. “I wouldn’t give up hope yet.”
Royston-Jones set his empty glass aside, then glanced up, his bruised-looking eyes swimming with unshed tears.
“He’s my only son, you know—my only child.
If he’s gone, what’s it all been for—all my hard work all these years?
For my own vanity? God help me, but I’m a fool.
” He reached for the hat he’d tossed on one of the end tables and slammed it back on his head.
“You’ll let me know if you learn anything? Anything at all?”
“Of course.”
Royston-Jones nodded and turned toward the door, his lips pressed tightly together as if he no longer trusted himself to speak.
“Zacharia Royston-Jones didn’t fight in the American War,” said Hero later, when Sebastian climbed the stairs to find her sitting cross-legged on the rug before the nursery’s fireplace, building a tower of colored blocks with Miss Guinevere. “He was never even in the Army—or the Navy.”
“No,” Sebastian agreed, shifting a pile of nursery books so he could settle into the nearby overstuffed armchair.
“Which means that if Emmanuel has indeed been murdered—and I seriously suspect he has—then all my speculation in that direction was a dead end.” He paused.
“Unless of course Emmanuel was killed for the same reason as Alison Cross—not because of something his father did, but because of something Emmanuel himself knew.”
Hero watched Guinevere carefully wrap her small fist around another block, then looked up. “So where is the body?”
“Lucan mentions three of the Celtic gods to whom human sacrifices were made. The offerings to Teutates were drowned, those to Taranis were burned, and those to Esus were hanged from trees. But according to Erasmus Inkberry, the Celts had numerous other divinities, some of which were earth gods and goddesses. And in most ancient societies, sacrifices to earth gods were buried. Remember how the Romans used to bury the errant vestal virgins alive?”
Hero stared at him. “You think that’s why Emmanuel hasn’t been found? Because he’s buried someplace?”
“It seems plausible, doesn’t it?”
“That poor man,” she whispered. “That poor, poor man.”