What Darkness Brings

Chapter 16



T

he rain was coming down hard by the time Sebastian walked in his front door. “Is Lady Devlin at home?” he asked, handing his hat and gloves to his majordomo, a former gunnery sergeant named Morey.

“She is, my lord,” said Morey, carefully wiping the moisture from Sebastian’s top hat. “I believe you will find her in the drawing room with an elderly gentleman, one Mr. Benjamin Bloomsfield. I’ve just taken up some tea.”

“Thank you.”

Sebastian could hear the low drone of an elderly man’s quavering voice as he mounted the stairs to the first floor.

“I don’t think you’ll find many in London who are mourning his passing,” he heard the man say.

“He was a shrewd bargainer?” asked Hero.

“Shrewd? That’s one word for it.”

Sebastian could see their visitor now, seated in a chair drawn up beside the hearth. The man was indeed aged, his long flowing beard as white as Eisler’s snowy owl, the bony fingers he held templed before him gnarled with arthritis and palsied with age. He wore an ill-fitting black coat, old-fashioned in cut and somewhat the worse for wear. But his light brown eyes were still sharp with intelligence, the sallow, lined flesh of his face settled into a pattern of gentle good humor that spoke of a life spent laughing at the vicissitudes of fate and the absurdities of his fellow men. No one seeing his scuffed shoes and darned stockings would ever imagine that he was one of the wealthiest men in London, with interests that ranged from banking and shipping to fur, wheat . . .

And diamonds.

“The truth is that Daniel Eisler was a vicious, unscrupulous scoundrel, and the world is a better place with him out of it.” The old man turned his head as Sebastian paused in the doorway and made a motion as if to push himself out of his chair.

“No, please, sir, don’t get up,” said Sebastian, going to clasp the old man’s hand. “We’ve never met, Mr. Bloomsfield, but I’ve heard much of your charitable work. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, young man. I’ve known Miss Jarvis here—excuse me, Lady Devlin, for years now, although I must admit I’d quite despaired of ever seeing her settled with a family of her own. You are to be congratulated for both your good fortune and your good sense.”

Sebastian glanced over at Hero in time to see a faint flush of color darken her cheeks. Then she looked pointedly away and said with painful politeness, “Would you like some tea, Devlin?”

He swallowed a smile. “Yes, please.”

Bloomsfield said, “Your wife tells me you believe this young man the authorities have arrested is innocent.”

“I do, yes.” A small fire had been kindled to chase away the evening’s growing chill, and Sebastian went to stand before it. “You knew Eisler, did you? I gather he was a widower.”

Bloomsfield shook his head. “To my knowledge, the man never married. Lived alone for years in that wreck of a house with only two old servants to wait on him.”

“I’ve seen the house. It’s somewhat overflowing with furniture and art.”

Bloomsfield huffed a mirthless laugh. “You mean it looks like a glorified pawnshop. Which is essentially what it was.”

“Do you mean to say Eisler was in the habit of giving loans?” asked Hero, handing Sebastian a cup of tea.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a habit, exactly. ‘Business’ is more like it. His rates were ruinous and his terms outrageous. He used to insist that his victims—excuse me, his clients—leave several valuable items with him as collateral. Paintings, statues . . . even furniture, if it was fine enough.”

“And gems?”

“Oh, yes, he was especially fond of gems. Needless to say, very few of his clients ever managed to reclaim their property—even when they paid off their loans.”

Sebastian took a sip of his tea. “Someone told me there must be any number of people in London who are glad to see Eisler dead. I’m beginning to understand what they meant.”

Bloomsfield nodded. “I heard recently of a young nobleman who took the family’s emeralds to have them cleaned before presenting them to his new wife, only to discover they were all paste. His mother’d had them copied and hocked the original stones to Eisler to pay her gambling debts. The young marquis threatened Eisler with legal action—they weren’t hers to sell, after all. But in the end he gave it up.”

“Why?” asked Hero.

Bloomsfield lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I never heard. But it’s not unusual. Did you know that more than half the gems in the British Crown Jewels are paste? The originals have been pawned over the years to pay for our various illustrious monarchs’ wars.”

“Not to mention their mistresses,” said Hero.

Bloomsfield’s soft brown eyes danced with amusement. “That too.”

Sebastian said, “I understand Eisler was handling the sale of a large diamond for someone. Did he do that sort of thing? Negotiate the sale of jewels for other people?”

“Frequently, yes.”

“Why?” asked Hero. “I mean, I can see why Eisler would do it, since he’d obviously make a fat commission on the transaction. But why wouldn’t a gem’s owner simply sell it openly?”

“Typically because they don’t want anyone to know that they’re selling. In general, if you hear a collector is selling one or more of his specimens, it’s a fairly good indicator that he’s found himself in financial difficulties. And that’s the kind of information most men don’t care to make common knowledge.”

“Do you know of any gem collectors who are selling at the moment? Particularly someone with a large blue diamond?”

Bloomsfield shook his head, although he looked vaguely troubled. “I haven’t heard of anyone, no.”

“What?” asked Sebastian, watching him.

“Did you say a large blue diamond?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“It’s just . . . They’re very rare, you know. The only specimen I can think of that might fit such a description—” He broke off and shook his head again. “No, that’s impossible.”

“So you do know of such a diamond?”

The old man leaned forward in his seat, his hands gripping the chair’s arms, a surge of excitement quickening his voice. “I’m not aware of a large blue diamond currently in anyone’s collection. But I do know of such a specimen that was lost. And what is interesting is that it was lost exactly twenty years ago this month. Are you familiar with le diamant bleu de la Couronne?” He glanced from Sebastian to Hero.

Both shook their heads. “No.”

“In English it’s known as the ‘French Blue.’ It was once part of the French Crown Jewels. They say it came out of India as an enormous roughly cut triangular stone of over a hundred carats. Louis XIV bought it for the French Crown and had it recut and set, I believe, into a cravat pin.”

“Must have made a very large cravat pin,” said Hero.

Bloomsfield’s eyes twinkled. “True. But then, Louis XIV was quite a large man. His successor Louis XV had it remade as the focal point of a magnificent Emblem of the Golden Fleece.”

“What happened to it?”

“It disappeared along with the rest of the French Crown Jewels during the Revolution—the week of 11 September 1792, to be exact. It has never been recovered.”

“The twenty years is significant,” said Sebastian. “Why?”

“Because in 1804, Napoléon passed a decree establishing a twenty-year statute of limitations for all crimes committed during the Revolution—although I’ve no doubt the French royal family would dispute the sale of the diamond and claim ownership, if they heard about it.”

Hero set aside her teacup. “Which would be another good reason for trying to sell the diamond quietly.”

“True,” said Bloomsfield.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, growing louder and louder as the wind dashed a driving rain against the drawing room’s windowpanes.

Sebastian said, “If Eisler were peddling the French Blue, who would the likely buyers be?”

Bloomfield sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the fire and blew out a long, troubled breath.

“Who?” asked Hero, watching him.

He looked up, his features drawn. “Prinny. That’s who I would try to sell it to, if I were Eisler. The Prince Regent.”