What Darkness Brings

Chapter 45



Friday, 25 September


E

arly the next morning, Hero walked into the dining room of Jarvis House in Grosvenor Square to find her father looking over a stack of reports while consuming a solitary breakfast. Wordlessly, she closed the door in the footman’s face and leaned back against it.

“This is ominous,” said Jarvis, his gaze still fixed on the papers in his hand.

She pushed away from the door and came to stand in front of him. “You knew Devlin was not Hendon’s son, yet you chose not to tell me. Why?”

He looked up, his face—as always—inscrutable. “Under the circumstances, I saw no point. Are you suggesting it would have altered your decision to marry, had you known the details surrounding his birth?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

He dropped the report he held beside his plate and leaned back in his chair. “So Devlin finally told you himself, did he?”

“Yes.” She pulled out the chair beside him and sat. “Devlin says he doesn’t know who his father is. Do you?”

“Unfortunately, no. Believe me, I have tried over the years to discover the man’s identity. One never knows when such information might prove useful. But none of my attempts have thus far met with success.” He templed his hands before him. “Did Devlin also tell you that his mother still lives?”

“She what?”

“Omitted that little detail, did he?” Jarvis reached for his snuffbox and calmly opened it with the flick of a finger. “Oh, yes. She’s still quite alive. Although as it happens, he does not know where she is.”

Hero watched him lift a delicate pinch to one nostril. “But you do, don’t you?”

He inhaled sharply and smiled. “I think perhaps I shouldn’t answer that question.”

Her gaze met his. “You just did.”



It occurred to Sebastian that the more he learned about Daniel Eisler, the more he found it a wonder that someone hadn’t killed the nasty bastard years before.

Eisler’s life had been populated by an endless stream of desperate men and women upon whom he inflicted financial ruin, sexual degradation, and burning humiliation. Sebastian knew the names of some of his victims—but only some. The number of people who’d wished the man dead must have been beyond counting. And Sebastian had less than twenty-four hours to find the one who’d finally given in to his—or her—lethal urges.

Both Blair Beresford and Jacques Collot had admitted wanting to kill the diamond merchant. Would someone who actually followed through on his murderous impulses admit to them? Sebastian didn’t think so. But then, he’d learned long ago the fallacy of assuming others shared his own nature.

Yet he also found himself wondering, Why now? After decades of successfully cheating, blackmailing, and exploiting those unfortunate enough to stumble into his web, why had Eisler finally paid the ultimate price for his greedy machinations? Had he simply misjudged the wrong man? Or had he fallen afoul of forces too powerful for him to control?

Sebastian was seated at his breakfast table pondering these questions when a distant peal sounded at the front door. A moment later, Morey appeared to clear his throat and bow.

“A gentleman to see you, my lord. Colonel Otto von Riedesel apologizes for the incivility of calling upon your lordship at this hour but wishes to stress the importance of his errand.”

“Show him in—and bring him a tankard of ale.” Sebastian glanced down at the black cat seated on the rug at his feet. “And you behave.”

Green eyes gleaming, the cat flicked its tail and looked vaguely evil.

The colonel came in with a quick step that jangled the spurs at his boots and swirled the black cape he wore thrown over his shoulders. “Please, do not get up,” he said. “My apologies for interrupting your repast.”

“May I offer you something, Colonel?”

“Thank you, but no.” He held his black shako beneath one arm; raindrops quivered on the ends of his mustache and on the high blue collar of his black dolman. “I require only a moment of your time.”

“Please, sit down.”

“Thank you.”

Von Riedesel sat, bringing with him all the scents of a rainy morning mingled with the odor of warm horseflesh, as if he had only just come in from exercising his hack in the park. He smoothed the splayed fingers of one hand down over his face, wiping the moisture from his mustache. Then he hesitated, evidently at a loss as to how to begin.

Sebastian said, “I take it you’ve heard of the death of Jacques Collot?”

Von Riedesel nodded, his normally ruddy cheeks pale.

“You knew him?”

“Me? No. But I knew of him—of his involvement in the theft at the Garde-Meuble.” The man’s voice was strained, his accent more pronounced than usual. “Vhy vas he killed? Do you know?”

“Presumably because someone was afraid that he might talk.”

The Brunswicker rested his forearms on the tabletop and leaned into them. “But vhat could he know?”

“Well, he knew the late Duke once possessed a certain large blue diamond.”

“Sir!” Von Riedesel sat back sharply. “If you mean to suggest—”

“That you had a reason to kill him? Well, you did, didn’t you?”

The Brunswicker surged to his feet. “I refuse to stay here and—”

“Sit down,” said Sebastian. “Since you’re here, you might as well answer some of my questions. Unless, of course, you prefer that I address them to the Princess?”

“I ought to call you out for this!”

Sebastian chewed and swallowed. “But you won’t, because that would draw the attention of the public—not to mention the Prince Regent—precisely where you don’t want it. Sit.”

The colonel sat.

Sebastian cut another slice of ham. “Daniel Eisler had a nasty habit of collecting damaging information about people—especially important, vulnerable people.” He paused to glance over at the colonel, who sat staring rigidly ahead. “It occurs to me that he could have discovered something Princess Caroline did not want publicly known. Something such as the details of the sale of her father’s jewels, perhaps? Or was it proof of her extramarital dalliances?”

“Whoever told you Eisler had damaging information about the Princess was lying.”

“Actually, you told me.”

“Me? But I never—”

“Otherwise, why are you here?”

New beads of moisture had appeared on the Brunswicker’s full cheeks. Only, this time it was sweat, not rain.

Sebastian said, “Eisler wasn’t your typical blackmailer. He liked to use his information to torment people, or to bend them to his will. So what did he want from the Princess?”

“I can’t tell you that!”

“Did she give him what he wanted?”

Von Riedesel pressed his lips into a thin, flat line, then nodded curtly. “Yes.”

Sebastian gave up on his breakfast and leaned back in his chair. “You’ve served and protected the Duke’s daughter for more than a decade. I can’t see you standing idly by while a nasty little diamond merchant threatened her.”

“You are suggesting—vhat? That I vent to his home Sunday night and put a bullet through him?” If the Brunswicker’s face had been pale before, it was now suffused with color. “As it happens, I spent last Sunday evening in the company of a voman of my acquaintance—and no, I have no intention of telling you her name.” He pushed to his feet, the movement so violent the chair toppled over, startling the cat. “Good day to you, sir!”

He had almost reached the door when Sebastian said, “Tell me this: Did the Prince know about Eisler’s interest in his wife’s affairs?”

Von Riedesel paused at the door to look back at him. “No. But I’ll tell you who did know.”

“Who?”

A gleam of malicious triumph flashed in the Brunswicker’s small brown eyes. “Jarvis. Jarvis knew.”



Half an hour later, Sebastian was on the verge of leaving to make a formal call on his father-in-law when he received a message from Sir Henry Lovejoy. Jud Foy had been discovered sprawled against one of the tombstones in St. Anne’s churchyard.

Dead.