Which did not, he realized, exactly answer his question.
Their gazes met. And he knew it again, that awareness that no matter how close they might become, Jarvis’s shadow—and Hero’s loyalty to her father—would always be between them.
She said, “After everything you’ve learned about Eisler—the blackmail, the financial exploitation, the sexual debauchery—you still think the mystery surrounding this blue diamond is somehow involved in his death?”
“Somehow, yes.”
She nodded as if coming to a decision and rose to her feet. “Then you might find it useful to speak to a certain colonel in the Black Brunswickers named Otto von Riedesel. He was in Spain with Wellington up until a few months ago, when he was wounded. But before that he served the old Duke of Brunswick.”
Sebastian swiped the towel at a drop of water running down his cheek, then tossed it aside. A corps of volunteers raised by the current Duke of Brunswick to fight against Napoléon, the Black Brunswickers were known for their brutality.
And for their fierce desire for revenge.
Chapter 33
Wednesday, 23 September
A
t dawn the next morning, Colonel Otto von Riedesel was exercising a magnificent black Hanoverian on the Row in Hyde Park when Sebastian brought his own Arab mare in beside him.
The colonel glanced over at Sebastian, then looked away, his jaw set hard. A big man with a full ruddy face, small brown eyes, and a swooping mustache, he wore the uniform of the Black Brunswickers—or the Black Horde, as they were sometimes called. As a symbol of their state of mourning for the occupied Duchy of Brunswick—now under the control of Napoléon—the corps’ entire uniform was black: black boots, black trousers, black dolman, black shako. The only touches of color came from the blue of his dolman’s collar and the Brunswicker silver death’s-head on his black shako.
The two men trotted along in a strained silence filled with the creak of saddle leather, the pounding of their horses’ hooves on the wet earth, the chorus of birdsong rising from the sparrows waking in the misty elms lining the path. At last, as if goaded beyond endurance, the Brunswicker exclaimed, “Vhat the hell do you vant from me?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
Von Riedesel gave a loud snort.
Sebastian said, “When Daniel Eisler was murdered, he had in his possession a large blue diamond. I’m told that diamond was previously held by the late Duke Carl Wilhelm of Brunswick.”
“I am a simple soldier. Vhat makes you think I know of such things?”
“The diamond in question is in all probability a recut version of a stone that once formed part of the French Crown Jewels.”
The colonel reined in hard, the red of his cheeks darkening to an angry hue, his horse chafing at the bit. “If you mean to suggest that the present Duke’s father allowed himself to be bribed into—”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Sebastian calmly. “I frankly couldn’t care less how the Duke came into possession of the French Blue. I want to know what happened to the gem between the time it was acquired by Carl Wilhelm and when it showed up in the possession of Daniel Eisler.”
“I told you; I know nothing of this.” Von Riedesel set his spurs to his horse’s sides, and the black Hanoverian leapt forward.
Sebastian kept pace with him. “You’re quite certain of that, are you?”
“Yes!”
“I suppose you’re right; I should have directed my questions to the Prince Regent. As the Duke’s son-in-law and executor of his will, Prinny would surely know what happened to the diamond after the Duke’s death.” Sebastian showed his teeth in a smile. “Sorry to have troubled you, Colonel. Good day.”
He was turning his horse’s head toward the gate when von Riedesel stopped him. “Wait!”
Sebastian paused, one eyebrow raised in inquiry.
“Ride on vith me a moment,” snapped the Brunswicker.
Sebastian fell in beside him again.
Von Riedesel said, “Vhat I have to tell you is in the strictest confidence.”
“Of course.”
The Brunswicker set his jaw. “Six years ago, vhen it became obvious that Napoléon was liable to overrun Brunswick, Duke Carl Wilhelm decided to send his jewel collection to his daughter for safekeeping.”
“You mean to Princess Caroline.”
“Yes.”
Sebastian studied the Colonel’s tight red face. “He entrusted you to bring it here, did he?”
Von Riedesel nodded. “I carried it in my personal luggage. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after I arrived in London that word reached us of the Duke’s death in battle. His vidowed Duchess—your own English Princess Augusta—fled to London and sought refuge with her daughter.” He hesitated, then said, “This was in 1806. You know of the shameful straits under which the Prince forced his wife to live?”