“Am I to take it you’re suggesting the gems implicate me in some way? And here I thought you believed me addicted to stealing jewels as opposed to using them to decorate the bodies of my alleged victims.”
“I think you failed the first time you tried to kill Foy, after Talavera. But since he couldn’t recall anything, it served your purpose just as well. Only, then he started remembering things, didn’t he? Not everything, perhaps, but enough to realize that you owed him. So he came looking for you, and you decided to shut him up permanently. You lured him into the churchyard on the pretext of paying him off with a pouch of small diamonds, and then you bashed in his head while he was distracted by the gems.”
Tyson’s smile hardened. “And then left them? What a curious thing to have done.”
“I can think of two logical explanations. It’s possible Foy had the diamonds in his hand when he fell, and in the darkness you couldn’t immediately find them. Then the sexton came to investigate the racket he’d heard, and you had to abandon the search and simply run.”
“And the second explanation?”
“You deliberately planted the diamonds on Foy to make it look as if he murdered Eisler.”
“So you’re suggesting—what? That I also killed Eisler? You can’t be serious.”
“I am, actually. You see, Eisler liked collecting damaging information about people, and you have a dangerous secret. One you share with Beresford. And Yates.”
Tyson laughed out loud.
Sebastian said, “You’re the only person I know with a motive to kill both men.”
Tyson was no longer laughing. “That doesn’t mean that I did it. Foy was mad. He’d discovered I recently sold a number of gems to Eisler, and he somehow convinced himself they were rightfully his. Eisler told me the fool accosted him one night, demanded Eisler turn over what he considered ‘his’ property. Threatened to kill him if he didn’t.”
“What would you have me believe? That Foy killed Eisler and stole the pouch of diamonds from him? And then . . . what? Fell victim to footpads?”
“It’s possible.”
Yes, it was possible, Sebastian thought. Foy himself had admitted to watching Eisler’s house, and he was just crazy enough to kill Eisler and take the jewels he considered rightfully his. But Sebastian didn’t think so.
He kept his gaze on the former lieutenant’s hard, even-featured face. “We both know you’re capable of murder.”
Tyson smiled. “That’s something we have in common, isn’t it? Captain.”
Chapter 47
T
hat afternoon, Kat Boleyn drove her high-perch phaeton to the Physic Garden in Chelsea. Leaving her horse in the care of her groom, she walked briskly down a dripping, mist-shrouded path to a secluded pond. When the days were fine, Kat could lose herself for hours in the old apothecary garden’s lush border beds and vast plantings. But on this day, she was in no mood to linger.
The man she had come to meet was already waiting for her at the water’s edge. He turned as she approached, a tall, powerful figure in shiny Hessians, fawn-colored breeches, and a well-tailored dark coat.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you,” he said, exaggerating his brogue. His name was Aiden O’Connell, and he was the younger son of the Earl of Rathkeale, an ancient Irish family long infamous for their enthusiastic cooperation with the invading English. Kat still found it difficult to believe that this man—young, handsome, rich—had chosen to risk everything by quietly working for Irish independence. Like Kat before him, he had decided that one of the best ways to help the Irish and weaken the English was to assist their enemies, the French.
He tipped his hat, a lazy smile deepening the two improbable dimples in his lean cheeks. “Is it too much to be hoping that you’ve had a change of heart and are willing to work with us again?”
“You know me better than that,” she said as they turned to walk along the banks of the pond, the mist wafting cold and damp against their faces.
“Ah, so I feared,” he said with a mournful sigh. “Then why, pray tell, are we braving one of the coldest September mornings I can remember to meet?”
“Because Russell Yates is about to hang for a murder he didn’t commit, and more people are dying every day.”
When the man beside her remained silent, she said, “You know about the French Blue?”
He squinted at the ghostly shapes of the chestnut trees on the far side of the pond. “I do, yes.”
“I need to find out who Napoléon has tasked with its recovery.”
“That I don’t know.”
She swung to face him, the heavy woolen skirts of her carriage dress swirling around their ankles. “Don’t know—or won’t tell?”
A soft light of amusement gleamed in the depths of his hooded green eyes. “Don’t know . . . but wouldn’t tell if I did.”
“Then at least tell me this: Is he English?”