Sebastian understood why Lucien had been reluctant to divulge the contents of his mother’s message. It was one thing for malcontents on the streets of Paris to whisper about Napoléon abdicating in favor of his son. But it was something else entirely for the Emperor to actually be considering it.
“The other French agent here in Ayleswick,” said Sebastian, “who is it?” It was a question he was afraid he already knew the answer to, but he found he was still hoping to be proven wrong.
Lucien Bonaparte chewed the inside of one cheek and gave Sebastian a glassy stare.
“God damn it; who is it?”
“I don’t know. Flanagan always called him ‘our friend.’ But I never learned his identity. It’s the way these things are structured; you must know that. The messages are sent in a sealed packet from Paris to the ship. Then, once the ship arrives off your shore, the packet is handed to whoever is in charge of the horses that collect the cargo from the beach. They carry it here to Ayleswick.”
“And give it to whom? Weston?”
“Pphff.” Bonaparte pushed a derisive breath out between his front teeth. “The man is an idiot content to pocket a few dollars here and there. Who would trust him?”
“So who? Who took delivery of the packets and passed them to Flanagan to carry to you? He’s the man who’s actually been running Weston’s little smuggling operation from the very beginning, isn’t he? From long before you were sent to Shropshire.”
“I don’t know who he is! You must believe me.”
“Why the bloody hell should I?”
“Because it’s the truth.” Bonaparte’s horse began to sidle, and he tightened his grip on its reins. “I don’t understand the reason for all this killing. Why is it happening?”
“Because Emma Chandler was at the priory sketching when Daray Flanagan and the man you call your ‘friend’ arrived. She must have accidently seen or heard something that betrayed their links to Paris, and they killed her for it.”
“But Flanagan’s friend wasn’t there!”
“Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. You say Flanagan knew about Hannibal Pierce. If that’s true, his ‘friend’ probably came along that day for the sake of security.”
“And you’re saying this man has now killed Flanagan? But why?”
“Because he’s afraid of being exposed. Flanagan was expendable, but his ‘friend’ isn’t; another courier can always be brought in.”
“But all this killing! It’s too much. Too much.”
“You’re certain you don’t know who he is?”
“No!”
“Then you’d best hope he believes that.”
Lucien Bonaparte gave him a strange look. “Why?”
“Because I wouldn’t put it past him to kill you too.”
“Me?”
“Why not?”
The Corsican opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again.
Sebastian said, “Still certain you don’t know who he is?”
Lucien Bonaparte gave a short, jerky shake of his head, his forehead beaded with sweat, his lips twitching with fear.
And in spite of himself, Sebastian believed the man.
Chapter 57
The hollow twunk of an axe slicing into wood echoed in the sultry stillness of the afternoon as Sebastian approached the small stream that led to the old priory.
He followed the sound around the side of Heddie Kincaid’s cottage, to a dirt yard where Jenny Dalyrimple was chopping lengths of wood into kindling. Her face was flushed and sheened with sweat, and she threw him a quick glance over one shoulder before reaching for another section of wood to rest on the block before her.
He came to a halt some distance from her. “Tell me about your cousin, Sybil Moss.”
Jenny swung her axe, and the wood on the block shattered. “What about her?”
“Do you know the name of the gentleman she was seeing at the time she died? The one who put a babe in her belly?”
“Course I know it.”
“Tell me about him.”
She reached for another length of wood but simply held it, her gaze on his face. “You really want to hear it?” The words were like a challenge thrown at him.
“Yes.”
She set the section of wood on the block and swung again, splitting it neatly, the lean muscles in her shoulders and arms working beneath the thin cloth of her dress. Then she turned to face him, her breath coming hard and quick from her exertion. “All right; I’ll tell you, then. It was Leopold Seaton—the present Lord Seaton’s father.”
Sebastian searched her tightly held, sweat-sheened features, looking for some sign of calculation or deception. But he found only contempt and an old, old anger.
He said, “Is it possible Lord Seaton killed her?”
For a long moment, Sebastian didn’t think she meant to answer him. Then she set her jaw and shook her head. “No. Not in the way you mean.”
“What about Lady Seaton? Could she have done it?”