Albert Felton Turnstall, Third Earl of Heyworth, stood beside the room’s central hearth, one arm laid along the mantelpiece in what was meant to be a relaxed pose but instead came off as studied. He was of average height but slight of frame, with reddish blond hair and swooping curly side-whiskers. Sebastian knew him slightly, for the Turnstalls spent some months of every year in London. He was somewhere in his early to mid-thirties, which meant that Emma Chandler was most likely the natural daughter of this man’s father, the Second Earl.
The Earl’s mother, the Dowager Countess of Heyworth, sat nearby on a tapestry-covered chair, her stout body rigid with anger, her color high, and her head thrown back. Sebastian had the distinct impression that mother and son had argued over whether to receive him and that both knew the reason for his visit.
“Lord Devlin,” said Heyworth with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “What an unexpected pleasure.” The emphasis on the word “unexpected” was subtle, but there.
The formalities were punctiliously observed, polite utterances mouthed, and Sebastian invited to sit. Yet all the while, the room vibrated with an undeniable tension.
Sebastian smiled at his host and said bluntly, “I gather you know why I’m here.”
Heyworth expelled his breath in a startled, nervous laugh. “Why, no. Are you by chance in the neighborhood?”
“Not far. At Ayleswick, in Shropshire. I assume you’ve heard of the recent murders there?”
Heyworth and the Dowager Countess exchanged guarded glances. Sebastian thought for a moment the Earl meant to deny all knowledge of the subject. But then he obviously realized the folly of trying to claim ignorance of something that had set the entire West Midlands to talking.
“Yes. Shocking, to be sure. I understand you’ve involved yourself in the investigations?”
“I have, yes. And I’m afraid we’ve recently discovered that the dead woman’s name was not Chance as previously believed, but Chandler.” He hesitated. “Emma Chandler.”
The Dowager Countess remained rigidly silent. But Heyworth, who had resumed his stance beside the fireplace, lifted one eyebrow in a show of polite interest. “Oh?”
“The name means nothing to you?”
“No. Should it?”
Sebastian glanced, again, at the Dowager Countess. She was perhaps sixty years of age, deep of bosom and round of face, with dark blond hair fading rapidly to gray. Once, she might have been pretty. But sixty years of haughtiness, conceit, contempt, and petulant self-indulgence had etched themselves into her face in ways that were not attractive. Sebastian had the impression that if it had been up to the Dowager, she would have denied him, that it was Heyworth who had insisted they brazen out the interview.
Sebastian said, “I should think it would, given that your family paid her fees at a Tenbury academy for something like fourteen years.”
Heyworth gave another of his breathy, unconvincing laughs. “I’m sorry, but whoever told you such a thing was mistaken.”
“Indeed?” Sebastian looked from the Third Earl to his silent, angry mother. “Well then, my apologies for disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” said Heyworth. “Shall I ring for a footman to show you out? I do hope you have more success elsewhere.”
“Perhaps I shall.” Sebastian rose to his feet. “Emma will be buried in the churchyard at Ayleswick, should you wish at any point in the future to pay your respects to your sister.”
“She was not my sister,” hissed Heyworth.
Sebastian smiled and started to turn toward the door. Then he paused, his attention arrested by the large painting that hung on the far wall.
A massive canvas, it was a life-sized portrait of an eighteenth-century family grouping set against a leafy background. Dressed in the splendid silks, velvets, lace, and opulent jewelry of a gentleman of the late 1780s or early 1790s, the Second Earl of Heyworth stood with one hand propped on his waist, his gaze off to one side as if he were surveying his estate with pride. He had his son’s sharp features but a much stronger chin, his long wig powdered and crimped in the style of the day, his half smile one of calm self-satisfaction and pride.
His Countess reposed beside him on a stone bench. The Dowager had indeed been quite lovely when young, her figure slender and well formed, her eyes a deep, almost violet blue, her hair fashionably powdered. Two children relaxed in the grass at her feet. The future Third Earl, Albert Felton Turnstall, looked to be perhaps twelve or thirteen years of age, his bored conceit captured by the artist with startling clarity. But it was the young girl beside him who drew and held Sebastian’s attention.
Some fifteen or sixteen years at the time she was painted, she was laughing down at a small kitten that clambered over her lap. Her smile was both vibrant and warm, and yet there was something about her posture that made her seem vaguely detached from both the artist painting her and the other members of her family. Her natural, unpowdered hair was the same rich, reddish blond as her brother’s, although she lacked his sharp nose and rather weak chin. In fact, she looked very much like a younger version of the woman sitting behind her.