Sebastian flipped back to the earlier drawing. It had rained later that evening, and Emma had drawn the storm clouds already pressing down dark and threatening over the landscape. But now, as he studied the ancient tumulus and the stand of trees that encroached upon it, he realized the scene was not entirely deserted. A half-grown, dark-haired boy in nankeens and a torn short coat stood near the trees, his head thrown back as he watched a peregrine circling overhead.
“Good heavens,” said Hero. “That looks like Charles Bonaparte.”
“Sunday?” said the Emperor Napoléon’s precocious young nephew. He sat on the top rail of the paddock fence where Hero and Sebastian had found him watching a groom put a colt through his paces. “Yes. I was out by the barrow. Why?”
“Do you recall seeing Emma Chandler there?” asked Hero.
Charles looked confused. “Chandler?”
“We’ve discovered that was Emma Chance’s actual name,” explained Sebastian.
“Was it really?” The boy’s eyes brightened with interest. “You mean, she was here under an alias? What was she? A spy? An assassin? A—”
“Did you see her at the barrow?” Sebastian asked again.
“Yes, sir.” He gripped the top rail and swung his legs back and forth in a way that reminded them that he was still very much a child. “She asked what I knew about the place. I told her that long barrows like that date back to the Stone Age and were probably used for burial chambers. She was very interested.” His eagerness faded away. “She was a nice lady. I’m sorry she’s dead.”
“Did you see the picture she drew out there?”
“I did, yes. She showed it to me. I wish I could draw like that. Wouldn’t it be grand?”
“Which of you left first?” asked Hero.
The boy looked from Hero to Sebastian, and back again. “She did. Why?”
Sebastian said, “Did she walk toward the village?”
“I don’t think I noticed which way she turned when she left. But I did see her again later, when I was on my way home.”
“Oh?”
“She was near the top of that small rise—you know the one? Just before you reach the crossroads.”
“What was she doing?”
“She was just standing by the hedgerow, talking to Crispin.” The boy hesitated, then added, “I think she was crying. And Crispin, he looked as angry as all get-out.”
Sebastian stared at him. “You mean, Crispin Seaton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you certain?” asked Hero.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said young Master Bonaparte. “I don’t think he saw me because he was focused so intently on her. But I remember it because I was surprised to see him. I mean, I thought he was still in the Lake District.”
“Did you tell anyone you’d seen him?” asked Sebastian.
“I said something to Mama the next day. But he never showed up at Northcott, and my mother told me I must have been mistaken.”
“Do you think were?”
Charles Bonaparte met his gaze, and there was something about his expression that made the boy seem older than his years. “I know I wasn’t.”
Chapter 48
Crispin Seaton sat beside the raw earth of Emma Chandler’s grave, his head bowed, his forearms resting on spread knees. He didn’t look up when Sebastian walked across the sunlit grass toward him. The sky was still brutally cloudless, and Crispin’s small bunch of meadow daisies and poppies was already beginning to wilt in the heat.
Sebastian said, “I’m sorry.”
The younger man nodded, his throat working hard as he swallowed. “I’ve been sitting here thinking about the first time I kissed her. The fields were dusted with a late snow and it was so cold, her nose was red, like a child’s. But then I kissed her, and her lips were so warm. I remember looking into her eyes, and they were so soft, so beautiful, I knew then that I could look at her forever and never tire of it. And now . . . now she’s down there in the ground. She can’t see or feel anything, and I’ll never be able to touch or look at her again. Ever.”
Sebastian raised his gaze to stare up the hill, toward the ruined medieval watchtower that stood guard over the village. “You told me you heard about Emma Chance’s death on your way back from the Lake District and suspected she might be Emma Chandler. Except, now I discover that you were actually here in Ayleswick that Sunday, the evening before she was killed. You saw her and you spoke with her. So why the lie?”
Crispin held himself very still, his hands dangling limply. Then his head fell back, displaying a face ravaged by grief. “How did you know?”
“You were seen.”
The younger man’s features pinched with puzzlement. “But . . . I didn’t ride all the way into Ayleswick. I hadn’t even reached the crossroads when I saw her walking along the road.” He drew in a shaky breath. “I couldn’t believe it was her.”
“You stopped?”
“Of course I stopped.”
“Did she tell you why she was here?”
Crispin nodded, his throat working visibly as he swallowed.
“Why was she crying?”
Crispin stared at him. “How did you know she was crying?”
“I told you; you were seen.” It said something about the intensity of the exchange between the two young lovers, that Seaton hadn’t even noticed Charles Bonaparte trotting down the road behind them. “Why was she crying?”
Crispin swiped a shaky hand over his face. “We were . . . arguing.”
“About what?”