He took a long pull of his brandy and felt it burn deep in his chest. “Your father thinks I’m putting you at risk simply by looking into Preston’s murder.”
“Well, that’s something you two have in common, then—needlessly worrying about Simon and me, I mean.” She shifted her hand to scratch the cat beneath his chin, the feline’s eyes slitting with pleasure as he lifted his head. “Jarvis tells me Charles I’s head is missing, as well as the coffin strap.”
Sebastian went to stand before the fire. “Saw him, did you?”
“This afternoon, when Simon and I were visiting my mother. He’s not exactly pleased with you, is he?”
“Is he ever?”
A gleam of amusement showed in the gray eyes that were so much like her father’s. “No.” The amusement faded. “Do you have any idea yet how the theft from the royal vault figures into Preston’s murder?”
“Oh, I’ve plenty of ideas. And not a bloody clue which—if any—of them are right. I don’t even know who brought the coffin strap to the bridge that night. It could have been the original thief, or a dealer, or the killer—assuming that the thief or dealer isn’t the killer. Or even Preston himself.”
“Why would Preston be carrying it?”
Sebastian shrugged. “Perhaps he was taking it to show someone. Or perhaps he’d just purchased it.” He tilted his head back and moved it slowly from side to side in a futile attempt to loosen some of the tension he carried in his neck. “If the strap had been left beside the body, I might think the killer intended it as some sort of statement or warning. But it wasn’t; it was lying in weeds down near the creek, as if someone had simply dropped it.”
“Perhaps the killer did leave it with the body. Only, someone else came along and picked it up. Someone who then dropped it in fright. Or perhaps the killer was stealing it and he dropped it.”
“I can see Thistlewood or Priss Mulligan taking the coffin strap. But not Oliphant or Wyeth.”
She smiled. “You complained last night that you had almost no suspects. Now you have almost too many: the unknown relic thief; a vindictive ex-governor; a scorned Army captain; a rival curiosity collector; and a nasty secondhand dealer.”
“Don’t forget the banker who quarreled with Preston right before he was killed. I haven’t even been able to speak with him yet.”
“What’s his name? Do you know?”
Sebastian nodded. “Henry Austen. I spoke to his sister.”
“You mean, Jane Austen?”
“Yes. You know her?”
“I met her a few times at a friend’s salon last year. She’s a deceptively clever woman with a devastating wit.”
“She is indeed. She tells me Preston was angry with her brother over something Austen’s wife said.”
“Sounds like a rather silly argument over which to kill someone.”
“True. Yet men have killed for less. And he is the last person known to have seen Preston alive.” Sebastian drained his glass and set it aside. Then his gaze fell on the set of three slim blue volumes that rested on the table beside her chair, and he said, “Don’t tell me you’re reading this new anonymous novel as well?”
“My mother gave it to me. It’s quite entertaining.” She scooped the cat up into her arms and laughed out loud when he stiffened and widened his eyes in indignation. “And I’ve found the perfect name for you,” she told the cat. “It precisely captures your charming blend of arrogance and aloofness—and your impressive handsomeness, of course.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Mr. Darcy.”
Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
She let the cat go and smiled as he jumped down in disgust. “Then you must read the book.”
Chapter 22
Wednesday, 24 March
T he next morning, Sebastian was standing on the corner of Henrietta Street, his gaze drifting over the facade of Henry Austen’s bank, when a tall, slim man in a neatly tailored blue coat and high-crowned beaver hat emerged from the bank’s entrance and walked across the street toward him.
He looked to be in his early forties, with a long face and aristocratic nose and a military carriage that lingered still. His small, thin mouth curled up in a pleasant smile that was probably habitual, and he looked enough like his sister that Sebastian had no difficulty identifying him.
“I thought I’d save my clerk the trauma of another visit from you and simply come out,” said Henry Austen, drawing up before him.
“Was he traumatized?” asked Sebastian as the two men turned to walk along Bedford Street, toward the Strand and Fleet Street.
“He likes to pretend he is, at any rate.” Austen threw him a swift, sideways glance. “My sister warned me to expect a visit from either you or Bow Street. Am I a suspect?”
“Bow Street thinks you are.”
Austen pressed his lips together and drew in a deep breath that flared his nostrils. “It’s because of that blasted incident in the pub the other night, is it?”
“Is there another reason Bow Street should suspect you?”
“Good God, no.”