“I was under the impression Preston had entailed his estates to the male line.”
“He did, yes; but I believe Anne stands to inherit some five thousand pounds invested in the Funds.”
“Now that Preston is dead,” said Sebastian.
Austen drew up and swung to face him. “Surely you don’t think Wyeth—” He broke off, as if unwilling to put the suggestion into words.
Sebastian paused beside him. “If not Wyeth, then who? Who do you think killed Preston?”
Austen shook his head. “I would hope I don’t number amongst my acquaintances anyone capable of such barbarity.”
“Yet Preston obviously did. Whether he realized it or not.”
Austen puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled a long breath. “You’re right, of course. Although I must admit, it’s troubling even to think about.” He looked out over the wide gray expanse of the river cut by the newly constructed arches of what would eventually be the Strand Bridge. “Try talking to Sir Galen. They’d been friends since Knightly was a lad. He’d be far more likely to know if the man had recently acquired a dangerous enemy. You’ll find him in his club’s reading room, this time of day.”
“Which club?”
“White’s, of course. He’s there every day from four until five. And he dines at Stevens every Wednesday and Sunday at half past six. He’s quite the creature of habit.”
Sebastian studied the banker’s long, scholarly face. That gentle, good-humored smile was firmly back in place. Yet there was an evasiveness, a lack of directness to his gaze, that was hard to miss. And Sebastian couldn’t escape the feeling that, like his sister, Henry Austen was hiding something.
He thanked the banker and started to turn away, only to pause and say, “Was Preston carrying anything when he came into the pub that night?”
Austen looked puzzled. “Such as what?”
“A strip of thin, old lead, about eighteen inches long. Or perhaps a larger, wrapped package or satchel of some kind?”
Austen thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “No, he couldn’t have been.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. I remember quite clearly; he came in with his arms held stiffly at his sides and his fists clenched. He couldn’t have been carrying anything.”
Chapter 23
S ir Galen Knightly was seated in one of the red bucket chairs in White’s reading room when Sebastian walked up to him. A cup of tea rested on the table beside him, and he was engrossed in his newspaper’s account of the previous evening’s session at the House of Lords.
Sebastian doubted anyone had ever described Sir Galen as dashing, or even handsome. But he was not an unattractive man, despite his angular, somewhat bladelike features. Although he was now in his early forties, his frame was still strong and solid, his dark hair little touched by gray. His clothes were those of a prosperous country gentleman, tailored for comfort rather than style, as sober and serious as the man himself.
According to gossip, Knightly’s father had been a notorious rake, a member of the infamous Hellfire Club well-known about London for his drunken excesses and addiction to deep play. It often seemed to Sebastian that Sir Galen lived his life as if determined to prove to the world that his character was not that of his scandalous father. Where the father had been profligate and intemperate, boisterous and careless, the son was steady, sober, and serious. Eschewing gaming hells, the track, and London’s ruinously expensive highfliers, he devoted himself to scholarship and the careful management of his estates, in both Hertfordshire and Jamaica. He had married, once, when young. But his wife died in childbirth, leaving him heartbroken and—if possible—more serious than ever.
At Sebastian’s approach, he looked up, his features set in grave lines.
“Do you mind?” asked Sebastian, indicating the nearby chair.
“No; not at all.” Sir Galen folded his newspaper and set it aside. “I take it you’re here about Preston?”
Sebastian settled into the chair and ordered a glass of burgundy. “I’m told you knew him well.”
“I did, yes. His largest plantation in Jamaica lies between the land I inherited from my great-uncle and that of my mother’s family.”
“Have you spent much time there? In Jamaica, I mean.”
Sir Galen reached for his tea and took a small sip. “I have, yes. After the death of my grandfather, I was sent to the island to live with my uncle. I find I miss it if I’m away from it too long.”
Something of Sebastian’s thoughts must have shown on his face, because Sir Galen said, “I’m told you’re a rather outspoken abolitionist.”
“Yes.”
Sir Galen stared down at the delicately patterned china cup in his hands, then set it aside. “It’s a dreadful institution. I don’t care what the Bible says; I can’t believe we were meant to own our fellow beings as if they were nothing more than cattle and horses.”