H enry Addington, First Viscount Sidmouth, stood at the edge of the crowded dance floor, an indulgent smile on his face as he watched his pretty, dark-haired daughter advancing through the movements of an energetic Scottish reel. Overhead, massive crystal chandeliers sparkled in the flickering light of a sea of candles. The air was thick with the smell of hot wax and expensive perfume and copious perspiration from the laughing, chattering, jewel-bedecked members of the ton. Sidmouth himself was looking more than a little damp.
So intent was the Home Secretary on watching his daughter’s progress that he remained oblivious to Sebastian’s approach until Sebastian said, “Ah; there you are.”
Sidmouth gave an uncomfortable start and glanced around as if looking for someplace to hide.
“I’ve been wanting to speak to you,” said Sebastian.
The Home Secretary’s jaw sagged, his eyes bulging. “Yes, I know. But . . . here?”
“We could step into one of the withdrawing rooms, if you’d prefer.”
“Perhaps you could come by my office tomorrow morning and—”
“No,” said Sebastian.
Sidmouth cleared his throat uncomfortably. “One of the withdrawing rooms, yes.” He led the way to a small alcove near the head of the stairs, then swung about to clear his throat and say in a low voice, “I’m told you’re working with Bow Street to solve this ghastly murder of my poor cousin.”
“I am, yes.”
“We weren’t close, you know,” said Sidmouth. “First cousins once removed.”
“But you did know him.”
“Yes, of course. Just not . . . well.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
The Home Secretary blinked rapidly. “Can’t really say, I’m afraid. But it’s been weeks. Yes, surely weeks—if not months.”
“Know anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”
Sidmouth looked shocked and vaguely offended by the suggestion. “Good gracious, no.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s long, pale face, with its patrician nose and incongruously heavy jaw. “I understand you know an elderly physician named Douglas Sterling.”
“Sterling?” Sidmouth gave a nervous laugh. “He was an early colleague of my father. What has he to do with anything?”
“When did you last see him?”
“Good gracious; I’ve no idea. Why?”
Rather than answer him, Sebastian said, “Tell me about Sinclair Oliphant.”
Sidmouth’s face went slack. “What?”
“Why was he recalled from Jamaica?”
The Secretary drew back his shoulders and affected a haughty, ministerial air. “I’m afraid I am not at liberty to discuss Home Office affairs.”
“But he was recalled.”
“The decision to return to England was Lord Oliphant’s own.”
“That’s not what I’m hearing.”
Sidmouth waved one white-gloved hand in a dismissive gesture. “Rumor. Nothing but rumor.”
“So you’re saying your cousin had nothing to do with it?”
The Home Secretary’s nostrils flared with the intensity of his indignation. “I beg your pardon?”
Sebastian met the man’s angry gaze and held it. “It has occurred to you, surely, that Oliphant might be responsible for Stanley Preston’s head ending up on Bloody Bridge? And that if he is, then you might be his next victim?”
Sidmouth’s eyes went wide, his assumption of ministerial magnificence slipping. “Good God; you aren’t seriously suggesting that Oliphant did that to Stanley?” Then he shook his head so vigorously he reminded Sebastian of a man coming in out of the rain. “No; I can’t believe it.”
“But something did happen between the two men.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“From what I’m hearing, there were few people with whom Stanley Preston didn’t quarrel at one time or another. Yet you would have me believe he never clashed with Oliphant while he was governor?”
“Yes, well . . . disputes between colonial governors and prominent local landowners are unfortunately all too frequent, you know.”
“And Stanley Preston had the advantage of being first cousin—once removed—to the Home Secretary.”
Rather than respond, Sidmouth kept his features composed into a politician’s practiced mask.
“If I were you, I’d be very careful,” said Sebastian, glancing significantly to where Sidmouth’s daughter was now skipping down the line of dancers on her partner’s arm.
He started to turn away, but Sidmouth’s hand flashed out, stopping him. “Surely you’re not suggesting that Oliph—that someone might threaten my daughter?”
Sebastian studied the Home Secretary’s twitchy, sweat-slicked face. “Look into what happened to the nuns and orphans of Santa Iria, then make up your own mind,” he said, and left Sidmouth standing at the entrance to the alcove, his long, normally self-satisfied face now pale and haggard.