“Oh?”
“Last Saturday evening, the captain was having a pint down in the public room when Stanley Preston came charging in and threatened to horsewhip him.”
“Yes, Wyeth told me of the incident.”
“Did he also tell you he threatened to kill the man?”
“Wyeth threatened to kill Stanley Preston?”
“That’s right. I thought at first the barman who told me the tale might be exaggerating a touch. But two of the other lads backed him up.”
“What was Preston’s reaction?”
“I gather he simply said, ‘You don’t scare me,’ and left.”
Sebastian glanced at the clock. “I think perhaps I need to have another chat with our gallant captain.”
Sebastian found Captain Hugh Wyeth standing beside the ring of the Life Guards riding school, his arms looped over the top rail of the fence and his gaze following a half dozen new recruits being put through their paces. The air was thick with the smell of saddle leather and horse sweat and a fine dust that shimmered in the spring sunshine.
“So what do you think?” asked Sebastian, coming to stand beside him, his gaze on the horses and riders in the ring before them.
“They’re green. But they’re willing and able. They’ll get there.” He glanced over at Sebastian. “Ever miss the Army?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why’d you sell out?”
Because I realized I wasn’t fighting on the side of good against evil, thought Sebastian, still watching the men in the ring. Because my own colonel sent me off with falsified dispatches and then betrayed me to the French. Because I trusted the wrong people, and dozens of innocent women and children died as a result.
But all he said was, “I grew tired of killing men who were much like me, except they spoke a different language and owed allegiance to a different country.”
Wyeth was silent for a moment, his hands tightening over the top rail, the smile lines fanning his eyes etched deep, although he was not smiling. “Those are not comfortable thoughts.”
“No.”
The captain narrowed his gaze against the dust. “Why are you here?”
“I’m wondering why you didn’t tell me that when Stanley Preston threatened to take a horsewhip to you, you swore you’d kill him.”
Wyeth blew out a long, painful breath.
Sebastian said, “It did happen, didn’t it?”
The captain nodded, his lips pressed into a tight line. Then he threw Sebastian an assessing, sideways glance. “You trying to convince me you never threatened to kill anyone? It’s the kind of thing a man says in anger—‘I could kill you.’ Or even, ‘I swear to God, I’ll kill you.’”
Sebastian thought about the number of times he’d sworn to kill his own father-in-law, but remained silent.
Wyeth said, “I won’t deny I wanted to kill the bastard. But I couldn’t have done it—even if he had tried to take a horsewhip to me. Don’t you understand? He was Anne’s father! She loved him, and his death has devastated her. I could never have done that to her.”
Sebastian studied the younger man’s handsome, earnest face. It was hard not to like Captain Wyeth. But Sebastian had known other handsome, seemingly charming men who were extraordinarily adept at projecting an intense impression of affability and sincerity when the reality was something quite different entirely.
“Tell me again what happened last Sunday night,” he said.
Wyeth shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Anne wrangled an invitation for me to Lady Farningham’s musical evening. But she had Miss Austen there with her, and we found it impossible to have any real private conversation together. So in the end, I left.”
“You’re saying Miss Preston spent Sunday evening in the company of Jane Austen?”
“That’s right. Why?”
Sebastian shook his head. “I hadn’t realized it. Go on.”
“That’s it, really. I left around ten. Only, I wasn’t in the mood to come back to the inn and drink with the lads, so I went for a walk.”
“Where?”
“Along Knightsbridge, mainly. I was just . . . walking.”
“See anyone?”
“No one I knew.”
“What about when you returned to the inn? Did anyone see you then?”
“No. I told you, I wasn’t in the mood to be sociable. I went straight up to my room. Why?”
Sebastian had asked the question because whoever killed Stanley Preston would surely have been splattered with blood. But all he said was, “Ever meet an elderly physician named Douglas Sterling?”
“The one who was found dead yesterday?” Wyeth shook his head. “No.” He stared off beyond the barracks, toward the park. “I’ve had the constables here again, questioning me. They think I did it, don’t they?”
“I’m afraid so. You’ve a powerful motive, no alibi, and considerable practice lopping off people’s heads.”
Wyeth gave a soft, rueful laugh. “They think I’m some sort of fortune hunter—like that fellow Wickham. Or Willoughby.”