“It was Oliphant kept him from being hanged, when Wellesley was all for stringing him up in Lisbon, back in 1808.”
That would have been not long before Oliphant was made colonel of Sebastian’s regiment. He said, “What had Flynn done?”
“Killed a fellow officer in a fight over a woman. Flynn was the type best kept behind enemy lines. He had a habit of falling into trouble when left with too much time on his hands.”
“What does he do now?”
“I don’t know. Heard he found himself in a bit of an awkward spot in Jamaica.”
“He was in Jamaica? With Oliphant?”
Rutherford gave a shrug that could have meant anything. “Oh, not officially, of course. But a man like Diggory Flynn can be useful, if you know what I mean.”
“Where can I find him?” Sebastian asked again.
The lieutenant fingered his empty glass.
Sebastian ordered another.
Rutherford waited until the brandy appeared and took a drink before saying, “I honestly don’t know where you might find him. The fact is, you could run into him in the street and not recognize him. He’s that good.”
“What does he look like? I mean, really look like.”
The lieutenant frowned with the effort of memory. “Red hair. About my size, maybe a bit fleshier these days. He’s got one of those faces that blends easily into a crowd, although he’s right clever at shifting the way he looks. Don’t know how he does it. Only really distinctive thing about him is his eyes, and there’s nothing he can do about them.”
“His eyes?”
The lieutenant held up two fingers and pointed to his own somewhat bloodshot eyes. “One’s blue and the other’s brown. It’s the queerest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Sinclair, Lord Oliphant, entered his elegant, book-lined library and closed the door behind him. He carried a brace of candles, the flames flaring as he walked across the room to set it on the mantel. Then, as if becoming aware of another presence in the room, he froze.
“Turn around very carefully,” said Sebastian, thumbing back the hammer on his flintlock. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”
Oliphant pivoted slowly, his habitual, faintly contemptuous smile firmly in place, his hands spread out at his sides. “Who let you in?”
“Do you really need to ask?”
“Nice black eye.”
“Thank you.”
Oliphant’s gaze drifted to a nearby window, where the heavy velvet drapes shifted in a draft. But all he said was, “May I offer you a drink?”
“Thank you, but no.”
“Mind if I have one?”
“Not as long as you keep your hands in sight. And remember: I’d love an excuse to shoot you.”
“And hang for murder?”
“If necessary. The only reason you’re not dead already is because I want Diggory Flynn. And because as much as I might suspect you’re the one controlling him, I can’t prove it. Yet.”
Oliphant moved to where brandy and a set of glasses waited on a table beside the fire. His movements were deliberate but seemingly untroubled, as if he were still utterly in control of the situation.
“Diggory Flynn,” Sebastian said again. “I want him.”
Oliphant’s attention was all for the task of pouring his brandy. “Who?”
Sebastian found his finger tightening on the trigger and had to force himself to relax. “Allow me to refresh your memory: former exploring officer; hails from a vicarage in Buckinghamshire by way of Lisbon, where he should have hanged but, thanks to your intervention, did not.”
Oliphant set aside his decanter with a soft thump. “You’ve been very busy.”
“So has Flynn—or Barnes, or Brady, or whatever his real name happens to be. Except that rather than murdering me as intended, he shot and killed a Bishopsgate tavern owner who happens to look a fair bit like me.”
“Oh? Now, there’s a pity.”
“That an innocent man is dead? Or that I’m still alive?”
Oliphant turned to face him, the brandy cradled in one hand. “As it happens, an exploring officer who liked to use the name Diggory Flynn did once serve under me. But I haven’t seen him since I left Jamaica.”
“Why was he there?”
“In Jamaica?” Oliphant shrugged. “How should I know? Needless to say, we didn’t exactly move in the same social circles. In fact, Preston père et fils accused him of working with a gang of slave runners operating in the area.”
“The same allegations were made against you.”
“Nasty lies, of course. Unfortunately, in Flynn’s case I suspect the accusation may well have been true. He was arrested and sentenced to hang, only somehow managed to escape.”
“One of his talents.”
“Oh, he’s very talented.” Oliphant took a slow sip of his brandy. “My point is, the man you call Diggory Flynn had a powerful grudge against the Prestons.”
“You’re suggesting Flynn had his own reasons for killing Stanley Preston, are you?”
“The man always did have a tendency to carry a grudge.”
“What’s his real name?”
Oliphant huffed a laugh. “I honestly can’t remember.”