Lord Peter Radcliff was one of those men who wore the dignity of his exalted birth with an easy grace and a good-natured smile. Born into a life of rare wealth and privilege, he was a duke’s second son, which meant that all responsibility for maintaining the family’s vast estates and managing their considerable investments fell not to him but to his elder brother. To Lord Peter came a handsome allowance and the freedom to spend his days as he saw fit, lounging in the famous bow window at White’s, hunting in Melton Mowbray, and surrounding himself with a circle of bon vivants known for their exquisite manners, their flawless taste, and their willingness to bet on almost anything.
Like his friends Beau Brummell and Lord Alvanley, he’d once enjoyed a brief career in a fashionable London regiment. But he soon sold out to devote himself to the less demanding activities of a man-about-town. His marriage eight years before to one of the most beautiful women in London had little altered his way of life. Which was why, rather than look for Lord Peter at his comfortable house in Half Moon Street, Sebastian spent the evening moving from one gentlemen’s haunt to the next, from White’s in St. James’s Street to Watier’s in Piccadilly, and then on to Limmer’s—all without success.
He was sipping a fine French cognac in a fashionable coffeehouse near Conduit Street when Lord Peter entered the room and walked straight up to him.
“Why the devil are you looking for me?” he demanded, the fingers of one hand tapping against his hard thigh.
Sebastian leaned back in his seat. “I think you know.”
Radcliff hesitated a moment, then ordered a brandy, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat. “I saw you at the French chapel.”
Sebastian brought his cognac to his lips and regarded the Duke’s son over the glass’s rim. “You were friends with Damion Pelletan?”
“Me? No.” Radcliff propped one exquisitely polished boot on the other knee. The posture was casual, relaxed. He had a reputation amongst his friends for easygoing charm and boundless generosity, although Sebastian knew there were those who had seen another side of him, a side that could be brusque and condescending and freezingly arrogant. “I went for the sake of my wife. He was a friend of hers when she was a child, in Paris.”
“But you did know him?”
“I met him once or twice.” He gave Sebastian a hooded, sideways glance. “To be frank, I don’t quite understand why you’ve involved yourself in this. The papers are saying he was killed by footpads in St. Katharine’s.”
“He was killed in St. Katharine’s, yes. But footpads had nothing to do with it.”
Radcliff was silent for a moment, his gaze dropping to the glass he twirled back and forth between his hands. He was still an attractive man, with a wide, winning smile. But in repose, one could see that the years of dissipation were beginning to leave their marks in telltale ways, coarsening the texture of his flesh and loosening the muscle tone of his still trim frame.
Sebastian said, “What can you tell me about him? You say your wife knew him in Paris?”
Radcliff seemed to rouse himself from his brown study. “She did, yes. They grew up next door to each other on the ?le de la Cité. His father is still a prominent physician at the H?tel-Dieu or some such place.”
“Oh?”
Radcliff frowned. “I seem to recall hearing about a dustup of some sort or another involving the father, but it was years ago. Something to do with the royal family during the Terror. I couldn’t tell you exactly what.”
“What do you know of Damion Pelletan’s politics?”
“Politics?” Radcliff shook his head. “I had the impression Pelletan had no interest in politics. His passion was medicine.”
It struck Sebastian as more than a little strange that someone with no interest in politics would join a peace delegation, even if simply in the capacity of a physician. But all he said was, “When was the last time you saw him?”
Radcliff took a slow, deliberate sip of his brandy, as if carefully considering his response. “I don’t recall, precisely. A week ago, perhaps? Maybe more.”
“Not last Thursday night?” asked Sebastian, thinking of the unidentified man and woman who had visited Pelletan at the Gifford Arms the night of his death.
Radcliff froze with his glass suspended just above the table. All traces of easygoing bonhomie had vanished, leaving him looking mulish and vaguely sulky. “No; not Thursday night. I spent Thursday night at home alone with my wife.”
“All night?”
“Yes, damn you.”
Sebastian thrust out his legs to cross his boots at the ankles. “You say you attended Pelletan’s funeral for the sake of your wife. Is she distressed by his death?”
“Of course she is. What do you expect? They were old friends.”