The Earl was dozing in a chair beside the library fire in his massive Grosvenor Square town house when Sebastian came to pause in the doorway. Hendon was in his late sixties now, his body stocky and slightly stooped with age, his heavily jowled face lined and sagging, his hair almost white and beginning to thin.
Sebastian paused in the doorway, his gaze on the man he’d thought of as his father for twenty-nine years—the man the world still believed to be his father. Sebastian supposed that, in time, he would be able to forgive Hendon for all the lies of his growing-up years. But he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive the Earl for allowing those lies to drive Sebastian from the woman he’d once loved with all his heart and soul. The fact that Sebastian had found a new love in no way diminished either his anger or the hurt that fueled it. Yet as his gaze traveled over the old man’s familiar, once well-loved features, he felt an upswelling of powerful, unwanted emotions that he quickly suppressed.
He closed the door behind him with a click and watched Hendon draw in his breath in a half snore, then straighten with a jerk.
“Devlin.” The Earl swiped one thick hand over his lower face. “Didn’t hear you come in. This is . . . unexpected.”
Since the two men had barely exchanged half a dozen painful, polite greetings for many months now, that was something of an understatement. Sebastian said, “I understand you’re involved with the delegation sent by Napoléon to explore the possibility of peace negotiations between our two countries.”
Hendon cleared his throat. “Heard about that, have you?”
“Yes.”
Hendon pushed to his feet and went to where his pipe and tobacco rested on a table near the hearth. “I expected you might, once you started looking into the death of that French physician—what was his name?”
“Pelletan.”
“That’s right; Pelletan.” He fussed with his pipe, filling the bowl with tobacco and tamping it down with the pad of his thumb. Then he cast Sebastian a sideways glance. “You know I can’t discuss the progress of the negotiations with you.”
“I realize that. What I’m interested in is the attitude of various individuals toward the possibility of peace. I’m told Jarvis favors continuing the war until our troops are in Paris and Napoléon is ousted from the throne.”
“I’d say that about sums it up, yes.”
“And Liverpool?”
“Ah. Well, the Prime Minister’s attitude is slightly different. He’d like to see Boney gone as much as anyone. But he’s also sensitive to the economic and political costs of the war. I suspect that if France would agree to withdraw to its original borders, Liverpool could find a way to live with the Corsican upstart. After all, Napoléon is now married to the sister of the Emperor of Austria; there’s something to be said for viewing their young child as a living union of the traditional with the modern. A reconciliation, of sorts.”
“True,” said Sebastian. He knew without being told where Hendon stood on the issue. As much as Hendon hated radicalism and republicanism, he’d been growing increasingly troubled by the toll that twenty years of war was taking on Britain and her people. “In other words, you and Liverpool are receptive to the negotiations, whereas Jarvis wants them to fail.”
“You said it; I didn’t.”
Sebastian watched the Earl light a taper and apply it to his pipe. “In my experience, Jarvis usually achieves what he wants.”
Hendon looked up, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked on his pipe, their gazes meeting through the haze of blue smoke. “Yes.”
“Any chance Jarvis could be actively working to ensure that the negotiations fail?”
“By literally butchering the members of the delegation, you mean?” Hendon sucked some more on his pipe, his eyes narrowing with thought. “Bit ghoulish, even for Jarvis, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps. What about the possibility that Jarvis has suborned Vaundreuil himself?”
“To be honest, I’ve wondered about that. I’ve no proof, mind you; it’s just a feeling I have.”
Sebastian nodded and started to turn away. “Thank you.”
“Devlin?”
He glanced back at the Earl.
Hendon’s teeth clamped down on the stem of his pipe. “How does Lady Devlin?”
“She is well.”
“And my grandson? When is he expected to make his appearance?”
The child would be no true grandchild to Alistair St. Cyr. But if a boy, he would someday become, in turn, Viscount Devlin and eventually Earl of Hendon. “Soon,” said Sebastian after only a moment’s hesitation.
Hendon nodded, his lips relaxing into a faint smile. And Sebastian knew again the whisper of an old emotion he did not want, a sensation all tangled up with every painful and joyous memory of a childhood he had no desire to revisit.
“You’ll let me know?” Hendon asked gruffly.
“Yes.”
And then, because there was nothing more to say, Sebastian left.