C. Harris - Who Buries the Dead

“I can’t say fer sure,” said Lucky. “But I noticed ’im right after we got ’ere.”

She studied the unknown man’s strange profile. He was perhaps thirty-five or more years of age, his straight black hair worn long enough to hang over his collar, and a two- or three-days’ growth of beard shadowed his face. He kept his head deliberately turned away. But she had no doubt that he was still aware of her, that she was the reason he was here, now.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think ’e followed ye ’ere,” said Lucky. “Only, why would some feller be followin’ ye?”

“I don’t know,” said Hero, shoving her notebook and pencil back into her reticule. “But I intend to ask him.”

Gathering her carriage gown in both fists to lift the hem clear of the muck-strewn paving stones, Hero strode across the square, weaving around weathered, half-rotten stalls and plowing determinedly through the throngs of earnestly haggling purchasers and sellers. She had almost reached the step up to the piazza when the black-booted man pushed away from the pillar and melted into the crowd.

She tried to follow him, shoving past sieves piled high with apples and a thick mass of gawkers gathered around what looked like an upside-down umbrella filled with ribald prints. But by the time she reached the corner of James Street, he had disappeared.

She stared out over the noisy sea of donkeys and barrows and ragged men and women clogging the lane. “Blast,” she whispered beneath her breath.

“Who was he?” asked Lucky as he caught up with her.

But Hero only shook her head, conscious of an unpleasant tingling in her fingertips and a sensation of disquiet that would not be stilled.

Sebastian was sitting down to a solitary breakfast after a hard ride in the park when he heard the distant peal of the front bell, followed by a young woman’s voice in the hall.

“A Miss Anne Preston to see you, my lord,” said Morey, appearing in the doorway. “She says it’s urgent.”

“Please, show her in.”

Stanley Preston’s daughter came in with a quick step and a determined, almost fierce expression that faded to chagrin as she drew up just inside the doorway. “I’ve interrupted your breakfast. I do beg your pardon. I’ll go-”

He pushed to his feet. “No. Please, come in and sit down. May I offer you some tea? Toast, perhaps?”

“Nothing, thank you.” She took the seat he indicated, both hands gripping her reticule in her lap as she leaned forward. “I’m sorry for coming so early, but I spoke to Jane Austen last night, and she says she told you about Hugh-I mean, Captain Wyeth. I. . I don’t think she realized that when you heard about Father’s argument with Mr. Austen, you might leap to some unfortunate conclusions.”

Sebastian suspected that Jane Austen had been perfectly aware of the implications of what she’d told him. But all he said was, “Conclusions about what?”

“About H-Captain Wyeth, and Father.”

Sebastian reached for his tankard and calmly took a sip of ale, his gaze one of polite interest.

When he remained silent, she said in a rush, “I won’t deny that Father was displeased when he learned Captain Wyeth had returned to London. But there was never any confrontation between them. Truly there wasn’t.” She looked at him with a pinched, earnest face, as if she could somehow will him to believe her.

She was an appallingly bad liar.

Sebastian cut himself a slice of ham. “Yet your father quarreled with Mr. Austen over a simple statement of regret voiced by the man’s wife from her sickbed?”

“Father never could abide having his judgments questioned or being told he was wrong-about anything.”

“Oh? And what, precisely, led your friend to change her mind about Captain Wyeth?”

Anne Preston threaded her reticule strings between her fingers. “When she opposed the match between Hugh and me six years ago, Eliza was very much governed by material considerations. She thought at the time she had my best interests at heart. But. .”

“Yes?” prompted Sebastian.

“She says her illness has altered her perception, that she now sincerely regrets the part she once played in helping to deprive me of the happiness I could have enjoyed all these years.”

“Your father found that objectionable?”

“Father always hoped to see us-that is, my brother and me-marry well. It was extraordinarily important to him.”

“So Captain Wyeth has renewed his quest for your hand?

“Oh, no. No. We. . we’ve only met a few times since his return to London-as old acquaintances. Nothing more.”

Sebastian noted the telltale stain of color on her cheeks. But all he said was, “I understand Captain Wyeth has taken a room in Knightsbridge. Where, precisely?”

She stared at him. “But. . I’ve just explained there is no reason to involve him in any way.”

“Nevertheless, I would like to speak with him.”

He watched her nostrils flare in panic as she realized her bold attempt to shield the captain from suspicion had failed utterly. She dropped her gaze to her clenched hands and said quietly, “He’s at the Shepherd’s Rest, in Middle Row.”

“Thank you,” said Sebastian.

She fiddled again with the strings of her reticule. “You asked yesterday if there was anyone with whom Father had quarreled recently.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been giving your question some thought, and it occurs to me that there is someone. I don’t know if you could say Father quarreled with him precisely, but Father was definitely afraid of him. His name is Oliphant. Sinclair Oliphant.”

In the silence that followed her words, Sebastian could hear himself breathing, feel the slow and steady beat of his own pulse. He cleared his throat and somehow managed to say, “You mean, Colonel Sinclair Oliphant?”

“Yes, although he’s Lord Oliphant now. He inherited his brother’s title and estates, you know.”

“Yes; I did know. Although it was my understanding he’d been posted as governor of Jamaica.”

“He was, yes. But he recently surrendered his position and returned to England. He’s taken a town house in Mount Street for the Season.”

Sebastian reached for his ale and wrapped both hands around the tankard. Three years before, in the mountains of Portugal, Sinclair Oliphant had deliberately betrayed Sebastian to a French major known for his inventive and painful ways of inflicting death. Sebastian had survived. But what the French major had done after that would haunt Sebastian for the rest of his life.

He took a long, slow swallow of the ale, then set the tankard aside with a hand that was not quite steady. “Why was your father afraid of Oliphant?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I mean, I know Father was furious with Oliphant’s behavior as governor. In fact, Father went out there last year precisely to try to do something about him.”

“Your father was in Jamaica last year?”

“Yes.”

“Did you go with him?”

“Oh, no; I stayed with the Austens. I’ve never actually been to Jamaica at all. Father always said it wasn’t a healthy place for a woman.”

“It isn’t a healthy place for anyone.”

He studied her smooth, seemingly guileless young face. He wanted to ask if it bothered her to know that the clothes on her back, like the pearl drops in her ears and the food she ate every day, were paid for by the labor of enslaved men, women, and children. But all he said was, “Do you know if your father had anything to do with Oliphant’s decision to return to England?”

“No; Father never discussed such things with me. But last Friday, he was out for several hours in the afternoon, and when he returned home, he looked positively stricken . I asked what was wrong, and he said that he was afraid he’d made a mistake-that Oliphant is far more dangerous than he’d realized.”