C. Harris - Who Buries the Dead

“But something did happen between the two men.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“From what I’m hearing, there were few people with whom Stanley Preston didn’t quarrel at one time or another. Yet you would have me believe he never clashed with Oliphant while he was governor?”

“Yes, well. . disputes between colonial governors and prominent local landowners are unfortunately all too frequent, you know.”

“And Stanley Preston had the advantage of being first cousin-once removed-to the Home Secretary.”

Rather than respond, Sidmouth kept his features composed into a politician’s practiced mask.

“If I were you, I’d be very careful,” said Sebastian, glancing significantly to where Sidmouth’s daughter was now skipping down the line of dancers on her partner’s arm.

He started to turn away, but Sidmouth’s hand flashed out, stopping him. “Surely you’re not suggesting that Oliph-that someone might threaten my daughter?”

Sebastian studied the Home Secretary’s twitchy, sweat-slicked face. “Look into what happened to the nuns and orphans of Santa Iria, then make up your own mind,” he said, and left Sidmouth standing at the entrance to the alcove, his long, normally self-satisfied face now pale and haggard.

Hero was sipping a glass of lemonade, her gaze on Devlin’s stunningly beautiful young niece, Miss Stephanie Wilcox, when a deep male voice behind her said, “Lady Devlin? It is Lady Devlin, is it not?”

She turned to find herself being addressed by a tall, fit-looking man in his forties with handsome, chiseled features, clear blue eyes, and a wide, even smile.

“I hope you’ll forgive my boldness in approaching you without an introduction, but I knew your husband in the Peninsula.” He swept an elegant bow. “I am Oliphant. Sinclair, Colonel Lord Oliphant.”

Hero felt a hot, tingling sensation in her hands as a surge of primitive rage swept through her. For one blindingly intense moment, all she could think was that if this smiling, urbane man had had his way, Devlin would long ago have been consigned to a lonely, forgotten grave in the mountains of Portugal.

“Lord Oliphant,” she said, her voice as coldly polite as her smile. “I have heard Devlin. . speak of you.”

A gleam of amusement showed in the colonel’s eyes. But all he said was, “You’re here without your husband?”

“Oh, no; Devlin is here.” She studied Oliphant’s even, patrician features, searching for some trace of the brutal, single-minded determination that could deliberately send a subordinate officer into the hands of the enemy and cause the deaths of dozens of innocent women and children. But his mask of good humor and gentle benevolence was firmly in place.

He said, “I can’t tell you how relieved I was to hear that Devlin has finally settled down and married. The responsibilities of family tend to exert such a-shall we say-steadying influence on our wilder youths.”

“Some more than others,” Hero said dryly. She took a slow sip of her lemonade. “I understand you’ve only recently returned from Jamaica.”

“I have, yes. It’s a lovely place. Have you ever been?”

“Unfortunately, no. I’ve never visited any of the islands.”

“Pity. You must try to make it out there sometime. I’ve no doubt you’ll be charmed.” He bowed again. “Do give my regards to your husband.” And he walked away, leaving her wondering why he had approached her in the first place.

She was still staring after him when she became aware of Devlin coming up beside her. She could feel the aura of lethal animosity radiating from him, see the cold, deadly purposefulness in his face.

“What did he say?” he asked, his gaze, like hers, on the retreating figure.

Hero shook her head. “Polite nothings. I don’t understand why he bothered.”

“To assess what you know. And to decide how easy you are to intimidate.”

“Unfortunately, one can’t shoot a man in the middle of a ball,” said Hero. “Particularly not at one of Countess Lieven’s balls. It’s bad form.”

Devlin smiled then, a smile that seemed to banish the tortured memories and dark urges provoked by Oliphant’s presence. But she knew they weren’t really gone, only tucked away out of sight.

Out of her sight.

She was suddenly, unnaturally aware of the roar of well-bred voices and genteel laughter around them, of the crush of bodies clothed in satin and silk, and the gleam of endless tiers of candles reflected in soaring, gilded mirrors. Theirs was a rarified world of manners and careful calculations ruled by the dictates of taste and fashion, a world where extremes of emotion were outré, where all was controlled and measured. An artificial hothouse where everyone pretended that civilization was more than just a thin, brittle veneer all too easily and frequently shattered.

She wanted to say, We need to talk about this, Devlin. We can’t keep shying away from acknowledging-and confronting-the darkest urges of our souls . She wanted to tell him of her fears and share with him the tumult of feelings she could barely admit even to herself.

But as the music ended and new sets began to form for an old-fashioned court dance, what she said was, “When was the last time we danced?”

She saw the flicker of surprise in those strange yellow eyes as he turned toward her. He knew she loved to dance, but he also knew she’d been reluctant to come tonight, worried about how Simon would fare without her and anxious not to stay away too long.

“Before Christmas, at least,” he said.

She smiled. “Long before Christmas.”

He tipped his head to one side. “And Simon?”

“I think Claire can handle him a little longer-with the assistance, of course, of the parlor maid, the cook, Calhoun, and probably even Morey.”

“Not Morey, I’m afraid. Simon’s screams completely unman the poor fellow.” His smiling gaze locked with hers; he swept a low, formal bow. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, my lady?”

She sank into a deep curtsy and rested her fingertips on his proffered arm. “I would be honored, my lord.”

They moved into place as the music began. Together, they wove through the stately patterns of the dance, pas simples alternating with pas doubles , feet gliding, hands touching and releasing, bodies dipping and swaying in an age-old allegory of advance and retreat. She surrendered herself to the music and the all-too-fleeting pressure of his palm against hers.

And then the music ended and, with it, the moment.

They arrived back at Brook Street sometime later to find a sealed billet addressed by an unfamiliar hand. While Hero hurried upstairs to Simon, Sebastian tore open the seal and glanced through the brief note.

There is something I must tell you. I shall be at home this evening, awaiting your visit.

Sterling

“When did this come?” he asked Morey.

“Only moments after you left, my lord. I asked the lad who brought it if it was urgent, but he assured me it was not.”

Sebastian glanced at the clock and said, “Damn.”

Thursday, 25 March

T he next morning, Sebastian was preparing to leave for Chatham Place when an angry peal sounded at the front door.

“Who’s that?” he asked, settling a length of starched cravat around his neck.

His valet-a slim, fair-haired, dapper man in his thirties named Jules Calhoun-glanced out the window. “Judging by the crest on the carriage door, I’d say it’s your lordship’s sister, Lady Wilcox.”

Sebastian kept his attention on the delicate task of tying his cravat.

Calhoun said, “Shall I tell Morey to deny you?”

A woman’s determined tread sounded on the stairs.