C. Harris - Who Buries the Dead

“If you see him again, let me know about it. But be careful with him. I think there may well be more to the man than meets the eye.”

“Yes, my lord.” Calhoun gave a neat bow and started to turn away, then paused. “Are you still interested in Captain Wyeth, my lord?”

“I am indeed. Did you have any success at the Shepherd’s Rest?”

“Far more than I should have, actually. The staff there are appallingly eager to chat about the inn’s residents.”

“What do they say about Captain Wyeth?”

“The general consensus is that he’s a likeable enough fellow most of the time, although he does have a tendency to be moody and curt when his wounds are paining him. And he has a bit of a temper, it seems.”

“Oh?”

“Last Saturday evening, the captain was having a pint down in the public room when Stanley Preston came charging in and threatened to horsewhip him.”

“Yes, Wyeth told me of the incident.”

“Did he also tell you he threatened to kill the man?”

“Wyeth threatened to kill Stanley Preston?”

“That’s right. I thought at first the barman who told me the tale might be exaggerating a touch. But two of the other lads backed him up.”

“What was Preston’s reaction?”

“I gather he simply said, ‘You don’t scare me,’ and left.”

Sebastian glanced at the clock. “I think perhaps I need to have another chat with our gallant captain.”

Sebastian found Captain Hugh Wyeth standing beside the ring of the Life Guards riding school, his arms looped over the top rail of the fence and his gaze following a half dozen new recruits being put through their paces. The air was thick with the smell of saddle leather and horse sweat and a fine dust that shimmered in the spring sunshine.

“So what do you think?” asked Sebastian, coming to stand beside him, his gaze on the horses and riders in the ring before them.

“They’re green. But they’re willing and able. They’ll get there.” He glanced over at Sebastian. “Ever miss the Army?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why’d you sell out?”

Because I realized I wasn’t fighting on the side of good against evil, thought Sebastian, still watching the men in the ring. Because my own colonel sent me off with falsified dispatches and then betrayed me to the French. Because I trusted the wrong people, and dozens of innocent women and children died as a result.

But all he said was, “I grew tired of killing men who were much like me, except they spoke a different language and owed allegiance to a different country.”

Wyeth was silent for a moment, his hands tightening over the top rail, the smile lines fanning his eyes etched deep, although he was not smiling. “Those are not comfortable thoughts.”

“No.”

The captain narrowed his gaze against the dust. “Why are you here?”

“I’m wondering why you didn’t tell me that when Stanley Preston threatened to take a horsewhip to you, you swore you’d kill him.”

Wyeth blew out a long, painful breath.

Sebastian said, “It did happen, didn’t it?”

The captain nodded, his lips pressed into a tight line. Then he threw Sebastian an assessing, sideways glance. “You trying to convince me you never threatened to kill anyone? It’s the kind of thing a man says in anger-‘I could kill you.’ Or even, ‘I swear to God, I’ll kill you.’”

Sebastian thought about the number of times he’d sworn to kill his own father-in-law, but remained silent.

Wyeth said, “I won’t deny I wanted to kill the bastard. But I couldn’t have done it-even if he had tried to take a horsewhip to me. Don’t you understand? He was Anne’s father! She loved him, and his death has devastated her. I could never have done that to her.”

Sebastian studied the younger man’s handsome, earnest face. It was hard not to like Captain Wyeth. But Sebastian had known other handsome, seemingly charming men who were extraordinarily adept at projecting an intense impression of affability and sincerity when the reality was something quite different entirely.

“Tell me again what happened last Sunday night,” he said.

Wyeth shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Anne wrangled an invitation for me to Lady Farningham’s musical evening. But she had Miss Austen there with her, and we found it impossible to have any real private conversation together. So in the end, I left.”

“You’re saying Miss Preston spent Sunday evening in the company of Jane Austen?”

“That’s right. Why?”

Sebastian shook his head. “I hadn’t realized it. Go on.”

“That’s it, really. I left around ten. Only, I wasn’t in the mood to come back to the inn and drink with the lads, so I went for a walk.”

“Where?”

“Along Knightsbridge, mainly. I was just. . walking.”

“See anyone?”

“No one I knew.”

“What about when you returned to the inn? Did anyone see you then?”

“No. I told you, I wasn’t in the mood to be sociable. I went straight up to my room. Why?”

Sebastian had asked the question because whoever killed Stanley Preston would surely have been splattered with blood. But all he said was, “Ever meet an elderly physician named Douglas Sterling?”

“The one who was found dead yesterday?” Wyeth shook his head. “No.” He stared off beyond the barracks, toward the park. “I’ve had the constables here again, questioning me. They think I did it, don’t they?”

“I’m afraid so. You’ve a powerful motive, no alibi, and considerable practice lopping off people’s heads.”

Wyeth gave a soft, rueful laugh. “They think I’m some sort of fortune hunter-like that fellow Wickham. Or Willoughby.”

The names sounded vaguely familiar, but Sebastian couldn’t place them. “Who?”

“From Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice .”

“Don’t tell me you read romance novels too?”

Wyeth laughed. “Only the ones Miss Austen writes. They’re very clever-especially this last one.”

Sebastian stared at him. “Jane Austen is the author of this new book that’s taking the ton by storm?”

Wyeth pulled a face. “I forgot I wasn’t supposed to say anything. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Returning to Brook Street, Sebastian found Hero writing up her interview notes at the library table, their infant son dozing contentedly in a basket beside her and the black cat she’d named Mr. Darcy lying stretched out like a dog nearby.

“How was your interview?” he asked, going to pour himself a glass of wine.

“Informative. This fellow has a donkey cart, which places him amongst the most prosperous of all costermongers.” She laid aside her quill and leaned back in her chair. “Care to tell me why you saw the need to send a footman to the park with Claire and Simon this morning?”

Sebastian came to stand beside the fire, his gaze on his sleeping son’s peaceful, innocent face. “A man who sounds like Diggory Flynn has been seen watching the house. I don’t know who he is or what he wants, but I’d feel better if you and Simon both kept someone with you.”

Hero stared at him for a long, quiet moment. “What makes you think he’s a threat to us? Not you, but us?”

Sebastian took a slow sip of his wine. “I keep thinking about the tale Jamie Knox told me, about the smuggler who ran afoul of Priss Mulligan and came home one day to find his wife missing and the dismembered bodies of his children strategically displayed around the house.”

“So you’re back to thinking Flynn works for Priss Mulligan?”

“I don’t know for certain who he works for. But I don’t want to take any chances.”

Beside them, Simon stretched and let out a soft gurgle.