C. Harris - What Darkness Brings

Gibson fell silent, his gaze on the bunching, heavy gray clouds bearing down low on the surrounding rooftops and on the soot-streaked white bulk of the old Norman keep. And Sebastian knew without being told that the surgeon’s thoughts had returned, like his own, to the man on the slab behind them.

Sebastian said, “Annie wanted me to tell her the results of the autopsy. You’ll let me know when you’re finished?”

“Of course.” Gibson hesitated, then said, “You do realize that when one dies of something like an overdose of laudanum, it doesn’t show up? Perhaps someday science will learn how to detect these things, but at the moment it’s beyond us.”

Sebastian met his friend’s gaze but said nothing.

Gibson continued. “It just looks as if the body’s systems shut down, which would also be consistent with someone who had long been in ill-health.”

Sebastian blew out a harsh breath and nodded. “That’s good. Annie’s suffered enough.”

Neither of them said, She doesn’t need the shame of her husband’s suicide added to everything else. But then, they didn’t need to.

The knowledge of it was there, in the storm-charged air.

Charles, Lord Jarvis, lounged comfortably in an overstuffed armchair beside his host’s hearth, a glass of good French brandy cradled in one palm, his head tipped back to rest against the seat’s high back as he watched his host pace across the carpet. The sound of wind-driven rain slapping against the windowpanes and drumming on the leaves of the trees outside filled the room.

“The brandy is undeniably excellent,” said Jarvis, pausing to take a delicate sip. “But I don’t think you invited me here for my opinion on your cellars.”

Otto von Riedesel, the man pacing the room, whirled to face him. Big boned and stocky, and well into his fifth decade, he wore the black broadcloth dolman and black trousers of a colonel in the Black Brunswickers, a volunteer corps who fought the French at Britain’s side. Although the Duke of Brunswick was, technically, Britain’s ally, von Riedesel’s position as the Duke’s representative in London was nevertheless delicate. For while Brunswick was both first cousin and brother-in-law to the Prince Regent, Prinny had long been estranged from Princess Caroline, his plump, slightly mad wife, who was the daughter of the late Duke of Brunswick and sister to the present one.

“This murder is troubling. Most troubling,” said the colonel, smoothing his hand down over his flowing black mustache. His cheeks were full and ruddy, his nose a bulbous, unrefined blob. Despite his uniform and rank, the colonel’s days of active campaigning were now over. He’d grown soft and, Jarvis was beginning to suspect, dangerously timid.

“Really? I wouldn’t have said so.”

The Brunswicker’s heavy brows drew together in a frown. “You vould have me believe all is under control?”

“It is, yes. Although if you show the world that worried face, you will only succeed in focusing attention on that which you wish to conceal, thus bringing about precisely what you would prefer to avoid.”

“Easy for you to say.” Von Riedesel brought his own brandy to his lips and drained the glass. “It is not you who vill be ruined if the truth gets out.”

“It won’t get out,” said Jarvis.

The rain was coming down hard by the time Sebastian walked in his front door. “Is Lady Devlin at home?” he asked, handing his hat and gloves to his majordomo, a former gunnery sergeant named Morey.

“She is, my lord,” said Morey, carefully wiping the moisture from Sebastian’s top hat. “I believe you will find her in the drawing room with an elderly gentleman, one Mr. Benjamin Bloomsfield. I’ve just taken up some tea.”

“Thank you.”

Sebastian could hear the low drone of an elderly man’s quavering voice as he mounted the stairs to the first floor.

“I don’t think you’ll find many in London who are mourning his passing,” he heard the man say.

“He was a shrewd bargainer?” asked Hero.

“Shrewd? That’s one word for it.”

Sebastian could see their visitor now, seated in a chair drawn up beside the hearth. The man was indeed aged, his long flowing beard as white as Eisler’s snowy owl, the bony fingers he held templed before him gnarled with arthritis and palsied with age. He wore an ill-fitting black coat, old-fashioned in cut and somewhat the worse for wear. But his light brown eyes were still sharp with intelligence, the sallow, lined flesh of his face settled into a pattern of gentle good humor that spoke of a life spent laughing at the vicissitudes of fate and the absurdities of his fellow men. No one seeing his scuffed shoes and darned stockings would ever imagine that he was one of the wealthiest men in London, with interests that ranged from banking and shipping to fur, wheat. .

And diamonds.

“The truth is that Daniel Eisler was a vicious, unscrupulous scoundrel, and the world is a better place with him out of it.” The old man turned his head as Sebastian paused in the doorway and made a motion as if to push himself out of his chair.

“No, please, sir, don’t get up,” said Sebastian, going to clasp the old man’s hand. “We’ve never met, Mr. Bloomsfield, but I’ve heard much of your charitable work. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, young man. I’ve known Miss Jarvis here-excuse me, Lady Devlin , for years now, although I must admit I’d quite despaired of ever seeing her settled with a family of her own. You are to be congratulated for both your good fortune and your good sense.”

Sebastian glanced over at Hero in time to see a faint flush of color darken her cheeks. Then she looked pointedly away and said with painful politeness, “Would you like some tea, Devlin?”

He swallowed a smile. “Yes, please.”

Bloomsfield said, “Your wife tells me you believe this young man the authorities have arrested is innocent.”

“I do, yes.” A small fire had been kindled to chase away the evening’s growing chill, and Sebastian went to stand before it. “You knew Eisler, did you? I gather he was a widower.”

Bloomsfield shook his head. “To my knowledge, the man never married. Lived alone for years in that wreck of a house with only two old servants to wait on him.”

“I’ve seen the house. It’s somewhat overflowing with furniture and art.”

Bloomsfield huffed a mirthless laugh. “You mean it looks like a glorified pawnshop. Which is essentially what it was.”

“Do you mean to say Eisler was in the habit of giving loans?” asked Hero, handing Sebastian a cup of tea.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a habit, exactly. ‘Business’ is more like it. His rates were ruinous and his terms outrageous. He used to insist that his victims-excuse me, his clients-leave several valuable items with him as collateral. Paintings, statues. . even furniture, if it was fine enough.”

“And gems?”

“Oh, yes, he was especially fond of gems. Needless to say, very few of his clients ever managed to reclaim their property-even when they paid off their loans.”

Sebastian took a sip of his tea. “Someone told me there must be any number of people in London who are glad to see Eisler dead. I’m beginning to understand what they meant.”

Bloomsfield nodded. “I heard recently of a young nobleman who took the family’s emeralds to have them cleaned before presenting them to his new wife, only to discover they were all paste. His mother’d had them copied and hocked the original stones to Eisler to pay her gambling debts. The young marquis threatened Eisler with legal action-they weren’t hers to sell, after all. But in the end he gave it up.”