The Birth of Blue Satan by Patricia Wynn

another. Her aunt had suggested as much. Mrs. Mayfield was prepared to believe that Lord St. Mars had killed his father in order to inherit his place, because as an earl, he would find more favour in Isabella’s eyes.
    The thought made Hester shiver, even as she refused to accept it. Surely there would be others who would suspect St. Mars of such a vile motive. But Hester could not believe that the prospect of a title he was sure to inherit would tempt a good man like St. Mars to murder.
    Who else would stand to gain from Lord Hawkhurst’s death?
    A laugh from Sir Harrowby over one of Mrs. Mayfield’s sallies brought Hester’s gaze to his face, and a stunning realization took her breath away.
    She had always thought Sir Harrowby Fitzsimmons a rather harmless gentleman—neither bright enough nor purposeful enough to be cruel.
    But was he? Beneath that inoffensive exterior could lurk the heart of an envious man. So envious of his uncle’s riches, and his cousin’s handsome looks, that resentment had spread its ugly tentacles. Hester remembered her aunt’s taunts on the night of the ball. Had she not on several occasions made her position clear? Surely before that night she had let it be known that Sir Harrowby could never win her daughter’s hand as long as two men of superior rank were in the running.
    How much did Harrowby want Isabella and the title of Hawkhurst? Enough to kill his uncle and cast the blame on his cousin? Hester stared at his ingenuous face. Could anyone truly be as fatuous as he appeared?
     

     
    Gideon awoke from a fog, to the odor of plaster and spice. For a long time, it seemed, his dreams had been filled with the stuff of nightmares. His tongue was swollen and his throat felt raw. He tried to speak many times before any sound emerged.
    Instantly, Philippe seemed to appear from nowhere. “ Monsieur le comte! Dieu merci! You are better, yes?”
    Gideon weighed this strange form of address until he recalled. Monsieur le comte . Yes. A wave of dizziness threatened to render him sick. He was the earl now. His father was dead.
    “I must be getting better,” he said, through a rush of bleakness. He wished he had never emerged from his oblivion. “How long have I been in this state?”
    “Close to a fortnight, monsieur . You have been very ill.”
    “And my father?”
    “My regrets, Monseigneur . ” An unaccustomed kindness softened Philippe’s voice. “ Monsieur votre père is to be buried in three days. I asked the messenger why they do not wait for the son of monsieur le comte to recover before he is interred, but this messenger he did not know.”
    Gideon felt stunned. “Who gave the order to have my father buried so quickly? Do you know?”
    Philippe did not. But only one person would have had that authority—Lord Hawkhurst’s executor, whoever that was. Gideon could not imagine why the funeral had not been postponed until he could attend. His father’s body would have been embalmed to allow it to lie in state for as long as desired. Gideon did not know if he was well enough to endure the journey, but he must go home as quickly as possible. He must have a glimpse of his father before he was entombed forever. To have him die so suddenly—then to feel as if all trace of him had vanished—  It would be intolerable.
    Feeling weaker than a fop’s limp wrist, he struggled to sit. “Please help me to rise,” he said. “I must get to the Abbey.”
    “ Mais non, non, non!”
    At Gideon’s look of shock, Philippe apologetically fell to one knee, his eyes respectfully lowered. “I am sorry, Monseigneur . ” Tears of frustration filled his voice. “But you have been very ill, and I cannot bear it if monsieur were to go out of his head again. It would be insupportable . ”
    “Sorry to inconvenience you,” Gideon’s voice croaked out his irony. “I was under the impression that your wages had been set sufficiently to cover even this eventuality.”
    “ Monsieur , Philippe does