to show the Bishop.”
Lovejoy’s lips flattened into a disapproving line. “Seems a ghoulish thing to have done—tugging a ring off a corpse’s finger.”
“Given the state of the body, I imagine it came off easily enough.”
Lovejoy cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well . . .”
“According to the Reverend, he gave the ring to Bishop Prescott. But I checked with London House, and no such ring has been found in the Bishop’s chambers. Gibson says it wasn’t in the Bishop’s pockets, or in his hand, when the bodies were delivered to him.”
“I suppose the Bishop may have dropped it in the crypt,” said Sir Henry, dusting the last crumbs of bread from his hands. “I’ll send some of the lads to give the place another going-over.”
“There is one other possibility.”
Lovejoy raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
Sebastian said, “The killer could have taken it.”
Later that afternoon, after she’d coaxed her mother out on a visit to one of Lady Jarvis’s oldest friends, Hero settled on the window seat in her bedchamber and withdrew the Bishop’s schedule from her reticule.
She ran through it quickly, relieved to see that there was nothing in the Bishop’s calendar—except, of course, for his frequent meetings with Hero herself—that might betray her to Devlin. Satisfied of that, she went back to the beginning.
There, indeed, was the visit from Lord Quillian, just as she had suspected, on the afternoon of the Monday before the Bishop’s death. “Ha. You see?” she said aloud, as if Devlin himself were actually in the room with her. Then she frowned as she studied several other curious names on the schedule.
She might be nine-tenths convinced of Quillian’s guilt in the Bishop’s murder, but Hero liked to consider herself an open-minded person, which meant she had to remain receptive to other possibilities.
Pushing up from her window seat, she went in search of paper and pen. At the top of the page, she wrote, Lord Quillian , and below that, William Franklin . For a moment, she reconsidered and started to cross out his name, for the man was aged and infirm. But she reasoned that it did not require excessive strength or agility to hit someone over the head with an iron bar, so she left the American’s name in place.
She glanced through the Bishop’s schedule again, but came up with only one other interesting item: Sir Peter Prescott. Why, she wondered, would Sir Peter make an appointment to see his own uncle? She wrote his name on the list, then circled it in frustration.
One of the more tedious aspects of being an unmarried female was the extent to which it circumscribed her movements and activities. Having recently suffered a bereavement, Sir Peter was unlikely to attend any social functions. And try as she would, Hero could not come up with a sufficiently plausible excuse to visit him.
Decorum could, at times, be exceedingly aggravating.
That night, Sebastian made a rare appearance at his aunt Henrietta’s rout.
One of London’s most sought-after hostesses, the Duchess of Claiborne never failed to send her nephew an invitation to each of her many functions. Recognizing the summonses for what they were—thinly veiled attempts to introduce him to an endless line of suitable young debutantes—Sebastian invariably but politely refused.
As a result, the sight of her disreputable but still highly eligible nephew actually appearing in her drawing rooms that evening was such a shock that Henrietta staggered slightly, one hand groping for the quizzing glass that hung from a riband around her neck. “Good heavens,” she said. “It is you, Devlin. Don’t tell me you’ve finally decided to live up to the expectations of your house and look about you for a wife?”
“No,” he said baldly, cupping her elbow to steer her toward a small withdrawing room. “I want to hear what you can tell me about the Prescotts.”
“Ssshh,” she whispered, shutting the door
Lovejoy’s lips flattened into a disapproving line. “Seems a ghoulish thing to have done—tugging a ring off a corpse’s finger.”
“Given the state of the body, I imagine it came off easily enough.”
Lovejoy cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well . . .”
“According to the Reverend, he gave the ring to Bishop Prescott. But I checked with London House, and no such ring has been found in the Bishop’s chambers. Gibson says it wasn’t in the Bishop’s pockets, or in his hand, when the bodies were delivered to him.”
“I suppose the Bishop may have dropped it in the crypt,” said Sir Henry, dusting the last crumbs of bread from his hands. “I’ll send some of the lads to give the place another going-over.”
“There is one other possibility.”
Lovejoy raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
Sebastian said, “The killer could have taken it.”
Later that afternoon, after she’d coaxed her mother out on a visit to one of Lady Jarvis’s oldest friends, Hero settled on the window seat in her bedchamber and withdrew the Bishop’s schedule from her reticule.
She ran through it quickly, relieved to see that there was nothing in the Bishop’s calendar—except, of course, for his frequent meetings with Hero herself—that might betray her to Devlin. Satisfied of that, she went back to the beginning.
There, indeed, was the visit from Lord Quillian, just as she had suspected, on the afternoon of the Monday before the Bishop’s death. “Ha. You see?” she said aloud, as if Devlin himself were actually in the room with her. Then she frowned as she studied several other curious names on the schedule.
She might be nine-tenths convinced of Quillian’s guilt in the Bishop’s murder, but Hero liked to consider herself an open-minded person, which meant she had to remain receptive to other possibilities.
Pushing up from her window seat, she went in search of paper and pen. At the top of the page, she wrote, Lord Quillian , and below that, William Franklin . For a moment, she reconsidered and started to cross out his name, for the man was aged and infirm. But she reasoned that it did not require excessive strength or agility to hit someone over the head with an iron bar, so she left the American’s name in place.
She glanced through the Bishop’s schedule again, but came up with only one other interesting item: Sir Peter Prescott. Why, she wondered, would Sir Peter make an appointment to see his own uncle? She wrote his name on the list, then circled it in frustration.
One of the more tedious aspects of being an unmarried female was the extent to which it circumscribed her movements and activities. Having recently suffered a bereavement, Sir Peter was unlikely to attend any social functions. And try as she would, Hero could not come up with a sufficiently plausible excuse to visit him.
Decorum could, at times, be exceedingly aggravating.
That night, Sebastian made a rare appearance at his aunt Henrietta’s rout.
One of London’s most sought-after hostesses, the Duchess of Claiborne never failed to send her nephew an invitation to each of her many functions. Recognizing the summonses for what they were—thinly veiled attempts to introduce him to an endless line of suitable young debutantes—Sebastian invariably but politely refused.
As a result, the sight of her disreputable but still highly eligible nephew actually appearing in her drawing rooms that evening was such a shock that Henrietta staggered slightly, one hand groping for the quizzing glass that hung from a riband around her neck. “Good heavens,” she said. “It is you, Devlin. Don’t tell me you’ve finally decided to live up to the expectations of your house and look about you for a wife?”
“No,” he said baldly, cupping her elbow to steer her toward a small withdrawing room. “I want to hear what you can tell me about the Prescotts.”
“Ssshh,” she whispered, shutting the door
Similar Books
