behind them with a snap. “I don’t want Lady Christine to overhear.”
“Who?”
“The Earl of Lumley’s daughter. She really is lovely, Sebastian. But while I can assure you she is quite one of your admirers, it might be better if she didn’t hear that you’ve once again involved yourself in murder—”
“I didn’t involve myself in this murder; you did.”
“Nevertheless, I’m afraid her sensibilities are such that—”
“Aunt,” he said sternly. “I am not here to be enchanted by your latest ingenue, however lovely she may be. I’m here because I want to know what you can tell me about Sir Nigel Prescott.”
“Sir Nigel Prescott? Why on earth would you want to know—” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Good heavens. Is he the decades-old body in the crypt?”
“In all likelihood, yes.”
She sat down on a nearby swan-shaped pink silk settee with an inelegant thump. “Good heavens,” she said again.
“You knew him, I presume?”
“Of course I knew him.” The Duchess of Claiborne not only knew everyone—she knew all their dirty little secrets, too. And she remembered them forever. “A most disagreeable man,” she said with a tut-tut . “Very bad ton. Nothing at all like his brother.”
“Sir Nigel was the eldest?”
She nodded. “Yes. Of five brothers. He inherited the title while still up at Oxford. He was always a big man—tall, like the Bishop, but much bigger boned, and fleshy. He married a lovely woman by the name of Mary Mayfield, and made the poor dear miserable. She hadn’t been dead of consumption a year when he married again—to Lady Rosamond, the second daughter of the Marquess of Ripon.”
“When was this?” said Sebastian.
She frowned. “ ’Seventy-six? ’Seventy-seven? Something like that.”
“Sir Peter was his only son?”
She nodded. “There were no children at all from the first marriage. He was wed to Lady Rosamond for some five or six years before Sir Peter was born—and he was a posthumous child, born after his father disappeared.”
Sebastian pulled forward a chair with gilded crocodile-shaped legs and sat down opposite her. “You say Sir Nigel was a disagreeable man. In what way?”
“He had a vicious temper. And a nasty reputation.” She dropped her voice, even though they were alone and no one could hear. “Hellfire Club, you know.”
Interesting , thought Sebastian; Squire Pyle had also mentioned the Hellfire Club. A notorious secret society of the previous century, the Hellfire Club had been dedicated to black magic, orgies, and political conspiracies. Meeting in the ruins of an ancient abbey, the “monks” specialized in defiling virgins, exhibitionism, voyeurism, and incest. At one time, its powerful members included the Prime Minister of England, the Lord Mayor of London, the Prince of Wales . . . and a certain home-spun American named Benjamin Franklin.
The Duchess kept her voice low. “When he disappeared the way he did, it was assumed the club was somehow involved—an ungodly ritual gone awry, perhaps, or some poor young girl’s family seeking their own revenge. There’d been other mysterious deaths and disappearances linked to that crowd—although mostly of young girls from the nearby villages.” She paused to give him a significant look. “And a few young boys.”
“What did you think happened to him at the time?”
“Me?” Henrietta sat back, her fierce blue St. Cyr eyes narrowing. She was a shrewd woman, able to see clearly through all the pretenses and flummery of her society. “Personally, I thought it more than likely that someone quietly slit his throat and dumped the body down an old well or some such thing. I told you: He was a disagreeable man. I don’t think anyone was sorry to see him gone—least of all his wife.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Lady Prescott? There’s not much to tell, really. She married Prescott at the end of her first season. There was talk of another suitor, but he was
“Who?”
“The Earl of Lumley’s daughter. She really is lovely, Sebastian. But while I can assure you she is quite one of your admirers, it might be better if she didn’t hear that you’ve once again involved yourself in murder—”
“I didn’t involve myself in this murder; you did.”
“Nevertheless, I’m afraid her sensibilities are such that—”
“Aunt,” he said sternly. “I am not here to be enchanted by your latest ingenue, however lovely she may be. I’m here because I want to know what you can tell me about Sir Nigel Prescott.”
“Sir Nigel Prescott? Why on earth would you want to know—” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Good heavens. Is he the decades-old body in the crypt?”
“In all likelihood, yes.”
She sat down on a nearby swan-shaped pink silk settee with an inelegant thump. “Good heavens,” she said again.
“You knew him, I presume?”
“Of course I knew him.” The Duchess of Claiborne not only knew everyone—she knew all their dirty little secrets, too. And she remembered them forever. “A most disagreeable man,” she said with a tut-tut . “Very bad ton. Nothing at all like his brother.”
“Sir Nigel was the eldest?”
She nodded. “Yes. Of five brothers. He inherited the title while still up at Oxford. He was always a big man—tall, like the Bishop, but much bigger boned, and fleshy. He married a lovely woman by the name of Mary Mayfield, and made the poor dear miserable. She hadn’t been dead of consumption a year when he married again—to Lady Rosamond, the second daughter of the Marquess of Ripon.”
“When was this?” said Sebastian.
She frowned. “ ’Seventy-six? ’Seventy-seven? Something like that.”
“Sir Peter was his only son?”
She nodded. “There were no children at all from the first marriage. He was wed to Lady Rosamond for some five or six years before Sir Peter was born—and he was a posthumous child, born after his father disappeared.”
Sebastian pulled forward a chair with gilded crocodile-shaped legs and sat down opposite her. “You say Sir Nigel was a disagreeable man. In what way?”
“He had a vicious temper. And a nasty reputation.” She dropped her voice, even though they were alone and no one could hear. “Hellfire Club, you know.”
Interesting , thought Sebastian; Squire Pyle had also mentioned the Hellfire Club. A notorious secret society of the previous century, the Hellfire Club had been dedicated to black magic, orgies, and political conspiracies. Meeting in the ruins of an ancient abbey, the “monks” specialized in defiling virgins, exhibitionism, voyeurism, and incest. At one time, its powerful members included the Prime Minister of England, the Lord Mayor of London, the Prince of Wales . . . and a certain home-spun American named Benjamin Franklin.
The Duchess kept her voice low. “When he disappeared the way he did, it was assumed the club was somehow involved—an ungodly ritual gone awry, perhaps, or some poor young girl’s family seeking their own revenge. There’d been other mysterious deaths and disappearances linked to that crowd—although mostly of young girls from the nearby villages.” She paused to give him a significant look. “And a few young boys.”
“What did you think happened to him at the time?”
“Me?” Henrietta sat back, her fierce blue St. Cyr eyes narrowing. She was a shrewd woman, able to see clearly through all the pretenses and flummery of her society. “Personally, I thought it more than likely that someone quietly slit his throat and dumped the body down an old well or some such thing. I told you: He was a disagreeable man. I don’t think anyone was sorry to see him gone—least of all his wife.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Lady Prescott? There’s not much to tell, really. She married Prescott at the end of her first season. There was talk of another suitor, but he was
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