him splash warm water over his face and reach for the towel. “How long have you been back from Jamaica?”
“Not long,” said Oliphant, his attention seemingly all for the task of drying his hands.
“I understand you knew a man named Preston. Stanley Preston.”
Oliphant glanced over at him. “As it happens, I did. Why do you ask?”
“Someone cut off his head and used it to decorate a bridge near Five Fields.”
“So I had heard.”
“I’m told he was afraid of you. Why?”
“Who told you that?”
“Are you saying he wasn’t?”
Oliphant tossed the towel at the washstand and turned away to ease his coat up over his shoulders with the attendant’s help. “Some people frighten easily.” He adjusted his cuffs. “They say you came down from the hills in Portugal swearing to kill me on sight.” He pivoted to face Sebastian, his arms spread wide, his eyebrows lifted as if in inquiry—or challenge. “Change your mind?”
“Not exactly.”
The man’s handsome smile slipped ever so slightly, then broadened. “What do you have in mind? Pistols at dawn? Or a knife wielded in darkness from a fetid alley?”
Sebastian shook his head. “Three years ago, an innocent Portuguese nun was raped and tortured to death because of you, while thirty-two children and the simple, pious women who cared for them were put to the sword or burned alive. No English court will ever convict you for what you did to the convent of Santa Iria. But if you murdered Stanley Preston, I’m going to personally watch you hang for it.”
Then he turned and strode from the room, before the urge to kill the man with his bare hands overwhelmed him.
Chapter 16
H ero arrived home from her early expedition to Covent Garden to find Devlin seated at his desk, fitting a new flint into his small, double-barreled pistol.
“The strangest thing happened at the market this morning,” she said, yanking off her yellow kid gloves as she walked into the library. “There was this man—” She broke off as Devlin looked up and she saw his face.
The room was filled with shadows, for the day had grown overcast and he had no need to kindle a candle to light his work. Yet even in the gloom, she could sense the taut, hard set of his features, see the lethal gleam in the strange yellow luminosity of his eyes. “What is it?” she said.
“Sinclair Oliphant is in London.”
She was suddenly, acutely aware of the ticking of the mantel clock, of the lean strength of his fingers as he worked on the gun. He had told her some of the events of that blood-soaked Portuguese spring. She knew of Oliphant’s betrayal and the hideous carnage that flowed from it. But she’d always suspected that Devlin hadn’t told her everything. That he was holding back some crucial component of the events of that day. And that what he hugged quietly to himself was the part that most lacerated his soul and drove him on a path to destruction.
She set aside her gloves. “You’ve seen him?”
He nodded. “Anne Preston came to me this morning. I think her main purpose was to try to convince me of Captain Wyeth’s innocence, but she also told me her father was afraid of Oliphant. It seems Preston objected to Oliphant’s actions as governor of Jamaica, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he used his influence with his cousin the Home Secretary to have Oliphant recalled.”
“You’re suggesting Oliphant might have hacked off Preston’s head and set it up on Bloody Bridge in revenge?”
“Personally? Probably not. Sinclair Oliphant has always preferred to let other people do his dirty work.”
She watched him square the flint to the frizzen and begin to tighten down. He was a man comfortable with violence, willing to use it when necessary and perhaps sometimes even welcoming it. But she did not believe he would take it upon himself to simply execute Oliphant, as he might once have done.
Then she wondered if he sensed the drift of her thoughts, because he said, “I’m
“Not long,” said Oliphant, his attention seemingly all for the task of drying his hands.
“I understand you knew a man named Preston. Stanley Preston.”
Oliphant glanced over at him. “As it happens, I did. Why do you ask?”
“Someone cut off his head and used it to decorate a bridge near Five Fields.”
“So I had heard.”
“I’m told he was afraid of you. Why?”
“Who told you that?”
“Are you saying he wasn’t?”
Oliphant tossed the towel at the washstand and turned away to ease his coat up over his shoulders with the attendant’s help. “Some people frighten easily.” He adjusted his cuffs. “They say you came down from the hills in Portugal swearing to kill me on sight.” He pivoted to face Sebastian, his arms spread wide, his eyebrows lifted as if in inquiry—or challenge. “Change your mind?”
“Not exactly.”
The man’s handsome smile slipped ever so slightly, then broadened. “What do you have in mind? Pistols at dawn? Or a knife wielded in darkness from a fetid alley?”
Sebastian shook his head. “Three years ago, an innocent Portuguese nun was raped and tortured to death because of you, while thirty-two children and the simple, pious women who cared for them were put to the sword or burned alive. No English court will ever convict you for what you did to the convent of Santa Iria. But if you murdered Stanley Preston, I’m going to personally watch you hang for it.”
Then he turned and strode from the room, before the urge to kill the man with his bare hands overwhelmed him.
Chapter 16
H ero arrived home from her early expedition to Covent Garden to find Devlin seated at his desk, fitting a new flint into his small, double-barreled pistol.
“The strangest thing happened at the market this morning,” she said, yanking off her yellow kid gloves as she walked into the library. “There was this man—” She broke off as Devlin looked up and she saw his face.
The room was filled with shadows, for the day had grown overcast and he had no need to kindle a candle to light his work. Yet even in the gloom, she could sense the taut, hard set of his features, see the lethal gleam in the strange yellow luminosity of his eyes. “What is it?” she said.
“Sinclair Oliphant is in London.”
She was suddenly, acutely aware of the ticking of the mantel clock, of the lean strength of his fingers as he worked on the gun. He had told her some of the events of that blood-soaked Portuguese spring. She knew of Oliphant’s betrayal and the hideous carnage that flowed from it. But she’d always suspected that Devlin hadn’t told her everything. That he was holding back some crucial component of the events of that day. And that what he hugged quietly to himself was the part that most lacerated his soul and drove him on a path to destruction.
She set aside her gloves. “You’ve seen him?”
He nodded. “Anne Preston came to me this morning. I think her main purpose was to try to convince me of Captain Wyeth’s innocence, but she also told me her father was afraid of Oliphant. It seems Preston objected to Oliphant’s actions as governor of Jamaica, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he used his influence with his cousin the Home Secretary to have Oliphant recalled.”
“You’re suggesting Oliphant might have hacked off Preston’s head and set it up on Bloody Bridge in revenge?”
“Personally? Probably not. Sinclair Oliphant has always preferred to let other people do his dirty work.”
She watched him square the flint to the frizzen and begin to tighten down. He was a man comfortable with violence, willing to use it when necessary and perhaps sometimes even welcoming it. But she did not believe he would take it upon himself to simply execute Oliphant, as he might once have done.
Then she wondered if he sensed the drift of her thoughts, because he said, “I’m
Similar Books
