When Gods Die

Lady Quinlan’s features remained inscrutable, while Claire Portland tipped her head sideways, her expression quizzical, as if she were not quite sure how to take that. Looking into her clear, cornflower blue eyes, Sebastian found himself wondering just how much Lord Portland confided in his pretty young wife. She projected an image of innocence and gaiety, of disingenuous superficiality and the mindless helplessness most men found appealing. But Sebastian knew it was an impression deliberately created by many of her sisters, a consciously deceptive facade that often hid a sharp and calculating mind. Claire Portland was, after all, Lady Audley’s daughter. And Lady Audley was neither mindless nor helpless.

Lord Portland’s pretty young wife stayed chatting a few minutes more, then very correctly rose as required by custom to take her leave. Yet as she made her adieus with sweet effusiveness, Sebastian caught the furtive glance she shared with their hostess. It was a look that spoke of an intention to follow up Sebastian’s visit with a private conference, and hinted at the existence of an old, close friendship. A friendship he wouldn’t have expected between the plain, intensely serious Morgana and this flirtatious woman who was at least as young, if not younger than, the murdered sister with whom Morgana claimed to have had so little in common.

“Why are you doing this?” Morgana asked, fixing Sebastian with a thoughtful stare as soon as the footman had shown her other guest out. “It’s not for love of the Prince Regent, whatever Claire might think.”

Sebastian raised his eyebrows in a simulation of surprise. “Does Lady Portland indeed think that?”

An expression he couldn’t quite decipher flitted across his hostess’s features. She leaned back in her chair, one hand smoothing her gown across her lap. “You came, obviously, to ask me something. What is it?”

It was no easy thing, asking a lady for the name of her sister’s lover. Sebastian tried an oblique approach. “Was your sister happy, do you think, in her marriage?”

A knowing gleam shone in her eyes. “You’re being discreet, aren’t you? What you really mean to ask is, Did Guinevere have a lover and do I know his name? The answer to the first question is, Possibly. To the second question I’m afraid I must answer, No. I don’t know his name. It’s not the sort of thing she would confide in me. As I told you, Guinevere and I were not close.”

“Yet you knew of her childhood attachment to Varden.”

“That was hardly a secret. Presumably even Guinevere would be prudent if she were cuckolding a husband.”

“Whom might she have confided in? Did she have a close friend?”

“Not that I know of. She was always something of a loner, Guinevere.”

To his annoyance, he heard the distant rap of the front knocker, heralding the arrival of yet another round of guests come to offer their condolences to Lady Quinlan on the death of her sister. Sebastian said, “Your sister had a necklace, a necklace with a silver triskelion superimposed on a bluestone disk. Do you know anything about it? It’s an ancient piece, from well before the seventeenth century.”

Lady Quinlan shook her head, her expression blank. Either she knew nothing of the necklace, or she was even better at hiding her thoughts and feelings than he would expect. “No. As a child she had a pearl necklace and one or two small pins that once belonged to her mother, but nothing else I ever knew of. You say it was silver? It seems a strange thing for Anglessey to have given her. Unless, of course, it was a family piece.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Although if that were the case, you wouldn’t be asking me about it, now, would you?”

The new visitors were on the stairs. Sebastian could hear the ponderous tread of a matron, along with the lighter step of a younger woman, probably her daughter. “You wouldn’t happen to know what took your sister to Smithfield last week, would you?” Sebastian asked, rising to take his leave.

“Smithfield?” She rose with him. “Of all the unfashionable places. Good heavens, no.”

Standing beside her, Sebastian was reminded again of the unusual height that Morgana Quinlan, like her sister, Guinevere, had inherited from their father. If anything, Morgana was even taller—and certainly more robust—than her sister had been.

The green satin evening gown could no more have come from this woman’s wardrobe than from that of Claire Portland.

THAT GREEN SATIN GOWN was beginning to bother him.

Returning to his house on Brook Street, Sebastian decided to take the gown to Kat and hear what she might be able to tell him about it. “Have Tom bring the curricle around,” said Sebastian, handing his hat and walking stick to Morey, his majordomo.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” said Morey. “But young Tom has not yet returned.”

Sebastian frowned. The sun was already low in the sky, and he’d warned the tiger not to linger in Smithfield after dusk. Sebastian turned toward the stairs. “Then have Giles bring the curricle round.”

Morey gave a stately bow and withdrew.