When Maidens Mourn (9 page)

“Devlin,” she said, adjusting the tilt of her parasol in a way that threw her features into shadow. “What brings you here?”

He pushed away from the wall. “I was hoping to find someone at the museum who could direct me to a certain unidentified antiquary who quarreled recently with Miss Tennyson. I take it that’s the gentleman in question?”

“His name is Bevin Childe.” She stood still and let him walk up to her. “Post-Roman England is his specialty.”

“Ah, the Arthurian Age.”

“Yes. But I wouldn’t let Childe hear you call it that. I suspect you’d get an earful.”

“Mr. Childe is not a fan of Camelot?”

“He is not.”

“How much do you know about him?”

They turned to walk together toward her waiting carriage. “Apart from the fact that he’s a pompous ass?” she said with unladylike frankness.

Sebastian gave a startled laugh. “Is he?”

“Decidedly. As for what I know about him, I’m told his father is a Cambridge don. A doctor of divinity.”

“I wouldn’t have expected such a man to have much to do with Miss Tennyson.”

He watched her brows draw together in a frown. “Meaning?” she asked.

“Meaning that however brilliant or accomplished she may have been, Miss Tennyson not only lacked a formal university education, but she was also female. And there’s no need to scowl at me; I didn’t say I
agreed
with that sort of prejudice, did I?”

“True. I beg your pardon.”

“What about Childe himself? Is he a clergyman?”

“I believe he was once rather reluctantly destined for the church. But fortunately for Mr. Childe, a maternal uncle managed to acquire a fortune in India and then died without siring an heir. He left everything to Mr. Childe.”

“Fortuitous, indeed—for both Mr. Childe and the church. How do you come to know so much about the gentleman?”

“From Gabrielle. Her brother was up at Cambridge with Childe, and the two men have remained friends ever since—much to Gabrielle’s disgust, given that she has heartily detested the man since she was still in the schoolroom.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“She said he was arrogant, opinionated, self-absorbed, pedantic, and—strange.”

“‘Strange’? Did she ever explain exactly what she meant by that?”

“No. I asked her once, but she just shrugged and said he made her uncomfortable.”

“Interesting. And precisely how large of a fortune did the arrogant and pedantic Mr. Childe inherit?”

“A comfortable enough independence that he is now able to devote himself entirely to scholarship. I gather he currently divides his time between research here at the museum and a project he has undertaken for the Bodleian Library, which entails cataloging the library and collections of the late Richard Gough.”

“That’s significant,” said Sebastian, studying her face. “Why?”

“Because amongst other things, Mr. Gough made a particular study of the Arthurian legends. And his home, Gough Hall, is near Enfield.”

“And Camlet Moat?”

“Precisely.”

Sebastian frowned. “So where does Mr. Childe live?”

“I believe he has rooms in St. James’s Street.”

“He’s unmarried?”

“He is, yes. Gabrielle told me several weeks ago that he had become quite vocal in his disparagement of her conclusions about Camlet Moat. And Childe himself says that they quarreled over the issue again just last Friday. But he also made some rather vague references to Gabrielle’s ‘secrets’ that I found disturbing.”

“Secrets? What secrets?”

“He declined to elaborate.”

They had reached her carriage. Sebastian shook his head at the footman who was about to spring forward; the man stepped back, and Sebastian opened the carriage door himself. “Any chance Childe could have been referring to a certain French prisoner of war with whom Miss Tennyson was apparently friendly?”

Hero turned to face him, her expression one of mingled surprise and puzzlement. “What French prisoner of war?”

“She never talked about him?” Pausing with one elbow resting on the carriage’s open window, he gave her a brief summary of what he’d learned from the servants in the Tennyson household. “You’re certain she never mentioned such a man to you?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

Sebastian let his gaze rove over the shadowed features of her face, the smooth curve of her cheek, the strong, almost masculine angle of her jaw. Once, he would have said she was telling him the truth. But he knew her well enough by now to know that she was keeping something back from him.

He said, “When Bow Street brought word this morning of Gabrielle Tennyson’s death, I was surprised that you had no wish to accompany me to Camlet Moat. In my naivety, I assumed it was because you knew Lovejoy would be discomfited by your presence. But you had another reason entirely, didn’t you?”

She furled her parasol, her attention seemingly all for the task of securing the strap. Rather than answering him, she said, “We agreed when we married that we would respect each other’s independence.”

“We did. Yet your purpose in this is the same as mine, is it not? To discover what happened to Gabrielle Tennyson and her young cousins? Or is something else going on here of which I am not aware?”

She looked up at him, the light falling full on her face, and he saw there neither guile nor subterfuge, but only a tense concern. “You’ve heard the authorities discovered the boys are missing?”

Sebastian nodded silently.

“When I asked Childe who he thought killed Gabrielle, he said that rather than focusing on Gabrielle’s associates, I ought to consider who would benefit from the elimination of the children.”

Sebastian was silent for a moment, remembering a boy’s flowing copperplate and armies of tin soldiers marching silently across a sunlit nursery floor. He refused to accept that the two little boys were dead too. But all he said was, “You’ve met them?”

“Her cousins? Several times, yes. I’m not one of those women who dote mindlessly on children, but George and Alfred are something special. They’re so extraordinarily bright and curious and full of enthusiasm for learning about the world around them that
they’re a delight to be with. The thought that something might have happened to them too—” She broke off, and he saw the rare glaze of unshed tears in her eyes. Then she cleared her throat and looked away, as if embarrassed to be seen giving way to her emotions.

“‘Something that’s done and more undone,’” he quoted softly. “‘Are only the dead so bold?’”

Hero shook her head, not understanding. “What?”

“It’s from a poem George Tennyson wrote.” He showed it to her. “Does it mean anything to you?”

She read through the short stanza. “No. But George was always writing disjointed scraps of poetry like that. I doubt it means anything.”

“I’m told the boy’s father has been ill for a long time. Do you have any idea with what?”

“No. But then, I don’t know that much about Miss Tennyson’s family. Her parents died before I knew her. Her brother is a pleasant enough chap, although rather typically preoccupied with his legal practice. He has a small estate down in Kent, which is where he is now. It has always been my understanding that he and Gabrielle were comfortably situated, although no more than that. Yet I believe there may be substantial wealth elsewhere in the family. Recent wealth.”

“Good God,” said Sebastian. “Was Miss Tennyson in some way related to Charles Tennyson d’Eyncourt?”

“I believe they are first cousins. You know him?”

“He was several years behind me at Eton.”

His tone betrayed more than he’d intended it to. She smiled. “And you consider him a pretentious, toadying a—” She broke off to cast a rueful glance at the wooden faces of the waiting servants.

“Bore?” he suggested helpfully.

“That too.”

For one unexpectedly intimate moment, their gazes met and
they shared a private smile. Then Sebastian felt his smile begin to fade.

For the past fifteen months, d’Eyncourt had served as a member of Parliament from Lincolnshire. A fiercely reactionary Tory, he had quickly managed to ingratiate himself with the block of parliamentarians controlled by Hero’s own father, Lord Jarvis.

Sebastian said, “Why do I keep getting the distinct impression there’s something you’re not telling me?”

She took his offered hand and climbed the step into the waiting carriage. “Would I do that?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She gave a throaty chuckle and gracefully disposed the skirts of her dusky blue walking dress around her on the seat. “Will you tell the coachman to take me home, please?”

“Are you going home?”

“Are you?”

Smiling softly, he closed the door and nodded to the driver. He stood for a moment and watched as her carriage rounded the corner onto Tottenham Court. Then he went in search of the pretentious toadying bore who called himself Tennyson d’Eyncourt.

C
harles Tennyson d’Eyncourt was lounging comfortably in one of the leather tub chairs in the reading room of White’s when Sebastian walked up to him.

The MP was considerably fairer than his cousin Gabrielle, slim and gracefully formed, with delicate features and high cheekbones and lips so thin as to appear nearly nonexistent. He had a glass of brandy on the table at his elbow and the latest copy of the conservative journal
The Courier
spread open before him. He glanced up, briefly, when Sebastian settled in the seat opposite him, then pointedly returned his attention to his reading.

“My condolences on the death of your cousin, Miss Gabrielle Tennyson,” said Sebastian.

“I take it Bow Street has involved you in the investigation of this unfortunate incident, have they?” asked d’Eyncourt without looking up again.

“If by ‘unfortunate incident’ you mean the murder of Miss Tennyson and the disappearance of the young children in her care, then the answer is yes.”

D’Eyncourt reached, deliberately, for his brandy, took a sip, and returned to his journal.

“I’m curious,” said Sebastian, signaling a passing waiter for a drink. “How close is the relationship between you and Miss Tennyson?”

“We are—or I suppose I should say
were
—first cousins.”

“So the two missing boys are…?”

“My nephews.”

“Your brother’s sons?”

“That is correct.”

“I must confess that, under the circumstances, I am rather surprised to find you lounging in your club calmly reading a journal.”

D’Eyncourt looked up at that, his thin nose quivering. “Indeed? And what would you have me do instead, I wonder? Go charging into the countryside to thrash the underbrush of Enfield Chase like a beater hoping to flush game?”

“You think that’s where the children are liable to be found? At Camlet Moat?”

“How the devil would I know?” snapped d’Eyncourt and returned once more to his reading.

Sebastian studied the other man’s pinched profile. He couldn’t recall many of the younger boys at Eton, but Sebastian remembered d’Eyncourt. As a lad, d’Eyncourt had been one of those ostentatiously earnest scholars who combined shameless toadying with nauseating displays of false enthusiasm to curry favor with the dons. But to his fellow students he was ruthless and vindictive, and quickly acquired a well-deserved reputation as someone who would do anything—and say anything—to get what he wanted.

In those days he’d simply been called “Tennyson,” the same as his cousin and missing nephews. But several years ago he had successfully petitioned the Home Secretary to have his name changed to the more aristocratic d’Eyncourt, the extinct patronym of one of his mother’s ancestors, to which his claims were, to say the least,
dubious. It was well-known that his ambition was to be made Lord d’Eyncourt before he was forty.

“You seem oddly unconcerned about their fates,” said Sebastian.

“It is the stuff of tragedy, to be sure. However, none of it alters the fact that my brother and I have never been close. His life is narrowly focused on his benefices in Somersby, whereas I live most of the year in London, where I take my duties at Parliament very seriously indeed. I doubt I would recognize his children if I passed them in the street.”

“Is that why they’ve been staying with Miss Tennyson, their cousin, rather than with you, their uncle?”

D’Eyncourt sniffed. “My wife is not fond of London and chooses to remain in Lincolnshire. I do currently have my sister Mary with me, but I could hardly ask her to undertake the management of two wild, poorly brought-up boys, now, could I?”

“
Are
they wild and poorly bought up?”

“They could hardly be otherwise, given their parentage.”

“Really?” Sebastian settled more comfortably in his seat. “Tell me about the boys’ father—your brother. I hear he’s not well. Nothing serious, I hope?”

A curious hint of color touched the other man’s high cheekbones. “I fear my brother’s health has never been particularly robust.”

“Can you think of anyone who might benefit from the death or disappearance of his sons?”

“Good heavens; what a ridiculous notion! I told you: My brother is a rector. He holds two livings, which together provide him with a respectable income. But he has always been a hopeless spendthrift, and the foolish woman he married is even worse, with the result that my father is forever being forced to tow them out of the river tick.”

D’Eyncourt’s father was a notorious figure known irreverently as “the Old Man of the Wolds,” thanks to his extensive landholdings in the Wolds, an area of hills and wide-open valleys in the northeast
of England. His fortune, while of recent origins, was reportedly huge, deriving largely from a series of astute land purchases and the old man’s ruthless manipulation of anyone unfortunate enough to drift into his orbit.

Sebastian said, “You are your father’s sole heir?”

D’Eyncourt’s thin nostrils flared with indignation. “I am. And may I take leave to tell you that I resent the inference inherent in that question? I resent it very much.”

“Oh, you have my leave to tell me anything you wish,” said Sebastian, stretching to his feet. “Just one more question: Can you think of anyone who might have wished Miss Tennyson harm?”