What Remains of Heaven by C. S. Harris Page A

wouldn’t want to inconvenience—”
    “I’m convinced the good doctor will excuse us for a moment,” said Sebastian, giving the stout physician a smile that bared his teeth.
    “Of course,” said the doctor, withdrawing immediately with a polite bow.
    “My efforts here are important,” she told Sebastian in a low voice as they turned to stroll together across the paved courtyard. “It is beyond shameful for a nation of our wealth and grandeur to ask men to risk life and limb in war, and then abandon them to poverty and neglect when they return home wounded and infirm.”
    “Believe me, Miss Jarvis, I have nothing but admiration for what you’re trying to accomplish. I won’t delay you long.” He studied her classical profile. She looked thinner and paler than he remembered. Once, just two months before, Sebastian had held this woman in his arms, tasted the salt of her tears, felt the shudders rack her unexpectedly yielding body. But that had been a moment out of time, when they’d thought they faced certain death together.
    Instead, they had survived. Now, those shared moments of weakness had become a source of embarrassment and regret that could have profound repercussions for them both. He’d known her to shoot a highwayman at point-blank range, to confront certain death with a rare and clearheaded fortitude. But for a young gentlewoman to face the potential shame and ostracism of an unwed birth was something else entirely, and he had no intention of allowing her to suffer alone for what they had done together. The problem was, he wasn’t convinced she would tell him if there were, in fact, repercussions from that fateful afternoon.
    “Are you well?” he asked.
    She knew precisely what he meant. “I am quite well, thank you.” She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her step never faltering. “You’ve no need to concern yourself.”
    He wanted to believe her, but couldn’t. She’d already given him her forthright opinion of marriage; when he’d offered her the protection of his name after their rescue that day, her answer had been swift and unequivocal. Studying the self-possessed features of the woman beside him now, he could find no trace of the vulnerable creature who’d given herself to him in the cold, dark vaults beneath Somerset House. Yet it had happened.
    He said, “The Archbishop of Canterbury has asked me to look into the murder of Bishop Prescott.”
    For an instant, the hand holding the parasol clenched so hard Sebastian heard the delicate bamboo crack. But the calm self-control of her voice never slipped. “Bishop Prescott?” she said airily. “And what, pray tell, does his death have to do with me?”
    “I don’t know. Which is why I was curious when I heard you had requested a copy of Prescott’s most recent appointments.”
    She stared off across the courtyard, to where an emaciated man with one leg hobbled on a single crutch. “Ah,” she said softly. “And now you’re wondering why, are you?”
    “Yes.”
    She kept her gaze on the wounded soldier in his gay, old-fashioned uniform. “In point of fact, it’s my belief the Bishop was being blackmailed.”
    “Blackmailed?” Whatever Sebastian had been expecting her to say, it wasn’t that.
    “Yes.”
    “And precisely what, Miss Jarvis, led you to this conclusion?”
    “When I met with the Bishop yesterday evening, I found him quite disturbed.”
    “ You had a meeting with Prescott?”
    She glanced sideways at him. “You hadn’t discovered that yet?”
    “No, I had not. At what time did you meet with him?”
    “Six.”
    “So you were the important appointment the Bishop was reluctant to cancel. Do you mind if I ask why you were meeting with the Bishop of London?”
    She twitched her parasol back and forth in short, sharp jerks. “You may ask, if you wish, my lord. But I have no intention of answering your question. Believe me, it is not at all relevant to your investigation.”
    “Perhaps,” he said