auction yard of Tattersall’s.
Even in that crowd, Captain Quail was easy enough to spot: a tall, blond-haired man with the left sleeve of his regimentals hanging conspicuously empty. He was inspecting a carriage horse, a glossy bay with a gracefully arching neck and regally held tail, when Sebastian came up behind him.
“Showy,” said Sebastian. “But a bit short in the back, wouldn’t you say?”
Quail turned, the expression on his face closed and watchful. “I wouldn’t have said so, no. But then, you always did have the best horses in the regiment.”
“I heard you’d purchased a transfer to the Horse Guards. How comforting for your wife to have you once again by her side.”
Quail’s eyes narrowed. When they’d served together in the Peninsula, Quail had never been without a Portuguese mistress, sometimes keeping two whores at a time. “What’s this about, Devlin? I don’t flatter myself that you’ve sought me out simply for the sake of auld lang syne.”
Sebastian ran one hand down the bay’s neck. She really was a splendid animal. “I suppose I’m curious. You didn’t by any chance know a young gentleman named Dominic Stanton?”
“You mean the lord’s son who just got himself butchered?” Quail gave an abrupt huff of laughter. “Not hardly.”
“Yet you’ve heard what happened to him.”
“Who in London has not?”
The bay nosed Sebastian’s pockets, looking for a carrot. “What about Barclay Carmichael? Did you know him?”
A muscle twitched along the man’s handsome jawline, his nostrils flaring on a quickly indrawn breath. “I know where you’re going with this.”
“I should rather think you would,” said Sebastian, his attention seemingly all for the horse. “That’s what happens when you acquire a reputation for torture and mutilation. Young men start showing up butchered, and suspicion naturally turns toward you.”
Quail’s chest swelled, the brass on his regimentals gleaming in the late-afternoon light. “I did what I did in Portugal for King and country.”
“And loved every minute of it, didn’t you?” Sebastian turned to study the man beside him. “So what happened? Did you acquire a taste for it, and then find you missed it when you had nothing to do besides parade up and down the Mall and provide an ornamental backdrop for the Prince?”
Quail stared back at him, breathing hard but saying nothing.
The afternoon sun struck the dust in the air, turning it to gold. The smell of expensive horseflesh and manure drifted on the afternoon breeze. “Where were you Saturday night, anyway?” Sebastian asked.
“At home. In bed with my wife.” Quail leaned in close, his blue eyes like ice. “Why? Whose bed were you in? My lord. ”
Sebastian smiled. “Not my wife’s.” He started to turn away.
Quail stopped him, his voice rising. “You’re wrong about this. You hear me, Devlin? You’re wrong. I had nothing to do with either Carmichael or Stanton.”
“Really?” Sebastian gathered the bay’s lead and slapped it against the captain’s chest. “Then why are you lying?”
Sebastian stood in the shadows of the auction yard’s Palladian facade and watched as Quail glanced quickly around, then disappeared into one of the subscription rooms.
“Follow him,” Sebastian told Tom. “I want to know where he goes, whom he sees.”
Tom pulled his hat low enough to shade his eyes and grinned. “Aye, gov’nor.”
Chapter 17
C harles, Lord Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to his nostrils and sniffed. He was a big man, tall and fleshy, with large appetites and a power unmatched by any in England.
Although he could claim a distant kinship to the King, Jarvis owed his position of power not so much to his birth as to the nearly incomparable brilliance of his intellect, his shrewd ability to manipulate men, and a fierce dedication to King and country that no one could question. If it weren’t for Jarvis, the Hanovers would have lost their
Even in that crowd, Captain Quail was easy enough to spot: a tall, blond-haired man with the left sleeve of his regimentals hanging conspicuously empty. He was inspecting a carriage horse, a glossy bay with a gracefully arching neck and regally held tail, when Sebastian came up behind him.
“Showy,” said Sebastian. “But a bit short in the back, wouldn’t you say?”
Quail turned, the expression on his face closed and watchful. “I wouldn’t have said so, no. But then, you always did have the best horses in the regiment.”
“I heard you’d purchased a transfer to the Horse Guards. How comforting for your wife to have you once again by her side.”
Quail’s eyes narrowed. When they’d served together in the Peninsula, Quail had never been without a Portuguese mistress, sometimes keeping two whores at a time. “What’s this about, Devlin? I don’t flatter myself that you’ve sought me out simply for the sake of auld lang syne.”
Sebastian ran one hand down the bay’s neck. She really was a splendid animal. “I suppose I’m curious. You didn’t by any chance know a young gentleman named Dominic Stanton?”
“You mean the lord’s son who just got himself butchered?” Quail gave an abrupt huff of laughter. “Not hardly.”
“Yet you’ve heard what happened to him.”
“Who in London has not?”
The bay nosed Sebastian’s pockets, looking for a carrot. “What about Barclay Carmichael? Did you know him?”
A muscle twitched along the man’s handsome jawline, his nostrils flaring on a quickly indrawn breath. “I know where you’re going with this.”
“I should rather think you would,” said Sebastian, his attention seemingly all for the horse. “That’s what happens when you acquire a reputation for torture and mutilation. Young men start showing up butchered, and suspicion naturally turns toward you.”
Quail’s chest swelled, the brass on his regimentals gleaming in the late-afternoon light. “I did what I did in Portugal for King and country.”
“And loved every minute of it, didn’t you?” Sebastian turned to study the man beside him. “So what happened? Did you acquire a taste for it, and then find you missed it when you had nothing to do besides parade up and down the Mall and provide an ornamental backdrop for the Prince?”
Quail stared back at him, breathing hard but saying nothing.
The afternoon sun struck the dust in the air, turning it to gold. The smell of expensive horseflesh and manure drifted on the afternoon breeze. “Where were you Saturday night, anyway?” Sebastian asked.
“At home. In bed with my wife.” Quail leaned in close, his blue eyes like ice. “Why? Whose bed were you in? My lord. ”
Sebastian smiled. “Not my wife’s.” He started to turn away.
Quail stopped him, his voice rising. “You’re wrong about this. You hear me, Devlin? You’re wrong. I had nothing to do with either Carmichael or Stanton.”
“Really?” Sebastian gathered the bay’s lead and slapped it against the captain’s chest. “Then why are you lying?”
Sebastian stood in the shadows of the auction yard’s Palladian facade and watched as Quail glanced quickly around, then disappeared into one of the subscription rooms.
“Follow him,” Sebastian told Tom. “I want to know where he goes, whom he sees.”
Tom pulled his hat low enough to shade his eyes and grinned. “Aye, gov’nor.”
Chapter 17
C harles, Lord Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to his nostrils and sniffed. He was a big man, tall and fleshy, with large appetites and a power unmatched by any in England.
Although he could claim a distant kinship to the King, Jarvis owed his position of power not so much to his birth as to the nearly incomparable brilliance of his intellect, his shrewd ability to manipulate men, and a fierce dedication to King and country that no one could question. If it weren’t for Jarvis, the Hanovers would have lost their
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