Three days later.
It was Sunday morning, and the park was very busy, with families strolling and taking in the air. Sebastian walked with a shortened gate to accommodate Mercy Wandsworth’s tiny steps. Her hand was curled about his elbow, tugging downwards as she walked. She was scanning the title deeds and contracts held in her other hand, reading with an absorbed air that told him she knew far more about the intricacies of business than she liked to pretend. It didn’t worry him. The documents were very good forgeries.
“Lady Wandsworth!” came the call from behind them. “A moment, please!”
Sebastian stiffened. He knew the voice.
But Mercy Wandsworth halted and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, dear,” she said, very quietly. “I do hope this won’t be unpleasant.” For Nathanial was striding toward them.
Three days ago, Mercy had invited Sebastian to dine at her house, an invitation he had accepted, only to find that Anne was no longer living there. It took some delicate questions to elicit the facts. Beatrice had returned to her family home near York, in disgrace because she had failed to marry. Her engagement to Lord Smythington had been abruptly broken off, with no explanations from Smythington.
Anne’s absence had been a relief for Sebastian, and he had doubled his efforts to win Mercy’s confidence. He tried not to assume anything about Anne’s departure. Certainly, he did not linger over the most obvious conclusion; that she had stolen the necklace as promised, and left Southampton with all haste after selling it to her buyer.
So why was Nathanial here, now? It didn’t make sense. Like Mercy, Sebastian also hoped that the next few minutes would pass peacefully and quickly. As Mercy had halted, he was forced to turn and face Nathanial as he strode up.
Nathanial lifted his hat as he drew closer. “Lady Wandsworth, I am pleased to find you here. I had hoped I would come across you in the park this morning.”
“Then you consider this encounter more fortunate than do I,” Mercy replied, her voice a little cold. “Beatrice is no longer a guest in my house, Lord Smythington. You have broken her heart and besmirched her reputation. I do hope you consider your reasons for such a callous act well worth it?”
Nathanial blinked and for a moment, Sebastian thought he was genuinely puzzled. Then he gave Mercy a stiff bow. “The circumstances warranted a broken engagement, Lady Wandsworth. I discovered that Beatrice’s reputation was sullied long ago. I did not seek you out this morning with retribution in mind. Beatrice’s departure was a relief to me.”
Mercy’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. Then they narrowed again as she considered him. “Then why do you wish to see me?”
“Actually, I was wondering...would you mind losing your companion for a moment while I speak to him? I promise we will leave you unattended for only a few moments, then we will both escort you home to make up for the desertion. Is that agreeable to you, my lady?”
Say no! Sebastian begged her in his mind.
“Both of you? Why, that would be delightful, Lord Smythington. If only you promise to tell me more about France.”
Sebastian’s heart sank. He glared at Nathanial, making no attempt to hide his feelings. “You should ask him about Italy, my lady. That is his true expertise.”
Nathanial’s expression didn’t change. “He exaggerates, of course. I know Rome a little.” He picked up Mercy’s hand, the one she had untucked from Sebastian’s elbow, and bowed over it. “We will return to your side quite soon,” he promised. Then he glanced at Sebastian. It was the first time he had looked at him directly since he had halted in front of them. “Richard, would you mind stepping over here, please?”
“I would, rather,” Sebastian said shortly.
“Nevertheless, I insist.” His expression was polite enough, but there was a glitter in Nathanial’s blue eyes that told Sebastian he would resort to physically hauling him out of Lady Mercy’s earshot if he had to.
Sebastian sighed and moved off the footpath, onto the close-cropped lawn. Nathanial was a pace ahead, and halted only when they were thirty yards from the path where Mercy stood watching them curiously.
Nathanial rounded on him. “I don’t care about Anne’s abrupt departure, but you...”
Sebastian stared at him, puzzled. He didn’t care about Anne? Was Nathanial really that good a liar? “You care nothing about the necklace?” he demanded.
“I care that you failed to meet our last appointment and have been missing for three days since then. Damn it to hell, Sebastian! You left no word! Not a single explanation!”
Sebastian was confused and puzzled. A dozen responses occurred to him. As always, every time Nathanial spoke, it only raised more questions. “Why do you even care?” he asked at last.
It was Nathanial’s turn to stare. His hand curled into a fist and Sebastian belatedly realized that he was not nearly as calm and collected as he had first appeared.
“You really must ask why I care?” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Sebastian held up his hand. “Don’t,” he said flatly. “Do not carry on with this pretense. You are a liar, a thief and a swindler and your morals are as loose as hers. Or mine -- but I’m the victim this time, aren’t I?” He grimaced. “Anne understood your character far better than I did, but I can see it clearly now. My usefulness is at an end, Nathanial. There is no need to play the wounded lover. There is no need to knot any trailing threads. Anne took care of that by giving me the truth.”
“What truth would that be?” Nathanial asked, his voice very low.
Sebastian threw out his hands. “The necklace!” he said, fighting to keep his voice low so his words would not travel. “You were going to foist that unwelcome piece of fakery onto me, then let me hang for the crime.”
Nathanial simply looked at him. His anger, or whatever emotion had been boiling inside him, was gone. Then, finally, he stirred, his feet shifting. “I see,” he said, glancing over to where Mercy stood waiting. “Well, then.” There was a note of finality in his tone. He looked back at Sebastian. “Where are you staying?” he asked quietly.
“That is most certainly none of your business.”
Nathanial shook his head. “You’re curling up on park benches again,” he said flatly. Then; “My rooms are paid for until the end of the month. The landlord has the key. Why don’t you use them? I certainly don’t need them. Not anymore.”
A cold, invisible hand squeezed Sebastian’s heart, slowing it and making it hurt. “You will not?” He swallowed. “You’re leaving Southampton,” he concluded.
Nathanial inclined his head. “We must play out this charade with Mercy Wandsworth,” he said stiffly. “But after we have returned her safely home, I will bother you no longer.”
Nathanial turned away, back toward Mercy.
Sebastian wanted to throw out his hand and halt him, but Mercy would see the telltale movement. “Just like that?” he demanded, his voice hoarse. “You would leave...without trying to defend yourself?”
Nathanial spun to face him. “There is no defense I could give that you would believe. As you pointed out, I am a liar. You have tried and sentenced me. There is nothing I can say in return. So I will not.” He did not say the words with anger, or any emotion that Sebastian could detect. He simply spoke them.
“Let’s get Mercy home,” Nathanial said, his voice still flat and lifeless. “Then we can both put this behind us.”
Sebastian watched him walk slowly back to the footpath and offer his elbow to Mercy. Then he forced himself to follow.
The next forty minutes were the longest of his life. Once Mercy was safely behind her front door and the butler had closed it behind her, Sebastian turned to face Nathanial for the last time.
He was gone. The spot upon the pavement where he had been standing was quite empty.
Sebastian thanked the landlord, a Mr. Reginald Smith, one last time before he managed to close the door on him. Then he turned to look around the familiar room, his gut squeezing. Why had he come here?
Because you are sleeping on park benches again. A lack of money outbid conscience and morals, any day.
He tossed the iron key onto the bureau where Nathanial had stored the wine. The bureau was most likely empty, now. He would look later. Perhaps.
There was a knock on the door and Sebastian rolled his eyes. Mr. Smith was a talker. A rambling talker. What had he forgotten to tell him? Sebastian pulled the door open with an impatient yank.
The man on the other side was not Smith. He was a short fellow with black, curly hair and cheerful brown eyes.
“Monsieur Aquila?” he enquired, his accent strong.
“There is no one here by that name,” Sebastian replied, his thoughts racing. A man with a French accent looking for Nathanial could only mean someone had traced his journey from Paris. “And you are?”
“Who I am is not of importance, no? If you are not Nathanial Aquila, you should not care. May I step inside for a moment?”
“I think not,” Sebastian replied and went to close the door. The man shot out his hand and the door thumped against it. “Hey!” Sebastian said indignantly.
“I did not properly introduce myself,” the man said, stepping through the doorway, forcing Sebastian to back up. The door shut behind him. “I am Monsieur Christophe Cloutier, of the Marechaussee. You know this name?”
“No,” Sebastian lied. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“As a friend of Monsieur Aquila, I suspect you know the name very well.”
“He is no friend of mine,” Sebastian said flatly.
“Then you do know him,” Cloutier said and smiled. “I thought you might.”
Sebastian sighed and pulled the bureau drawer open. Inside were three fat, short flasks of wine, all of them sealed, almost as if they were waiting for him. He let out a silent sigh and pulled one out. The knife for cutting the seal was still sitting on the top of the bureau, resting on a silver tray.
He busied himself with cutting the seal away.
“You might be able to assist me,” Cloutier added, “as I ‘oped Monsieur Aquila might. There is a lady that Monsieur Aquila is acquainted with. You may know her. Miss Anne Beecham.”
Sebastian shrugged and poured himself a glass. “The name isn’t familiar.” He took a deep swallow of the ruby liquid.
“She has been using the name Beatrice while she was in Southampton,” Cloutier said.
Sebastian thought it through. If Cloutier had spoken to Mercy Wandsworth, then the connection between them would have been confirmed. If not, it would only be a matter of time before he did speak with her.
“I know a young lady called Beatrice,” Sebastian confirmed, swirling the wine around the glass carefully. “She is pleasant enough. What is your interest in her?”
Cloutier nodded. “Would it surprise you to know that this Anne Beecham is a most successful thief? She is wanted for questioning in Paris and here in England.”
“You came all the way to Southampton for a thief?” Sebastian asked.
“Miss Beecham is not an ordinary thief.” Cloutier tugged the fronts of his coat closer together. “She stole a necklace of incalculable worth and hurried to England to have it broken down into over three thousand diamonds, which she will sell off at nothing close to their true value.”
Sebastian stared at Cloutier, his wine forgotten. “Anne had the necklace?”
“Indeed,” Cloutier confirmed. “You must understand, Monsieur, this necklace is a most precious belonging of France’s. Its disappearance is causing embarrassment of the most abject kind, all the way as high as the throne itself.”
Sebastian sank down onto the nearest chair and pushed the wine glass across the table, his thirst gone. “Anne had the necklace,” he repeated, familiarizing himself with that fact.
“I see you know something of this matter, then,” Cloutier said, sounding satisfied.
Sebastian looked up at him. “The necklace that Anne had...it was the real one? It wasn’t a copy?”
Cloutier frowned. “Monsieur, are you at all familiar with the style and beauty of this necklace?”
Sebastian shook his head. “It was just gossip in the newspapers. I paid it no mind at all.”
Cloutier reached inside his coat and pulled out a sheet of paper and held it out to him. There was an engraving printed on it, of a woman wearing a necklace. The necklace itself was a complex pattern of ropes and pendants, each of them made from thickly clustered diamonds. Each rope was at least an inch wide. The pendants at the end of each rope were single diamonds the size of his thumbnail, surrounded by even more diamonds.
Sebastian stared at the image, amazement filtering through his stunned mind. “No one could copy this,” he said to himself. “It would take half a lifetime.”
“Indeed,” Cloutier agreed, taking the picture back.
Anger stirred in him. Sebastian looked Cloutier squarely in the eyes. “She told me Nathanial had a copy of the necklace. That she was going to steal it from him and sell it to another as the real thing.”
“Nathanial Aquila?” Cloutier reached into his coat again and pulled out a letter which had been unsealed and unfolded. “’e is the reason I came to England – as soon as I got ‘is letter.”
Sebastian squeezed the edge of the table, holding himself steady. “He wrote to you?”
“’e said ‘e suspected Mademoiselle Anne ‘ad the necklace and was trying to rid ‘erself of it in any way she could.” Cloutier lifted the letter again. “A most astute observation by M. Aquila. A necklace so remarkable as this one would not be easy to sell, when everyone in the world knows it is stolen.”
“Indeed,” Sebastian echoed weakly. “You should know that she has gone. She left Southampton three days ago. I presume she took the necklace with her, as she did not foist it upon me, which was her plan, I now realize.”
Cloutier considered him gravely. “You do not know where she ‘as gone?”
“She told a mutual friend she was going back to York.”
“You do not believe that, do you?” Cloutier asked.
“I would look in Land’s End,” Sebastian replied dryly. “It is the other end of the country from York.”
Cloutier nodded again, pushing the letter back into his jacket. “Then she is boxed in. She cannot go back to France and all the waterways out of England are being watched. We will find her,” he said confidently.
Sebastian simply nodded.
Cloutier considered him and his expression grew warmer. “Do not feel too badly about being duped by this one, monsieur. She has fooled some of the greatest men in my country and yours.”
“I take little comfort in that.”
Cloutier smiled. “I will leave you now. I thank you for your candor, M. Worthington.”
“You have known who I am all along?” Sebastian asked. “You knew I was not Nathanial.”
Cloutier’s eyes twinkled with good cheer. “I met the landlord as I was climbing the stairs. That one, ‘e is a chatty man.” He lifted his hand in a graceful wave of farewell, and opened the door, stepped out and shut it very quietly behind him.
Sebastian stared at the door. There was something Cloutier had just said. Something he had not properly heard or understood the significance of those words.
Then he had it. He shot to his feet. “The landlord!” he told the empty room.