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Chapter Thirteen

Sebastian

S ebastian had not seen Mrs. Lawrence since realizing the game she had been playing, and he watched her with interest that both seethed and ached.

He had dismissed his impulse to barge in upon her and her sister-in-law to charge her with her offenses, but now she was quite alone.

And yet standing before her, he knew it would not be enough. Everything he had admired about her—her beauty, her wit, her kindness— kindness! —were now irreparably tainted. Where they had before invited him to draw nearer, now they mocked him.

His jaw clenched. Simple verbal assault would not be enough.

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Lawrence’s hand stole to her mouth. “Sweet Montague!”

Sebastian was pulled violently from his vengeful ponderings. “I beg your pardon?”

“It is Montague, George’s prized messenger pigeon.”

Sebastian’s gaze fixed intently on her—the brows knit so tightly, the forlorn, anguished look on her face. An hour ago, it might have convinced him. But not now. Now he wondered if she had practiced it in the mirror.

What was her game, though ?

“A messenger pigeon,” Sebastian repeated.

Mrs. Lawrence nodded, covering her mouth again with a hand, as though overcome with emotion. “George was so very fond of Montague.”

Sebastian’s jaw worked from side to side. He would play this game with her and see where it led. “I am unspeakably sorry, Mrs. Lawrence. I had no idea…”

Her gaze lifted to his. “No, indeed. How could you have?” Again, her hand stole to her mouth.

He began to suspect she was not concealing emotion so much as she was trying to hide a smile.

She sniffed. “Forgive me. It is just…the sight of something he loved so dearly…such an important part of him.”

Was she truly expecting him to believe that her husband loved a common pigeon?

Was her opinion of his intelligence so little?

After the incident with the hunting equipment, perhaps so.

She ran a hand along the handkerchief covering the pigeon’s wing, likely because she did not wish to touch the actual bird. “Another goodbye to say. Another part of George that will be buried and gone.”

Sebastian could hardly keep from rolling his eyes. Mrs. Lawrence’s sudden sentimentality did not fool him for a second. But he still failed to see what she intended with this.

He said nothing, determined that she be the one to reveal her hand.

She turned her face away in a fashion Sebastian found melodramatic. “It is difficult to even see Montague like this. I should hate for it to be the last memory I have of him.”

Sebastian kept his silence, aware that she was waiting for him to say something.

Her eyes finally lifted to his. Those beautiful, hateful blue eyes. “I have troubled you so much already, but might I ask one last favor of you?”

Only with the greatest self-mastery did he suppress a scoff. Every bit of trouble she had given him had been intentional. And here she was, plotting more.

“Anything,” he said.

“I would be so grateful if someone were to preserve Montague’s memory somehow. A portrait, perhaps, to keep his memory alive so that I may remember him the way he was in life. Whoever did it would need to see Montague, of course, for he is so very distinctive.”

Sebastian glanced down at the lifeless pigeon in his hands. In a crowd of ten, he could not have picked it out. It was the same drab gray, with haphazard flecks of white in places. Indistinguishable from the majority of other pigeons, in fact.

Did she wish to inconvenience him, then? To force a disgusting, dead creature upon him in an effort to humiliate him?

“He truly is,” Sebastian said, “and I would be honored to take on this task, Mrs. Lawrence.”

She smiled up at him sweetly. Wickedly. “You are too good to me.”

“Impossible,” Sebastian responded. “You may safely leave the matter in my hands.”

It was in the dark hours of the middle of the night when Sebastian hit upon the idea.

He must have looked like the devil himself, grinning in the dark like a villain who’d just escaped the gallows.

It was Mrs. Lawrence’s own words that had given him the idea. I would be so grateful if someone were to preserve Montague’s memory somehow.

She had suggested a portrait, but Sebastian knew no one capable of such a thing.

That word preserve , though…it had remained with him, and it inevitably brought someone particular to mind.

Sebastian did not take Pip with him to Blackstone’s a second time. The doorman, Plockton, insisted upon announcing Sebastian’s arrival to Lord Blackstone personally, however, and Sebastian suspected the man had been given specific instructions not to allow Pip to return.

Sebastian was left kicking his heels in the drawing room, trying to ignore the wild boar head hovering above him.

The patch covering its left eye gave it a menacing air, as though it had just pillaged one of His Majesty’s ships.

The truth, as Sebastian understood it, was that the animal had lost an eye while being hunted, and there had been simply no way to salvage things.

There were a handful of other gentlemen in the drawing room. Most of them seemed to be congregating around a gentleman named Smart.

Leaving the wild boar, Sebastian made his way over, choosing a place beside John Aubin to bide his time while Plockton conferred with Blackstone. Aubin was too focused on what Smart was saying to take notice of him.

Smart was recounting some history with an earl who had engaged in dubious financial activity that had since come to light. Why anyone seemed surprised to discover such things was beyond Sebastian, who teased that the earl in question might just become the next member of Blackstone’s.

Aubin seemed not to appreciate this bit of humor. Indeed, he seemed to be very much lost in intent thought.

Plockton returned, preventing any conversation with Aubin when he came up behind Sebastian. “His lordship is ready to receive you, Mr. Drake.”

Sebastian bid farewell to Aubin, then followed the doorman to Blackstone’s study. Apparently, he was not welcome to see himself there after the events of his last call. Perhaps Blackstone feared he would somehow manage to smuggle Pip into the club and force the monkey’s presence upon him.

As if anyone could force Pip to do anything he didn’t wish to.

Blackstone’s face filled with relief at the sight of Sebastian entering alone.

“Drake!” he said jovially. “How do you do? Did you manage to train that marmoset of yours?”

“A bit, my lord. A bit. His manners will never be welcome at Almack’s, I fear, but he has acquired a few more polite habits than when I first met him. I thank you for recommending the trainer.”

“Do not even mention it,” Blackstone said kindly. “What can I do for you, then?”

“I was hoping you might offer me a bit of counsel. I need to have a pigeon preserved.”

Blackstone stared at him blankly. “A pigeon.”

“A pigeon, my lord.”

The corners of Blackstone’s mouth turned down, and he surveyed Sebastian as though reconsidering his decision to welcome him into the hallows of his club.

“What was the name of the taxidermist you mentioned before?” Sebastian asked. “The one who had done poor work.”

Blackstone’s frown deepened, as though the mere mention upset him. “Fratch, you mean?”

Sebastian snapped. “Fratch! That was it. I could not for the life of me remember it. You do not happen to have his direction, do you?”

Blackstone took a moment before responding. “Drake, do you mean to have Fratch preserve this pigeon you speak of?”

“I do, sir.” Sebastian could not suppress a smile, so gleeful did he feel.

Blackstone was becoming more certain by the second that Sebastian was mad.

“It is a strange request, I realize,” Sebastian said. “I have my reasons, but I will not bore you with them. If you have Fratch’s direction, I will take it and leave you in peace.”

Blackstone looked at him another moment, then heaved a resigned sigh and pulled the quill from its stand while Sebastian tried and failed to suppress his exultation.

If Mrs. Lawrence believed she was the only one who could play a game, she was about to discover her error.