loved Richard—and she had certainly lived the past years of her life in the presumption of that love—she had discovered in those same years that she did not like him much.
How I have fallen, Garrett thought, and held her tongue.
Sebastien, meanwhile, waited until Mr. Priest had gotten himself around the better part of the brandy and Mary had kindled the fire against the spring night's rawness. Garrett's house was without gaslights, and as twilight faded, Garrett took herself about the library, striking lucifers and kindling paraffin lamps. It reminded her of an early night spent in Sebastien's company, and her hand trembled under the flame.
When the room was bright enough for those without a wampyr's advantage and Mary had withdrawn again, Sebastien said, "Jack has learned a little today as well."
The young man in question cupped his glass against his chest, elbows tucked to his ribs. He held his poise, though all eyes were on him. Garrett admired him despite herself.
"Well," he said, "I think the paddereen came in the post. I spoke with Paul Goodwood this morning. He recalled his father receiving a lint-filled envelope, very light, that seemed to disturb him greatly."
"Paddereen?"
"He died holding a rosary bead, your Grace," Garrett explained.
"It seemed to suggest Irish involvement," Mr. Priest said. "Following a hunch, I visited some of the right sort of public houses today."
A dramatic pause, which Garrett did not interrupt. Richard made a soft noise, amplified by his raised glass.
"There is a fair body of rumor," Mr. Priest continued, the picture of insouciance now where before he had been tight-wound, tense, "that suggests Goodwood was laundering money. The people who are talking—which is, I should remind you, not very often the people who know the secret truths—think that if he was murdered, it was by the King's men, begging your pardon, your Grace. At least the lower echelon believes him to have been a loyal son of Ireland. Also, the son, Paul, was born in the Colonies to a Dutch mother. I shouldn't be too certain he knows anything."
Richard seemed to choose his words with care, "Do we assume that the funds for the shoe factory came from the Fenians?"
"I'll put the constabulary on it at once, my lord," Garrett said.
"The City Guard," Richard corrected. "Considering the Lord Mayor's possible role."
"Your grace—"
Richard looked past her, catching Sebastien's eye. "Excuse us," he said. "I need to speak to the Crown Investigator in confidence."
"Of course," Sebastien said, and took Mr. Priest by the elbow to lead him to the hall. When the door was firmly latched, Richard stared at Garrett, and stared away.
"I want Eliot this time, Abby Irene."
The brandy came back up her throat. "Richard—"
But he stopped her with a lifted palm. "He's tried to kill us both," he said. "Last spring, through the French sorcerer. And again six months before that, when his confederates lured us to the Earl of Westchester's country house. Do you honestly believe he's not involved in this, whether we can prove it or not?"
"You're asking me to bear false witness."
"I'm asking you to prove what we already know to be true."
She had no facile answer. An easy case, she thought, bitterly, and swallowed to rid the burning in her throat. She forced one calm breath, another. Like magic: if one could fool the body into acting calm, it could become calm. "I took an oath. If it is not inviolable, then I am useless. If I am not inviolate, my magic is not inviolate."
He was about to say something else. She took the glass from his hand. Two brandy glasses made opening the door awkward. She set them on an end table and gave the cold brass handle one hard jerk. "I'm sure the Duchess is expecting you. Good night."
Sebastien and Mr. Priest were just a little way down the hall. He could have caused a scene, but scenes weren't Richard's métier. Instead, he gave her a look that promised further discussion, nodded to the wampyr and his apprentice, and without another word went to collect his hat.
* * *
"What was that?"
"A private matter." She put a hand on Sebastien's arm and didn't care if Jack Priest saw. "Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples," she quoted, "for I am sick of love."
He kissed her on the head. "Will you settle for apple brandy?"
"I've had my share." But she took the glass Mr. Priest handed her, though she did not know if it was her own, or Richard's. Mr. Priest retired to