“The hour is late, Sir Joseph,” said Banks’s physician, discreetly taking hold of the Bath chair’s handles as soon as the toasts were downed. “It’s time to take you home.”
“It’s a cursed nuisance to grow old,” grumbled the elderly scholar, surrendering his empty goblet with a scowl. “It appears I must bid you adieu,” he added, giving a curt wave to the group as he was wheeled away.
After darting a look at the tall case clock in the corner of the room, Cedric gave an apologetic shrug. “My brother and I must be going as well.”
“I daresay the prospect of more pleasurable company than a gaggle of aging intellectuals lies ahead,” said Rumford with a wink.
“For Nicholas, perhaps, but not for me,” answered Cedric politely. “Unfortunately, I have some pressing estate matters to review for the morrow, so I will be heading back to my town house.”
“Poor Cedric—I shall take it upon myself to drown your sorrows.” Looking a little unsteady on his feet, Nicholas allowed a laugh at his own witticism and clapped an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “As we younger sons have no official duties, we must find other ways to keep boredom at bay.” Another shaky laugh. “Come, we had better take our leave from the duke and be off.”
After exchanging the requisite polite pleasantries, the pair hurried off to thank the Duke of Sussex and make their way out into the night.
* * *
The air had taken on a chill, the dampness forming serpentine swirls of mist. Stirred by the breeze, the ghostly pale vapor floated through the leafy shadows of the topiary trees lining the graveled walkways.
They paused, both taking a moment to look up at the stars playing hide-and-seek among the scudding clouds.
“Nicky,” murmured Cedric. “If I may be allowed a word of counsel, I fear you’re becoming a trifle too fond of brandy and wine. It does you no credit, especially among such a learned circle of gentlemen. A reputation for unsteadiness—”
“Ye gods, what a stiff-rumped prig you’ve become,” interrupted Nicholas. “Since Father died and you inherited the title, your pompous prosing has become a dreadful bore.” His eyes darkened. “Or perhaps it’s you who are stirring the malicious whispers of my unsteadiness in order to distract attention from your own.”
Cedric stared for a moment in mute shock. “T-That’s a damnably unfair accusation—”
“Ha! You, of all people, aren’t entitled to talk about fairness,” jeered his younger brother. “Pray tell, where is the fairness in you getting everything simply by virtue of popping out of the womb a mere three minutes before I did?” Nicholas sucked in a harsh breath and wagged a warning finger. “As for unsteadiness, have a care, dear twin. I think you are treading on far more dangerous ground than I am.”
Clenching his teeth, Cedric remained silent. There was no point in trying to reason with Nicholas when he was in the grip of such unreasonable anger. And besides, his own blood was now up. He had shared everything—everything—that could be shared. If the title could be sliced in two, he would have shared that, too! His brother had no cause for complaint.
As for his own activities here in London . . .
“Nothing to say?” Nicholas flashed a rude gesture and turned away. “Then you may take your lordly lecture and shove it back down your gullet.”
“Arse,” muttered Cedric as he watched his brother stalk away. Nicky’s drinking was becoming worrisome, sparking volatile mood swings. A gentle chiding—the duty of an older brother, he told himself—was no reason for such caustic comments about acting the high-and-mighty lord. The mantle of responsibility, along with the title of Baron Chittenden, had only recently come to rest on his shoulders. And if truth be told, it was still an uneasy burden.
The devil take it—Nicky has no idea of its weight!
Granted, he may have strayed into making some unwise decisions recently, but he was taking steps to correct the lapse . . .
Cedric winced and pressed his palms to his throbbing temples. As for alcohol, he had drunk more than he was used to, and was feeling a little light-headed. Drawing a deep breath, he wandered deeper into the Palace gardens, trying to gather his wits. Perhaps a short stroll through the famous wiggly walks would help to clear his head before he headed out to the street to hail a hackney.
He dimly recalled that Queen Anne’s Alcove, an architectural gem designed by Christopher Wren, was located nearby. Praised as a sanctuary of peace and beauty, it held a lovely covered seating area for quiet reflection . . .
On impulse, he cut across to one of the curling side pathways.
Crunch-crunch. It took a moment for his befuddled brain to realize that he was not the only one treading over the well-raked stones.
Is Nicky coming back to apologize?
Cedric slowly turned. Clouds covered the moon, and though the upper windows of the Palace were ablaze with light, the gardens were shrouded in shadows, the flitting black-on-black shapes blurring together with the dark silhouettes of the shrubbery. He squinted, trying to make out any sign of life within the amorphous gloom.
Nothing.
A figment of his cup-shot imagination, he decided. The champagne had begun to stir a bilious churning in his gut and it was now bubbling up to pound against his temples.
He continued on, though his steps were growing more erratic.
Crunch-crunch. Up ahead, Cedric spotted a marble structure of exquisite beauty rising out of the mist-swirled darkness. Classical columns flanked an arched opening in its center. Set beneath the vaulted ceiling of the semicircular space was a curved wooden bench built into the decorative dark oak paneling.
“Wren understood the exquisite beauty of symmetry,” he murmured, taking a moment to gaze up in admiration before stumbling up the steps and taking a seat.
Stretching out his legs, Cedric released a pent-up breath and watched the moonlight flitter over the tips of his boots. Ivy ruffled against stone. Crickets chirped. From within the dark silhouette of the nearby boxwood hedge, a bird twittered a low, languid night song.
The cosmos was a wondrous place, alive with infinite possibilities and interconnections, he reminded himself, feeling his earlier agitation mellow into a pleasant fugue of wine and the ideas stirred by the scientific soiree.
It was heady stuff—to hear such learned men expound on the idea that scientific discovery involved passion, as well as the mere recording of information. That it demanded poetry, as well as facts . . .
Reason and imagination. Closing his eyes, Cedric felt a warmth pulse through him as he mulled over such thoughts. This was why he had come to London. To be inspired by the great minds of the country’s leading men of science, to be part of new discoveries . . .
A sudden bump, wool against wool, jarred him from his reveries as someone sat down beside him.
“Nicky?” he mumbled, shaking off his lethargy.
In answer, a gloved hand clamped down over his mouth. Cedric tried to pull away, but found himself caught in a viselike grip. Eyes widening in disbelief, he tried to scream, only to have the breath crushed from his lungs as his assailant slammed him back against the oak paneling.
No, no, no! It couldn’t be!
He kicked out—an instant too late, as the steel-sharp knife blade slid between his ribs and pierced his vital organ.
* * *