When Maidens Mourn Read Online Free PDF Page A

and strong.
    Sebastian said, “The possession of an estate is the sine qua non for anyone aspiring to be a gentleman.”
    “The seenkwawhat?”
    “Sine qua non. It’s Latin for a condition without which something cannot be.”
    “You sayin’ this Sir Stanley ain’t always been a gentleman?”
    “Something like that,” said Sebastian, drawing up before what had once been a graceful Italianate villa but was now in the process of being transformed into something quite different by the addition of two vast wings and a new roofline. The pounding of hammers and the clatter of lumber filled the air; near a half-constructed wall, a tall, elegantly tailored gentleman in his early fifties could be seen conferring with a group of brickmasons.
    “Keep your ears open around the stables,” Sebastian told Tom as the tiger took the reins. “I’d be interested to hear what the servants are saying.”
    “Aye, gov’nor.”
    “Devlin,” called Sir Stanley, leaving the bricklayers to stroll toward him.
    He was a ruggedly handsome man, his chin square, his cheekbones prominent, his mouth wide and expressive. Despite his years, his body was still strong and powerful, and he had a head of thick, pale blond hair fading gradually to white, so that it formed a startling contrast to his unexpectedly sun-darkened features. The effect was more like what one would expect of a soldier or a nabob just returned from India than a banker.
    They said the man had begun his career as a lowly clerk, the son of a poor vicar with sixteen children and no connections. Sebastian had heard that his rise to wealth, power, and influence had been both rapid and brutal and owed its success to his wily intelligence, his driving ambition, and a clear-sighted, unflinching ruthlessness.
    “What brings you here?” asked Sir Stanley, pausing beside the curricle.
    “I’ve just come from Camlet Moat,” said Sebastian, dropping lightly to the ground.
    “Ah. I see.” The flesh of the man’s face suddenly looked pinched, as if pulled too taut over the bones of his face. “Please,” he said, stretching a hand to indicate the broad white marble stairs that led up to the central, original section of the house. “Come in.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I was with Squire John when he discovered the body,” said Winthrop as they mounted the steps. “He’s our local magistrate, you know. Seems some girl from the village showed up at the Grange in the middle of the night, babbling nonsense about white ladies and magic wells and a dead gentlewoman in the moat. The Squire was convinced it was all a hum—actually apologized for coming to me at the crack of dawn—but I said, ‘No, no, let’s go have a look.’” He paused in the entrance hall, a quiver passing over his tightly held features. “The last thing I expected was to find Gabrielle.”
    Sebastian let his gaze drift around the vast, marble-floored entrance hall, with its towering, gilt-framed canvases of pastoral landscapes by Constable and Turner, its ornately plastered ceiling picked out in pastel shades evocative of a plate of petit fours. In an age when it was not uncommon for husbands and wives to call each other by their surnames or titles, Winthrop had just referred to Miss Tennyson by her first name.
    And Sebastian suspected the man was not even aware of his slip.
    “I’d never seen someone who’d been murdered,” the banker was saying. “I suppose you’ve had experience with it, but I haven’t. I’m not ashamed to admit it was a shock.”
    “I’m not convinced anyone gets used to the sight of murder.”
    Sir Stanley nodded and turned toward the cavernous drawingroom that opened to their left. “It may be frightfully early, but I could use a drink. How about you? May I offer you some wine?”
    “Yes, thank you. Sir Henry Lovejoy tells me you don’t work on the island’s excavations on Sundays,” said Sebastian as his host crossed to where a tray with a decanter and glasses waited on a