Who Buries the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in the north of England, a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been acquired by trade.’”
    “Devastating, indeed. I wonder, could you tear yourself away from this delightful tale long enough to tell me what you know of Mr. Stanley Preston?”
    “Stanley Preston?” she repeated, looking up at him. “Whatever for?”
    “You haven’t seen the morning papers?”
    “No; I’ve been reading this book. Why? What’s happened to him?”
    “Someone cut off his head.”
    “Good heavens. How terribly gauche.”
    “Frightfully so. What do you know of him?”
    She laid the book aside, open and facedown, although he noticed she gave it one or two reluctant glances before she brought her attention back to him. “Well, let’s see. The family is old—he’s from the Devonshire Prestons, you know, although his is a rather insignificant, cadet branch.”
    “Yet his cousin is Lord Sidmouth.”
    She waved a dismissive hand; obviously, the Home Secretary’s antecedents did not impress her. “Yes, but Sidmouth himself was only recently raised to the peerage. His father was a mere physician.”
    “So where did Preston acquire his wealth?”
    “His father married a merchant’s daughter. The woman was dreadfully vulgar, I’m afraid, but quite an heiress. The elder Preston invested her inheritance in land in the West Indies and did very well for himself, as a result of which he was able to marry his own son—Stanley—to the daughter of an impoverished baron.”
    “Wealth acquired from trade being seen as something vile and shameful that can be magically cleansed by investment in land—even when that land happens to be worked by slaves?”
    She frowned at him. “Really, Sebastian; it’s not as if he were engaged in the slave trade. Slavery is perfectly legal in the West Indies. The French tried to do away with it, and look what happened to them. A bloodbath!”
    “True,” said Sebastian. “What was the name of this baron’s daughter? I gather she’s dead?”
    “Mmm. Mary Pierce. Lovely young woman. In the end, the marriage was surprisingly successful; Preston positively doted on her. But she died in childbirth some seven or eight years ago. I’ve often wondered why he never remarried. He’s still quite attractive and vigorous for his age.”
    “Not anymore.”
    “Don’t be vulgar, Devlin.”
    He gave a soft huff of laughter. “Tell me about the daughter. What’s her name?”
    “Anne. She must be in her early twenties by now. Still unmarried, I’m afraid, and in serious danger of being left on the shelf. Not that anyone is exactly surprised.”
    “Why? Is she ill-favored?”
    “Oh, she was pretty enough when she was young, I suppose. But Preston never did move in the highest circles, and Anne has a tendency to be rather quiet—and a tad strange, to be frank.”
    “Strange? In what way?”
    “Let’s just say she’s more like her father than her mother. And of course it hasn’t helped that her portion from her mother is not large.”
    “I was under the impression Preston’s holdings in Jamaica are substantial.”
    “They are. But that will all go to the son.”
    “I assume the man was a Tory?”
    “I should hope so. Although unlike Sidmouth, I don’t believe he was overly interested in affairs of state. His passion was collecting.”
    “Collecting? What did he collect?”
    “Curiosities of all sorts, although mainly antiquities. He had a special interest in items that once belonged to famous people. I’m told he has a bullet taken from the body of Lord Nelson after Trafalgar, a handkerchief some ghoulish soul dipped in Louis XVI’s blood at the guillotine . . . that sort of thing. He even has heads.”
    Sebastian paused in the act of leaning down to throw more coal on the fire. “Heads? What sort of heads?”
    “Those with historical