Free What Remains of Heaven by C. S. Harris

away.

Chapter 11
     
    One hand wrapped tightly around her kite’s spar, the young girl raced down the grassy slope at the edge of Green Park, knees kicking against the muslin of her simple gown. She was a plain child, somewhere between twelve and fourteen years of age, with the nondescript brown hair and plump cheeks of her famous forebear, Benjamin Franklin. As Sebastian watched, the breeze filled the kite’s red sails, flapping the silk. She held tight, shouting with delight to the small, rotund man who loped ahead of her.
    William Franklin held a stout stick wound with the kite’s line in one hand, the other hand playing out the twine as he ran. He was dressed in the frock coat and buckled breeches of an earlier age, his stocking-clad calves flashing in short, rapid steps as he hollered, “Now!”
    The girl leapt up, releasing the kite. For a moment it dipped, threatening to crash to earth. Then the wind caught the sails and it soared high, a crimson splash against the clear blue sky.
    “Take the line, quickly,” shouted William Franklin, holding out the stick. She snatched it with a gay laugh, her skirts swirling around her as she raced across the park, the kite sailing above her.
    Breathing heavily, Franklin bent to rest his hands on his knees. His plump cheeks were flushed and damp, but his small eyes danced with merriment as his gaze followed the plain, brown-haired girl with the kite.
    “Your granddaughter?” said Sebastian, walking up to him.
    The old man straightened. “Ellen. I’ve raised her myself from the time she was a wee babe.” His eyes narrowed. “I know you, don’t I?”
    “Yes, although I’m surprised you remember me. The name’s Devlin,” said Sebastian, shaking the elderly gentleman’s hand. “I came to one of your lectures on the Gulf Stream, many years ago.”
    William Franklin nodded to the girl with the kite. “It was Ellen’s father—my son, Temple—who helped my father chart the stream, you know. On a voyage between London and America.”
    “I know.”
    “You’ve an interest in water currents?”
    They turned to walk together across the grass. “I believe a man should strive to remain aware of the scientific advances of his day, yes.”
    “Hmm. Yet somehow, I don’t think you’ve sought me out to talk about water temperatures, have you, Lord Devlin?”
    At the use of his title, Sebastian shifted to face the small American.
    Franklin smiled. “I knew your father many years ago—although I doubt he ever told you of our acquaintance.”
    “No. He didn’t.”
    Franklin’s head turned as he followed his granddaughter’s progress across the park. “We shared a ship’s voyage together, once. Lord Hendon had been visiting the Colonies, while I . . . I was beginning my life of exile.”
    He was silent a moment. The humor that had briefly animated his features had gone, leaving his face bleak and sorrowful. “I’d just lost my first wife. She died while I was being held in a rebel prison.” He let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “I must beg your pardon for sounding maudlin. The older I get, the more the memory of those days lies heavily upon my heart.”
    They stood together, heads thrown back as they watched the kite dip and soar above them. After a moment, Franklin said, “You’re here because of Bishop Prescott, I assume?”
    Sebastian glanced over at him. “How did you know?”
    Franklin tapped one snuff-stained finger against his temple. “I’m not in my dotage yet. You might have a passing interest in science, but your real passion is murder. It’s not difficult to infer that someone told you I exchanged heated words with the Bishop of London recently.”
    “It’s true then?”
    “Oh, yes. Just because I’m not in my dotage doesn’t mean I can’t be foolish.”
    Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
    “I run an informal school for some local children—nothing fancy, just a small group of lads who gather in my parlor for an