Free When Gods Die by C. S. Harris

shooting wafers at Menton’s.
    The gentleman beside him, a fair-skinned man with flaxen hair and an exaggerated neckcloth, looked vaguely familiar, although Sebastian couldn’t quite place him. Snagging a glass of Madeira from a passing waiter, Sebastian went to slouch with deliberate insouciance into the empty seat opposite the two men. “I understand congratulations are in order,” he said, interrupting their conversation without preamble or apology.
    Ellsworth stiffened and swung his head to fix Sebastian with a cold stare. “I beg your pardon?”
    Sebastian smiled. “Surely you’re not going to pretend you haven’t heard about the death of your dear aunt Guinevere? Everything that threatened to stand between you and Anglessey’s title and fortune has now been removed. Hence”—Sebastian lifted his glass in a kind of toast—“congratulations.”
    The unknown gentleman with the flaxen hair and monstrous neckcloth met Sebastian’s steely gaze for one fleeting instant, then slipped quietly away to go stand nervously at the far end of the room.
    “That’s always assuming, of course,” Sebastian added as if in afterthought, “that you were nowhere near Brighton on Wednesday last?”
    A faint but discernible line of color touched Ellsworth’s cheekbones. “Don’t be ridiculous. I spent most of last Wednesday at Gray’s Inn.”
    “In court?”
    The man’s color darkened. “I’ll be damned if I can see what business it is of yours.”
    Sebastian met his angry stare with a bland smile. “Alibis are always such handy things to have, don’t you agree? If you’re lucky, it might not even occur to the authorities that you could easily have hired someone to do the dirty deed for you.”
    Ellsworth brought his own glass to his lips and took a slow, thoughtful swallow before saying with commendable sangfroid, “Very true. But it does rather beg the question, does it not? I mean, why kill the lady in such a flamboyant and decidedly public way? Why not simply hire a couple of footpaths to attack her sedan chair one dark night?”
    “Why not indeed?” agreed Sebastian. “Or a highwayman to hold up her carriage on Hampstead Heath? You’ve obviously given some thought to it.”
    Ellsworth let out a short, sharp laugh before leaning forward to say, “My debts aren’t that pressing.” His lips were still smiling, but a hard-edged warning glittered in his gray eyes.
    “Rumor has it otherwise.”
    “Rumor has it wrong.”
    Sebastian rested his head against the chair’s high upholstered back. “So what did you think of her? Your late aunt, I mean.” Anyone seeing them from across the room would assume they were having a nice, friendly conversation. “Strange to think of her as your aunt when she was—what? Nearly ten years your junior?”
    “Not so strange in our world, is it? London is full of gently bred young ladies panting like bitches in heat after a title or a fortune. Or both.”
    Bitter, ugly words. But then, the reality was harsh. Firstborn sons—men of wealth and title—were shamelessly pursued and fought over, while younger sons, and sons of younger sons such as Ellsworth, were seen as dangerous pariahs to be shunned, guarded against, despised.
    “And the young Lady Guinevere wanted both?” said Sebastian.
    “A prime article like her? Why should she settle for anything less?” Ellsworth’s lips curled into a sneer. “Surely you don’t think she married my uncle for love? ”
    Sebastian studied the brooding, angry lines of the other man’s face. He was remembering the time, years ago at Eton, when some baronet’s son had eased Ellsworth out of the captainship of his house’s football team. Two weeks later, in a rough and confused tumult of play, the boy’s arm had been broken so badly he had to be sent home for the rest of the year. There were whispers at the time that Ellsworth had deliberately snapped the boy’s arm, although of course nothing could ever be proved. Sebastian