Sins Of A Duke Part 15

"I'm not playing, Josefina. Keep some distance between yourself and Harek and poetry-spewing pups. If they were to learn anything about your literary efforts, I doubt they would be as discreet as I."

"Are you jealous, Melbourne?"

He smiled, the expression not touching his eyes. Slowly he reached out for her hand and brought it to his lips. "Don't test me, Josefina," he said even more quietly.

She smiled right back at him, quickly withdrawing her hand before he could feel it tremble. "Truly, Your Grace?" she exclaimed loudly. "Lord Harek and my family and I would be pleased to share your box at Vauxhall! How delightful."

Without the slightest hesitation he nodded again. "My pleasure. Now if you'll excuse me, I have meetings." As he moved past her to the door he slowed, brus.h.i.+ng her ear with his mouth. "Well played, Princess. Next comes my turn."

Before she could conjure a reply, he was gone. d.a.m.n it all, who did he think he was, anyway? The Duke of Melbourne, of course. Her lover. The most powerful, influential man in England. And her very large problem.

Sebastian rode home, handing Merlin over to Green at the stable and striding into the house. At Stanton's greeting he managed a grunt, grabbed the stack of personal correspondence awaiting his attention, and went into his office.

The b.l.o.o.d.y chit had managed to outmaneuver him with alarming ease. The price he had to pay for losing control, he supposed. "Stanton!"

The butler opened the office door. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"I'll be hosting a small party at Vauxhall the night after next," he said crisply. "See to it that all the appropriate arrangements are made."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Once the door closed again, Sebastian sat forward to sift through the piles of letters and calling cards. All the usual, plus Rivers had set aside the weekly report from Whitlock, his Melbourne Park estate manager, and updates from three of his other properties.

Zachary had left a card with a note scrawled on the back that he'd absconded with Peep to see the menagerie at the Tower. That boy clearly needed offspring of his own. He hoped Caroline had by now begun to realize that as a Griffin she could have both her painting and a family. Perhaps Eleanor would know their sister-in-law's mind on the matter.

The next letter in the stack stopped him. It was from Eton. His heart rate accelerating, he broke the wax seal and unfolded it.

A moment later he shot to his feet. "Stanton!"

The butler reappeared in the doorway. "Yes, Your Gr-"

"When did this letter arrive?"

"With the post, Your Grace, some forty minutes ago. Is something amiss?"

"No. Send for Shay, and inform him that he and I are leaving for Eton within the hour."

"Right away, Your Grace."

On the butler's heels he left the office and pounded up the stairs to his private rooms. It seemed that John Rice-Able was teaching at Eton, and would be happy to share his knowledge of the geography and societies of Central America. Finally he would get some d.a.m.ned definitive answers about the kingdom and country of Costa Hab.i.+.c.huela.

"I know you told me to be quiet and let you think," Charlemagne said as the coach finally rocked to a halt and they stepped to the ground, "but you seem a bit...preoccupied with this."

Sebastian grabbed one of the lanterns off a coach post and strode toward the hall where the professors lodged. Dimly to the south he could make out the lines of Windsor Castle looming above them. "Why shouldn't I be?" he asked, lifting the light to read the name of the building and then moving through the main courtyard.

"Because you resigned your post and you've been avoiding contact with Princess Josefina and her parents. Costa Hab.i.+.c.huela and its royalty aren't your concern any longer."

"They are my concern." He glanced sideways at his brother. "And you're the one who stormed into my house this morning, all aflutter about some plagiarisms."

"Some extensive plagiarisms. I didn't say we should flee London to go track down a professor who would probably be pleased as petunias to call on you at Griffin House."

Shay had a point. "I have my reasons," Sebastian grumbled. "And I don't necessarily want our professor to be seen in London at this moment."

"Why not? I mean of course it's Eton we're talking about rather than Oxford, but it's not as though being seen with him will ruin you. Not entirely."

"Very amusing. As I said, I have-"

"-your reasons. I accept that. But what do you think this Rice-Able fellow knows?"

Sebastian lifted the lamp again to look at the apartment numbers. Ah. "Let's find out." He rapped on the oak door.

"Who is it?"

"He's not expecting us," Shay muttered, "is he?"

"Not precisely," Sebastian answered. "Melbourne," he said more loudly. "I wrote you, and you said-"

The door rattled and opened. "Your Grace." A thin, well-featured man two or three years younger than himself gazed at him over a pair of reading spectacles. "I'm honored. I didn't expect-"

"I know," Sebastian interrupted. "Might we come in?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." The professor stepped away from the door, and Sebastian followed him inside, having to duck a little to pa.s.s through the low doorway.

The dormitory room was tiny and dark but for the small fire in the fireplace and a pair of tallow candles sitting on a cluttered table. Clutter, in fact, seemed the main theme of decoration. A separate door at the back stood open to reveal a small, rumpled bed surrounded by still more haphazard stacks of papers and books, maps and trinkets.

In the main room John Rice-Able grabbed a stack of books off a chair and carried them out to pile them on the bed. "Did you receive my note?" he asked, emptying a second chair. "I was surprised to hear from you. I didn't think anyone but my students had read my History."

"I did receive your note, Professor. This afternoon. I apologize for not sending word that I was coming, but this seemed more expedient." Belatedly he gestured at Shay, who stood close by the door and looked on with a bemused expression on his face. His brother no doubt recognized the lair of a fellow scholar when he stumbled into one. "This is my brother, Charlemagne."

The professor looked up, belatedly removing his spectacles. "Charlemagne? After the ruler of-"

"Yes," Shay interrupted.

"Apologies, Lord Charlemagne." The professor flushed. "It's just that, well, you have to admit that Charlemagne is an unusual name."

"Oh, I'm aware of that." Shay flashed his charming smile. "Why is an explorer teaching at Eton?"

"Teaching pays a better salary," Master Rice-Able returned. "And since my last book was published six years ago, I think I made a wise decision." He sighed. "My explorations will have to be done between terms."

If this fellow was helpful enough, Sebastian might be able to do something about supporting his exploration efforts. It would all depend on their chat tonight.

"Please Your Grace, my lord, sit. I have some water on for tea, if you'd care to join me."

Sebastian sat in one of the vacated chairs. "Thank you. Tea would be welcome." In his life of political and social maneuvering and alliance-making, he'd learned to a.s.sess a man's character quickly. He liked Rice-Able. The professor had an una.s.suming honesty about him that spoke well for the man-and it could turn out to be useful, later.

"If I may say," Rice-Able commented, digging through his cupboard for teacups and saucers, "to be here now you must have left London shortly after receiving my note. Why the urgency to make my acquaintance?"

"A matter of geographical curiosity. What is the degree of your familiarity with the Mosquito Coast?"

"I know it as well as any non-native can, I suppose, though it's been three years since I last set foot in the region."

Three years. Before the Mosquito King granted Costa Hab.i.+.c.huela to Stephen Embry, but recently enough that he should have a fair grasp of the geography and climate.

"I suppose you would have visited some of the villages and towns along the coast?"

"I have." Rice-Able pa.s.sed out his mismatched collection of cups and saucers, then went to the fireplace to get the teapot. "I a.s.sume you came all this way because you have specific questions you want answered. If you could tell me directly what it is you require, I could probably provide you with better information."

Sebastian sat forward as the professor returned to the table. "The difficulty, sir, is that I don't wish to guide your answers. Nor do I want you to tell me what you think I want to hear."

"I see." Rice-Able seated himself in the third chair, the only spot in the room that had been empty upon their arrival. "Ask your questions, then. I a.s.sure you that my answers will be honest. If I provide you with an a.s.sumption, I will disclose it as such."

"Thank you. Firstly, then, do you read the London newspapers?" If the professor did, he would know that the Embrys were in England, and he would probably be able to surmise the rest.

"Only when forced to, and under protest. And not in the past few weeks, if that was to be your next question."

Sebastian smiled. "I think we understand one another." He lifted his teacup and took a swallow. It was awful, something bitter and tasting like old sticks, but he didn't allow his distaste to show on his face. "Does anyone have governors.h.i.+p over the Mosquito Coast in general?"

"A few tribal leaders, I suppose. According to Spain it's a fellow named Qental, but that's probably just for ease of reference. It's a fairly wide-open, rambling area. Boundaries change with every rainy season as the swamps overflow and the course of the rivers alter."

"Is any of it liveable?"

"Certainly. The natives have managed a fair existence, living on fruits and fish and the occasional wild pig."

"Is there any trade?"

"Not particularly. The native groups tend to avoid one another and be very suspicious of outsiders. If I hadn't managed to secure a guide who spoke several of the local dialects, I doubt I would have survived to be chatting here with you."

"Do any of the...tribes speak Spanish, or English?"

"Some of them know a smattering of Spanish, but Spain hasn't made much of an effort to control the region. No profit to be made there. You can't dig for gold in a swamp."

"And English?"

"Belize is mostly English, but technically it's several hundred miles north of the Mosquito Coast region. You'll find a few tiny settlements of trappers and miners, but they're not pleasant places."

Sebastian realized he was clenching his hands so hard that his fingers were growing numb. He shook them out beneath the cover of the tabletop. "Why are they unpleasant?"

"Ah." Rice-Able cleared his throat and drank half the tea in his cup. "My views on this tend to make me a bit unpopular."

"I'm here because I wish to know your views."

Quizzical hazel eyes met direct gray ones. "The English are masters of settling places that can be forced to resemble England. Large quant.i.ties of clean, running water, open fields, and a mild climate. In general, while I believe anyone could adapt to practically any conditions, most Englishmen seem to expect the conditions to adapt to them. Refusing to acknowledge that a place is humid and insect-ridden is a very sure way to become sickly and ultimately, dead."

"You adapted," Shay commented.

"I prefer to remain alive to tell my tales rather than to die by my pride. When the natives recommend covering one's skin with putrid-smelling plant secretions to protect from insect bites, I do so."

"Have you heard of a town called San Saturus there?"

The professor's brow furrowed. "San Saturus. No. I don't recall anything large enough to be considered a town at all."

"Anything smaller than that with a similar name?"

"I drew up some maps. Just a moment, and I'll fetch them."

As the professor left the table to hunt through his papers, Sebastian took another drink of the awful tea. He knew what he hoped for-some indication that Josefina hadn't been lying. Please, G.o.d, let there be a San Saturus. And let it be where she claimed.

"How stupid of me," Rice-Able exclaimed, his gaze on a large, half-unrolled piece of parchment. "San Saturus. There it is."

Thank G.o.d. "Is it on the coast, between the Wawa and Grande de Matagalpa Rivers, by any chance?"

"That's a large area, but yes." The professor picked his way back to the table.

Sebastian and Shay cleared off the rest of the clutter to accommodate the map, placing their tea apparatus at the four corners to hold it open. The map was remarkable; far more detailed than any official doc.u.ment he'd ever seen for that region. "You should have been a cartographer," Sebastian commented, running his gaze up the coast in search of the contours depicted in the Costa Hab.i.+.c.huela prospectus.

"Half the fun is denoting the plant and animal life in each area, and the elevation variations." Rice-Able placed an ink-stained finger on the map. "There's your San Saturus. I should have remembered. It certainly made an impression at the time."

"Why is that?" Sebastian pursued, sternly resisting the urge to influence Rice-Able's recollection by mentioning deep bays and white stone buildings. It had to be the absolute truth that he learned tonight, not the truth as he wanted it to be.

"It was the bodies. A trio of them. Laid out neat as you please, s.h.i.+rts, trousers, boots, hats all in place, but nothing inside them except for white-as-snow bones. I surmised at the time that they all must have been overcome by the sun, or more likely by swamp gas. Then ants devoured the flesh. I've seen ants reduce a full-grown boar to bones in twenty-four hours. That was a large colony, of course."

"What makes you think three dead men equals a town called San Saturus?" Sebastian knew he sounded curt; both the story and its ramifications horrified him.

"Close by the bodies we found several huts and some mining equipment. On one of the planks someone had burned the letters 'San Saturus' into the wood. This is probably the only map on which it appears." Rice-Able took another sip of tea. "I remember thinking the name was ironic, since Saint Saturus is the patron saint against poverty. I suppose the poor wretches were hopeful, anyway."

His heart and his head pounding, Sebastian pushed to his feet. d.a.m.nation. b.l.o.o.d.y, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. She said she'd seen the palace, said she'd spent two days there. Jaw clenched and aching, he faced the door. "Are there any other villages of any size in that immediate area?"

"Not along the coast. That part of the territory floods every year. As you can see, even San Saturus was a mile or so inland."

"Seb," Shay said quietly. "You were right."

But he hadn't wanted to be. Not now. Not after this morning, when he'd taken Josefina naked in his arms. "Master Rice-Able, would you be willing to come to London and retell this story if required?"

"Yes, I suppose so. What precisely is going on?"

"A lie. A very large lie."

"Do you have anything else," Shay queried, "in addition to your map, that can be used to substantiate what you've told us?"

"My notes for two books. They are only as believable as I am, however."

"You have no reason to lie," Sebastian grunted. "You didn't know what I was looking to find."

"I still don't, though I intend to begin reading the London newspapers in the morning."

Sebastian could forbid that, he supposed, but there would be no way to enforce it. He reached for the door, then stilled. "Sir, have you ever heard of a country anywhere called Costa Hab.i.+.c.huela?"

"No. Bean Coast? If you're still referring to the Mosquito Coast, no one could possibly grow enough beans to name an area that, unless it's meant as a jest."