“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 significance.”
“You mean, people’s heads?”
“Mmm. I’m told he has Oliver Cromwell, amongst others. But don’t ask me who else because I’ve never seen them. They say he keeps them displayed in glass cases and—” She broke off. “How did you say he died?”
“Someone cut off his head.”
“Dear me.” She readjusted her shawl. “I take it you’ve involved yourself in this murder investigation?”
“I have, yes.”
“Amanda won’t like it. That girl of hers is starting her second season, and Amanda blames you for Stephanie’s failure to go off last year.”
Sebastian’s older sister, Amanda, was not one of his admirers. He said, “From what I observed, I’d say my niece was enjoying her first season far too much to settle down and bring it all to an end.”
“Yes, I’m afraid she’s your mother all over again.”
When Sebastian remained silent, she picked up her book and said, “Now, go away. I want to get back to my reading.”
He laughed and kissed her cheek again. “If you’re not careful, Aunt, people are going to start accusing you of being bookish.”
“Never happen.”
He turned toward the door. But before he reached it, she said, “Is it wise, involving yourself in this murder, Devlin? You’ve a wife and child to think of now.”
He paused to look back at her. “I am thinking of them. Whoever did this is not someone I want roving the city.”
“We pay constables and magistrates to take care of that sort of thing.”
“I don’t believe that means the rest of us can simply abdicate all responsibility for our own safety.”