“Titus will never tell me,” Jane said. “And even if he did, how would we proceed?”
“There are ways of finding out,” Oliver said. “But in this case, I think the direct route might work best. We’ll just have someone ask him. Someone who could get the whole story on the matter.”
Jane frowned up at him. “But there is no such person.”
It isn’t over. It isn’t over.
Oliver smiled. “Actually, there is.”
“…So you see,” Oliver told Sebastian, “what we really need is to find Titus Fairfield, to trap him into a situation where he feels he cannot just walk away. Ask him where Jane’s sister is being held. And…”
Sebastian was examining his nails as Oliver spoke, but he had a small smile on his face. He didn’t look well. He hadn’t shaved yet, although it was three in the afternoon, and there was a bloodshot quality to his eyes.
But if he had been up late the night before, it didn’t show on anything other than his features.
“And trick him into telling you where she’s being kept?” Sebastian shrugged. “I can do it. I’m giving a lecture this evening. I’ll invite him, and then we’ll see.”
“Thank you,” Jane told him. They were the first words she’d spoken since the initial greeting, but she said them fervently. “Thank you so much, Mr. Malheur.”
But he simply shook his head at her. “No, Miss Fairfield,” he said. “Don’t thank me yet. Hasn’t Oliver told you that my help always comes at a cost?”
She shook her head. “Whatever it is, I’ll pay—”
“Not that kind of cost. When you ask me for help, you get help.” His smile widened. “You get help my way.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The lecture seemed interminably long. Perhaps it was because Oliver knew what the stakes were. He’d caught a glimpse of Titus Fairfield in the back rows of the hall.
Perhaps it was because at the moment, Oliver could not dredge up the least interest in what Sebastian was saying about peas and snapdragons and the color of cats.
Perhaps it was because Jane wasn’t here, but she was close. In a room nearby. So close that the yards between them seemed to whisper of all the things they hadn’t done, the kisses they hadn’t exchanged, the months they hadn’t spent in bed.
No. Not the time to think of that. He peered at Sebastian and tried to pretend interest. Sebastian had always been in his element talking to a crowd. He gestured as he talked. But today, it seemed different. His gestures were too wide, almost wild. As if he’d lost his balance and was trying to regain it.
Next to Oliver, Violet Waterfield, the Countess of Cambury, leaned forward, and Oliver glanced at her.
He’d never known Violet the way Robert and Sebastian had. She’d been Sebastian’s neighbor, and Oliver had never been invited to Sebastian’s home during the summer. He’d heard of her, but he hadn’t met her until he was almost nineteen. By that time, she’d been a countess already, cool and intimidating.
She didn’t look intimidating tonight. Her usual calm demeanor had evaporated. She was watching Sebastian with rapt attention, her eyes opened wide, her lips spread in a welcoming smile. Oliver had never seen her look at anyone that way. Watching her was almost intimate—as if he were discovering a secret she had. As if she were in love, and in the moment, unable to hide it.
That was an unsettling thought. Sebastian had always insisted that he and Violet were friends and only friends—nothing more. Sebastian looked at anyone and everyone in the audience, making eye contact with even the men seated in the back who glowered at him with folded arms. He looked at everyone except Violet, and that was when Oliver began to realize that something was deeply wrong.
That sense lasted through the lecture. During the questions, Violet sat on the edge of her seat, leaning forward, her whole body focused on Sebastian, nodding to herself at his answers, as if he held the key to the universe. It lasted through the moment when Sebastian gave a final bow, and Oliver made his way up to him to put the second part of their plan into action.
“Good sense, Malheur,” a man was saying, clapping Sebastian across the shoulder. “Always learn something new from you.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said. “That means so much to me.” His voice was warm, and he looked in the right places, but there was something mechanical about his delivery, as if he were scarcely paying attention.
Another audience member grabbed his sleeve. “Malheur, you slime.” This man’s eyes narrowed; he made a fist at his side, as if he were contemplating punching Sebastian in the face. “You are going to hell for all you’ve done, and I hope you’ll burn for eternity.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said warmly, making eye contact with him. “That means so much to me.” He gave the fellow a pat on the shoulder—a friendly little pat, as if they’d just exchanged pleasantries—and moved on.
“I hope someone slits your puny little throat,” a gruff, whiskered fellow muttered at Sebastian.
“Thank you very much,” Sebastian replied. “That means so much to me.”
It was as if he’d sent an automaton in his place.
Oliver made his way to his friend, almost afraid to remind him of what they had planned. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he spoke to his friend and got that same warm, generic reply.
And maybe it was just as well. Because for every man that complimented him on his work, there were three who muttered imprecations in his direction. Threats. Complaints. A woman laid a hand on him and gave him a shove.
Sebastian treated them all alike. He gave them a smile, one that looked increasingly out of place on his waxen face, a nod, and warm, effusive thanks that seemed ridiculously genuine.
Oliver almost gasped with relief when Violet caught up with them. She knew Sebastian. They’d been friends for ages. And if she cared for him…
Violet had to reach out and physically take hold of Sebastian’s sleeve before he turned to her. She smiled up at him, her face alight with a mere echo of the brilliance she’d directed at him during his talk.
“Sebastian,” Violet said.
Sebastian had been smiling at all those people, smiling with such fervor that Oliver had wondered if he was ill. He looked down at Violet, and that humor disappeared from his face, the friendliness wiping away like chalk markings on slate.
“What?” he demanded curtly.