by C. S. Harris
In fact, she was counting on it.
Chapter 21
Sebastian’s aunt Henrietta, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne, lived in an enormous pile on Park Street. Technically the house belonged to her eldest son, the current Duke of Claiborne, although the current Duke—who took after his father—was no match for the former Lady Henrietta St. Cyr. He’d long ago retired with his wife and growing young family to a smaller house on Half Moon Street and left his mother to reign supreme in the house she’d first entered as a bride some fifty-four years before.
But the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne was not at her Park Street residence. Trailing his aunt through silk warehouses and Pall Mall haberdasheries, Sebastian finally ran her to ground at the shop of a fashionable milliner on Bond Street.
He was aware of speculative eyes following him as he wound his way toward her through clusters of exquisitely gowned ladies peering at their reflections, past glass-topped counters and rows of gleaming mahogany drawers that reached to the ceiling. “Good heavens. Devlin,” she said, groping for the quizzing glass she wore on a riband around her neck. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“Searching for you.” He eyed the puce and flamingo pink plumed turban she held in her hands. “You’re not seriously considering that, are you?”
Henrietta had never been a tall woman, but she had the same stout build and large head as Hendon, with the piercingly blue St. Cyr eyes so conspicuously lacking in Sebastian. She fixed those eyes upon him now and slammed the turban on her head. “Yes, you unnatural child, I am. Now tell me what you want and go away.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Dear Aunt Henrietta. I want to know what you can tell me about Rachel Fairchild.”
Henrietta’s plump cheeks sagged. “Lord Fairchild’s middle daughter? Whatever is your interest in her? Nothing against the girl, mind you, but I don’t like the stable.”
Sebastian raised one eyebrow. “Tell me about the stable.”
Henrietta studied her reflection in the mirror, her lips curving downward. The effect of the flamingo pink was not a happy one. “Basil Fairchild,” she said in accents of strong distaste.
“I don’t recall hearing anything to his discredit.”
“Probably not. If I remember correctly, you were off at war trying to get yourself killed at the time. His first wife died seven or eight years ago, and he remarried just two years later to a young chit barely out of the schoolroom. Fairchild himself was in his forties at the time. Most unseemly.”
“I knew Cedric Fairchild in the Army. Are there other sons?”
Henrietta removed the offending turban and reached for one done up in puce and navy blue silk. “No. This new marriage has been childless. But there is an older daughter, Georgina. She married Sir Anthony Sewell. . . . It was the year Pitt died, if I remember correctly. I understand there’s a younger girl, as well, but she’s still in the schoolroom.”
Sebastian stared out the shop window at a red-and-green brewer’s dray lumbering up the street. A brother in the Army, one older sister, one younger. It fit only too well. He said, “Rachel came out last year?”
“That’s right.” Henrietta settled the puce-and-navy confection on her iron gray curls. “But let me tell you right now, Sebastian, that if you’ve developed a tendre in that direction—”
“I’ve never met the girl.” Sebastian studied his aunt’s latest venture. “The navy is definitely an improvement,” he said, then added, “What does she look like? Rachel, I mean.”
Henrietta stared at her reflection in the counter’s round glass, her chin sinking back against her chest in a way that emphasized her heavy jowls. “Her mother was Lady Charlotte, one of the Duke of Hereford’s daughters. Rachel takes after her. She’s pretty enough, I suppose. I myself have never cared much for that rather nondescript shade of brown hair, but she has good skin and teeth, and her green eyes are lovely. Still, she never exactly took, if you know what I mean. She always simply faded into the background. It was as if she were going through the motions of her Come Out because it was what was required of her rather than because it was something she wanted to do.” Henrietta looked over at him. “If you’ve never even met the girl, then what is your interest in her?”
Sebastian simply ignored the question. “You say she didn’t take?”
“Well, she was certainly far from being all the rage. But she did manage to contract a respectable alliance. Tristan Ramsey, if I remember correctly. No title, of course. But the Ramseys are quite warm.”
“They married?” said Sebastian in surprise.
“The engagement was announced. Then the child supposedly took ill and retired to the country.”
“Supposedly?”
“That’s right. Rumor has it she’s not there.”
“Were there other suitors?”
His aunt thought a moment, then shook her head. “Not that I recall.”
“What do you know of Tristan Ramsey?”
The Duchess fixed Sebastian with a dark glare. “He’s steady and boring—quite appallingly so, actually, considering he’s only twenty-four or twenty-five. He has a younger sister—Elizabeth or something like that. She’s making her Come Out this Season, and he’s being quite the dutiful son and brother, squiring his mother and sister all over town. He came into his inheritance as a child, you know. Sometimes that has disastrous effects on the development of a young man’s character. But not Ramsey’s. He keeps his estates in order, he doesn’t gamble to excess, and if he keeps a mistress, he must be very discreet about it because I’ve never heard tell of it. In many ways he reminds me of Lord Fairchild.”
“Yet despite this list of virtues, you don’t care for either one. Why?”
“If I liked steady, virtuous, boring men, I’d have lost patience with you years ago, now wouldn’t I?” She removed the puce-and-navy silk confection and nodded to the demure shop assistant hovering nearby. “I’ll take this one.” To Sebastian, Henrietta said, “Now, not another word until you explain your interest in the child.”
“I’ll explain later,” said Sebastian, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Aunt.”
Henrietta reached out to snag his arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. You can carry my package to the carriage.”
Sebastian glanced at the Duchess’s liveried footman waiting patiently beside the shop door, then silently scooped up her purchase and followed her out of the milliner’s into the fitful May sunshine. Once on the footpath, she fixed him with a critical eye that made him suddenly uncomfortable. “I’ve been hearing disturbing reports about your activities these past months, Sebastian. Most disturbing reports. And from what I can see, they’re all true. You look like the very devil.”
“Why, thank you, Aunt.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I can understand drowning your sorrows in a few bottles of brandy and wild nights on the town. It was a shock, obviously. A shock to us all. But eight months, Sebastian? Don’t you think that’s a trifle excessive?”
“Obviously not.”
She grunted. “At any rate, that’s not what I wished to speak to you about. I’m worried about Hendon.”
“Aunt—”
“No. Hear me out. I said I understand it was a shock, learning of the connection between Hendon and Miss Boleyn. But to allow the consequences of something that occurred more than twenty years ago to poison your relationship with Hendon now is worse than illogical. It’s mean-spirited. And that’s something I’ve never known you to be.”
“You think I should be able to accept with equanimity the discovery that my father is also the father of the woman I planned to marry?”
“Equanimity, no. Understanding and forbearance, yes.” She tightened her hold on his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh through the fine cloth of his coat and shirtsleeve. “This estrangement grieves him, Sebastian. More than you’ll ever know. Nothing means more to him than you.”
They had reached the carriage. The footman let down the steps and stood waiting woodenly. Seba
stian passed him the package, then took his aunt’s hand to help her negotiate the passage through the narrow door. “Good day, Aunt,” he said, stepping back.
Swinging away, he had taken two strides toward his own waiting curricle when her voice stopped him. “By the way, Sebastian,” she called maliciously through the carriage’s open window, “I hear you were driving Miss Jarvis in Hyde Park yesterday.”
He whirled back around. “Good God, wherever did you hear that?”
But his aunt simply smiled and nodded to her coachman to drive on.
Chapter 22
Lord Fairchild’s residence in Curzon Street was impressively large and stylishly decorated by its new young mistress, with striped silk drapes and rich Oriental carpets and Egyptian-inspired settees. As Sebastian followed the solemn-faced butler across a polished marble entry, he knew a moment of misgivings. Silver gleamed; the wood of the balustrade and hall tables glowed with wax. How could the granddaughter of a duke, born to such a genteel, rarified atmosphere, possibly have fallen so low as to grace the tawdry parlor of a brothel like the Orchard Street Academy?
Still solid and straight-backed despite his fiftysomething years, Basil, Lord Fairchild had the silver-laced dark hair and sallow skin more typically seen in a Spaniard or a Frenchman from the Côte d’Azure. Receiving the Viscount in a red-velvet-draped library, he fixed Sebastian with a heavy scowl and said, “If Hendon sent you here to talk to me about these damnable Orders in Council, you’re wasting your time.”
The Orders in Council were part of Britain’s tit-for-tat economic war with Napoleon. But one of the system’s unintended consequences had been a heating up of tensions with the Americans. Lord Fairchild was one of those pushing for the Orders’ repeal, whereas Sebastian’s father was a strong supporter of the Prime Minister’s determination to stand tough against the Americans’ belligerence. “It’s not that I’m soft on the defense of Canada or British shipping interests,” Fairchild was saying. “But Britain needs to stay focused on defeating the French.”
“I’m not my father’s envoy,” said Sebastian, and left it at that.
Lord Fairchild looked surprised for a moment, then gave a gruff laugh. “Well, then. Have a seat, Lord Devlin. My son, Cedric, has told me much of your exploits on the Continent. If we had a few more men like you, maybe Boney’d be on his way to hell by now, rather than riding roughshod over all of Europe.”
As far as Sebastian was concerned, his activities in the Army were something to be atoned for and, hopefully, someday forgotten—not glorified. But he merely inclined his head and said, “Thank you. I’d rather stand.”
“But you will take a drink,” said Fairchild with a smile. There was nothing in either the man’s manner or his demeanor to suggest the grieving father.
Sebastian said, “I’m afraid I may have some unfortunate news for you.”
“News?” Lord Fairchild’s smile faded. “What news?”
“It’s about your daughter Rachel.”
Lord Fairchild went to splash brandy into two glasses, his movements controlled, methodical. After a moment, he said, “Rachel? Unfortunate news? I don’t know what you can mean. My daughter is in the country.” Turning, he held out one of the brandies. And in that moment Sebastian knew, unequivocally, that the man was lying.
Rather than taking the glass, Sebastian reached into his pocket and drew out the delicate silver bracelet. It landed with a soft clatter on the polished surface of the table between them. “I think not.”
Lord Fairchild stared at the bracelet. Carefully setting aside the brandies, he stretched out a hand that was not quite steady to pick it up. He studied the medallion’s crest, then raised his gaze to Sebastian’s face. “Where did you get this?”
“Two days ago the young woman who owned that bracelet was murdered. She had brown hair and green eyes, and said her name had once been Rachel—although she’d lately taken to calling herself ‘Rose.’ ”
“I told you,” said Lord Fairchild, setting the bracelet down again, “my daughter is in Northamptonshire.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Why—Easter, I suppose.” The man stared back at Sebastian as if daring him to contradict it. “Yes, that was it. Easter.”
“I don’t think so,” said Sebastian. “I think she’s missing. I think she’s been missing for some time. Now she’s dead, and in a few hours, she’ll be given a pauper’s funeral by the Society of Friends. Is that what you want? For your daughter to be buried in an unmarked grave?”
Lord Fairchild’s cheeks darkened with rage, his eyes narrowing down to two small slits. “Get out,” he said through tight, twisted lips. “Get out of my house.”
Lord Fairchild thrust out his hand, reaching again for the bracelet. Sebastian got there first, his fist closing over the delicate silver chain and the medallion with its damning crest. “It’s not your daughter’s, remember?” he said.
For a moment, the two men’s eyes clashed, Lord Fairchild’s full of fury and fear, Sebastian’s sending a steady promise of intent. Then Sebastian turned on his heel and strode from the house.
Sending Tom and the curricle ahead of him, Sebastian walked the footpaths of Mayfair, a deep disquiet blooming within him. Why? he kept wondering. Why would a young, gently bred woman raised in the comfort and splendor of Curzon Street run from her family’s protection to seek a bleak refuge on the streets? What had she seen? Heard? Learned? What did she fear?
He was turning his steps toward St. James’s when a gentleman’s carriage swung around the corner and pulled in close to the curb, the coachman dropping the horses to a walk. Sebastian glanced at the well-known crest on the panel and didn’t alter his stride.
The King’s cousin, Charles, Lord Jarvis, let down the near window and said, “Ride with me a ways, Devlin.”
Sebastian turned to face him. “If you’re planning to do away with me, I’d like to point out that there are rather a lot of witnesses about.”
Jarvis said drily, “You of all people ought to know I never do my own dirty work.”
Sebastian laughed and leapt up into the carriage without waiting for the steps to be let down.
Jarvis signaled to the coachman to drive on. “It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been asking questions about Monday night’s fire.”
There was a pause. When Sebastian made no attempt to fill the silence, Jarvis shifted his considerable weight and said, “What precisely is your interest in the matter?”
Sebastian studied the Baron’s impassive features. “I don’t like murder. Especially when no one wants to acknowledge that it has taken place.”
Jarvis drew a delicately enameled snuffbox from his pocket. “People are murdered in London all the time.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Jarvis flipped open the snuffbox and lifted a pinch to one nostril. They were playing a game, a delicate verbal dance in which Jarvis was attempting to discover if his daughter’s presence at the murder scene was known without in the process betraying it. “There’s a reason you’ve interested yourself in these murders,” said Jarvis. “Do you have a connection with someone who was there?”
“I didn’t know any of the victims,” said Sebastian, choosing his words with equal care.
Jarvis snapped his snuffbox closed. “A witness, perhaps?”
“Sir William says there were no witnesses. But then, Sir William says there was no crime.”
“And have you discovered anything of interest?” asked Jarvis, dusting his fingers.
“Not yet.” Sebastian paused, then asked maliciously, “And what is your interest in this, my lord?”
A slow smile spread across the big man’s face. “I take an interest in the welfare of all the King’s subjects.”
The two men’s eyes met and clashed, the air charged with the memory of all that had passed between them. “Of course,” said Sebastian, and signaled the coachman to pull up.
Sebastian was striding away when Jarvis call
ed after him, “I saw Miss Boleyn at Covent Garden Theater last Saturday. She’s as lovely as ever. But then, she’s not Miss Boleyn anymore, is she?”
Sebastian stiffened a moment, but kept walking.
Dropping into Gentleman Jackson’s salon, Sebastian glanced around, passed a few minutes chatting with acquaintances, then left again. He was looking for Tristan Ramsey, the man who was to have wed Rachel Fairchild before she disappeared forever into the suppurating world of the city’s streets. Sebastian had no doubt that Lord Fairchild would deny his daughter’s disappearance to the grave. Her betrothed might be more forthcoming.