by C. S. Harris
“You don’t want to know.” Sebastian stooped to scoop up Ramsey’s hat from the cobbles, where it had been knocked in the scuffle. “Here,” he said, slamming it against the man’s chest.
Ramsey’s hands jerked up to close on the hat’s brim. “Anyone would have done the same in my place,” he said, clutching the hat to his chest.
Sebastian studied the man’s heightened color and shifting, restless gaze. “You didn’t try to talk her into leaving with you,” said Sebastian, suddenly knowing it for the truth. “Oh, I’ve no doubt you ranted at her. Demanded to know why she’d left you and how she could have done such a thing to you. But you didn’t try to talk her into leaving. After all, what if she had said yes? What would you have done with her then? Taken her to wife?”
Ramsey’s head snapped back. “You say that as if you would have done any differently. What man would have wanted her after that? She was a whore!”
He must have seen something flare in Sebastian’s eyes, because he took a hasty step back. “All right,” said Ramsey, breathing heavily enough to shudder his chest. “It’s true. I didn’t beg her to leave with me. But it isn’t as if she asked me to take her away from there.”
“And that surprises you?”
Ramsey raked the back of one hand across his upper lip. The bleeding was stopping now. “You don’t know the way she treated me. The way she just stood there swearing at me, talking to me like a—” He broke off.
“Like?” prompted Sebastian.
Ramsey sniffed and shook his head.
“When was this?” Sebastian demanded.
“Two weeks ago.” Ramsey sniffed again. “Something like that. I don’t remember for certain.”
“Two weeks ago? And you did nothing?”
Ramsey carefully set his hat on his head. The crown was dented, giving him a rakish air. “I said I didn’t tell Lord Fairchild. That doesn’t mean I did nothing.”
“You astound me,” said Sebastian. “What did you do?”
Ramsey twitched his lapels and adjusted his cuffs. “I told her brother.”
Chapter 31
Sebastian sat for a time on the terrace of the gardens overlooking Whitehall Stairs. The patches of blue sky and Sintermittent sunshine of that morning had vanished behind thickening piles of gray clouds that shaded to black in the distance. The river flowed dark and choppy before him, whipped by the wind into white-flecked waves. A wherryman halfway across the Thames worked his oars with a strong, steady rhythm, the plash of his paddles hitting the water carrying clearly in the strengthening breeze.
Sebastian kept remembering the expression on Cedric Fairchild’s face when first told of his sister’s death in Covent Garden. The shock of denial had been all too readily apparent—that natural human tendency to disconnect when first confronted with the death of a loved one, the wailing mental No! that is common to all. Yet Fairchild had displayed neither disbelief nor confusion when told of his sister’s presence in Covent Garden. That brief bristling at the mention of the Magdalene House had all been for effect, because Cedric Fairchild had known only too well what his sister had become.
Tristan Ramsey had told him.
Sebastian slid off the low wall, his gaze lifting to the dark thunderclouds churning overhead. He understood why Cedric would attempt to keep the truth of his sister’s disgrace to himself, even after her death. What he couldn’t understand was why Rachel’s brother, like her betrothed before her, had simply walked away and abandoned her to her fate.
Rachel’s brother was cupping wafers at Menton’s, his right arm extended, steady and true, when Sebastian walked up to him. “One would think you’d have had all the target practice you needed in Spain,” said Sebastian when Cedric Fairchild turned away from the firing range.
“It doesn’t hurt to keep one’s hand in,” said Cedric. He had stripped down to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat to shoot. Now, handing his pistol to the attendant, he reached for his dark blue coat.
“You sold out and came back to London because of Rachel, didn’t you?” said Sebastian, watching the former lieutenant shrug into his coat. “Who told you she was missing? Ramsey?”
Cedric straightened his collar, his eyes narrowing. “Actually, it was our sister Lady Sewell.” A sudden burst of laughter from a group of men entering the room brought his head around.
“Walk with me,” said Sebastian.
Buffeted by a cool wind, they strolled up the Mall toward Cockspur Street, with the rolling green swath of St. James’s Park stretching away to their right behind Carlton House and its gardens. “There used to be a leper hospital there,” said Cedric, looking across the park toward the river. “Did you know? It was a pretty insalubrious place at the time, all swamps and marsh-land. They say a fair number of lepers from the hospital are still buried there. Every now and then the royal gardeners dig up some poor bastard’s skull or thighbone.”
Sebastian stared out across the carefully tended greens and clipped hedges of the gardens and the park beyond it. Beneath the cloudy afternoon sky, the park had assumed a cold, somber aspect.
“They were outcasts,” said Cedric. “Shunned even by their families. Some were tradesmen, peasants, and laborers. But there were also noblemen, scholars . . . artists. It didn’t matter. What they had been was superseded by what they’d become. Something diseased and rotting. A threat to society.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze to the man beside him. “Is that how you thought of your sister?”
Cedric let out his breath in a harsh grating sound. “No. But it’s how she thought of herself.”
“You went to see her after Tristan Ramsey told you where he’d found her?”
Cedric’s face was ashen. “I tried to get her to come away with me.” His lips flattened. “She refused.” Tristan Ramsey had said much the same thing; but in Cedric’s case, Sebastian was inclined to believe it was true. “She said she was where she belonged. That house—” He broke off, swallowed. “It was horrible seeing her there.”
“Did she tell you why she ran away?”
Cedric shook his head. “I asked. She refused to say.”
They turned their steps toward Charing Cross and Northumberland House and Gardens beyond it. “I still don’t understand how she ended up there,” said Cedric. He threw a sideways glance at Sebastian, pale features suddenly flushing dark with anger. “But I swear to God, if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll kill you.”
Sebastian said, “Do you think it’s possible she was in love with another man? I mean someone other than Ramsey. Someone who lured her away from home, then abandoned her?”
Cedric thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat, his shoulders hunched. “I admit I thought it possible. When I pressed her to leave with me, she just threw back her head and laughed. She said she was in love with that Lincolnshire fellow. The one who owns the house.”
Sebastian cast Cedric a sharp sideways glance. “You believed her?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t look like a woman in love to me. If anything, I’d say she was afraid.”
“Of Kane?”
“I think she was afraid he’d kill her if she tried to leave. She said he’d killed before—other women who had tried to leave him. I told her she was being irrational. That we could protect her from the likes of some Covent Garden thug.” He paused. “She just told me to go away and not come back.”
“And so you did?”
“What else could I do? She refused to talk to me anymore. When I went back last Saturday, they told me she was no longer there.” He brought up both hands to scrub them across his face, his shoulders hunched. “I thought they were lying—that she just didn’t want to see me again. But a part of me was terrified something must have happened to her.”
“What made you think that?”
Cedric knotted the fingers of his hands together, as if he were in prayer. “I don’t know. It was just a feeling I had.” He hesitated. “I remember this one time in Spain, just before Ciudad Rodrigo. A fellow b
y the name of Hobbs took out a patrol. They were late coming back. We’d had one of those bloody awful rains that can come up out of nowhere in the Peninsula. Everyone was convinced they’d just used the storm as an excuse to spend the afternoon in a bodega somewhere.”
“But you didn’t think so?”
“No.” Cedric stared off across the gardens. “They’d been ambushed. We found them not two miles outside camp. They’d been set upon by peasants with pitchforks and scythes.” His face contorted with the memory. “They were literally ripped apart.”
Both men were silent for a moment, lost in visions of the past, of men bloodied and torn by cannon fire and bayonets as well as by pitchforks and scythes. Sebastian said, “Did you tell Lord Fairchild that you’d found your sister?”
Cedric let out a sound that was like a laugh, only devoid of all humor. “My father?” He shook his head. “My father isn’t well. It would kill him, if he knew what had happened to Rachel.”
“Sometimes not knowing is worse than knowing.”
“Not this time.”
Chapter 32
Hero gently closed the door to her mother’s room and paused in the hall for a moment, her hand still on the knob, a weight of sadness pressing down on her. Lady knob, a weight of sadness pressing down on her. Lady Jarvis had reacted badly to last night’s incident. Sometimes she worked herself up into such a state that it lasted for weeks.
Her hand slipping off the knob, Hero was just turning away when her father came up to her. “How is your mother?” he asked. There was neither warmth nor caring in the question.
“Resting. Dr. Ross has dosed her liberally with laudanum. She should sleep the rest of the day.”
Lord Jarvis’s lips thinned into the pained expression he inevitably assumed whenever the topic under discussion was his wife. “That’s a relief.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Hero’s face. “You’re certain you’re all right?”
“Thanks to you teaching me to keep a steady finger on the trigger.”
Father and daughter shared a private smile. His smile faded quickly. “I’ve dismissed the two footmen you and your mother had with you last night.”
“It wasn’t their fault.”
“Of course it was their fault,” said Lord Jarvis. “I didn’t send you into the country with three armed men to have you come back covered in some highwayman’s gore.”
Hero opened her mouth, then shut it.
“Coachman John tells me you took the injured highwayman to Paul Gibson’s surgery near Tower Hill. Why?”
“I doubted the practitioners of Harley Street would appreciate the delivery of a bloody highwayman at midnight. And if I’d simply taken him to Bow Street, he’d have died.”
“The man still lives?”
“Last I heard, yes.”
“Good. Then he can be made to talk.”
Hero felt a chill prickle down her spine. She’d heard dark rumors of the methods employed by Lord Jarvis’s henchmen to make people talk. “Papa—”
Jarvis raised his hand, stopping her. “These men are connected to what happened last Monday, aren’t they?”
“It would seem so, yes.”
He was so good at hiding his thoughts and feelings that even Hero often had a difficult time reading him. She was both shocked and touched when he suddenly said, “I’m concerned about you, Hero. You’re all I have left.”
“I’ll be careful,” she promised. Reaching up, she brushed her father’s cheek with a kiss and turned toward the stairs.
But she was aware of him still standing in the hall, watching her.
Jarvis was in the small chamber he reserved for mixing snuff when his butler ushered Colonel Epson-Smith into the room.
“You wanted to see me, my lord?” asked the Colonel.
“What I want is to see this unpleasantness brought to an end. Quickly.” Jarvis added a pinch of macouba to his mortar and began to grind it with a pestle. “You’ve had two days. What have you learned?”
Epson-Smith stood in the center of the room, his legs braced wide, his hands clasped behind his back. “Indications so far are that we’re dealing with a simple tussle over merchandise. It’s not clear yet precisely who is involved, but we’re working on it.”
Jarvis grunted. “Work faster.” Reaching for a small vial, he added three drops to his mixture. “You’ve heard of last night’s incident?”
“Yes, my lord. I’m not convinced, however, that it’s related to Monday night’s—”
“It is. The surviving individual is at a surgery near Tower Hill. Use whatever means necessary, but make him talk.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Jarvis looked up from shaking his mixture out over the sheet of parchment that he’d spread across the room’s table. “I also want one of your men watching over Miss Jarvis from now on. Discreetly, of course.”
The Colonel kept his face perfectly composed. If he’d learned yet of Hero’s presence at the Magdalene House the night of the attack, he had more sense than to mention it. He bowed, said, “Yes, my lord,” and withdrew.
Chapter 33
Sebastian arrived at Paul Gibson’s surgery near the Tower to find Miss Jarvis’s town carriage drawn up in the street outside. The wind had turned cold, the team of matched off-white horses shifting restlessly in their traces, tails flicking away an endless buzz of flies.
Tom studied the elegant equipage through narrowed eyes. “That’s ’er, ain’t it? The gentry mort what fooled me into leavin’ the chestnuts.”
Sebastian handed him the reins. “I’d advise you to get over it, Tom. Miss Jarvis is like her father: brilliant and deadly. You don’t want to tangle with her.”
But Tom simply thrust out his lower lip in a mulish scowl and stared straight ahead.
Sebastian jumped down from the curricle and was halfway across the footpath when the door to the surgery was yanked open. “Oh. It’s you,” said Miss Jarvis, standing on the threshold, a formidable presence in a burgundy driving gown and matching velvet hat.
Sebastian paused in midstride. “Whom were you expecting?”
“The constables.” She stepped back to allow him to enter. “Dr. Gibson sent for them shortly before I arrived.”
“Is he all right?”
“No. He’s dead.”
Sebastian knew a curious sensation, as if the blood had suddenly drained away from his head. It was only the appearance of Paul Gibson himself at the entrance to his front room that brought the blood pounding back to Sebastian’s temples when he realized she had spoken not of his friend but of her assailant from the night before.
“I’m sorry,” said Gibson, drying his hands on a rough towel. “I was with him all night. I just stepped into the back to wash my face and grab something to eat. I couldn’t have been gone five minutes.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Sebastian, glancing at the silent, shrouded form on the bed. “He was gravely wounded.”
“True. But it wasn’t his wound that killed him.” Gibson went to flip back the sheet covering the dead man’s face and shoulders. “Someone came in here and broke his neck.”
Sebastian stared down at the dead man’s pale features. “Bloody hell. Did he ever say anything?”
“Nothing of any significance. He was delirious. In and out of consciousness. I couldn’t even get him to tell me his name.”
“Bloody hell,” said Sebastian again, only softly this time, for he’d remembered Miss Jarvis’s presence.
She said, “Your arrival here is fortuitous.”
He looked around to find her still standing in the narrow hallway. “How is that, Miss Jarvis?”
She retied the fluttering burgundy velvet ribbons of her hat with crisp, no-nonsense movements. The woman had been born without an ounce of coquetry or flirtation, Sebastian thought, just intellect and lethal purposefulness. She said, “I’ve arranged to meet the Cyprian from the Orchard Street Academy, Tasmin Poole, at Billingsgate this morning. It is my hope that she might have discover
ed something else of interest.”
“Billingsgate? Why Billingsgate?”
She raised one eyebrow in a gesture so reminiscent of Lord Jarvis himself that Sebastian felt a chill. “You think Berkeley Square would have been more appropriate?”
Paul Gibson made a strangling noise in his throat and turned away.
She looked Sebastian square in the eye and said, “It occurs to me that you may have questions you’d like to ask her yourself.”
Sebastian met Miss Jarvis’s frank gaze and saw there a faint hint of mockery lightly tinged with resentment. She obviously knew full well he was not telling her all the sordid details he was learning of Rachel Fairchild’s life, and so she’d decided to listen to the questions he asked Tasmin Poole and learn from them.