by C. S. Harris
Sebastian shook his head. Tom had told them in detail what he’d seen and heard beside the Norfolk Arms’s cellars. It had been suggestive, but hardly damning. “More like a palace coup, I’d say, rather than a revolution. But God knows where it might lead. Change can be difficult to control once it’s under way. The French Revolution was started by a few noblemen wanting to revive the old National Assembly, remember? They certainly got more than they bargained for.”
The steadily thickening clouds had robbed the day of its light, making it seem later than it actually was. Sebastian stared out the window at brick houses streaked with soot, at gin shops spilling drunken laughter into the street. The sultry air smelled of boiling cabbage and horse manure and burning garbage. A boy of ten or twelve, a street sweeper from the looks of him, scrambled to get out of their way, his broom held tight in one fist, his eyes wide as he watched them rattle past. Behind him, a little girl of no more than eight, her clothes a jumble of torn rags, her face pale and bleak, stretched out one grimy hand in the beggar’s universal plea for help.
The hackney swept on, the boy and girl lost in a ragged crowd.
Sebastian found himself thinking about two other children, one named Huey, the other Tom. And about their mother, a simple but devout widow, out of work and thrown onto the streets with two children to feed. For her as for untold thousands of women in such a situation, the choices were simple but stark: starvation, theft, or prostitution. Tom’s mother had chosen theft and earned herself a one-way voyage to Botany Bay. Prostitution might have brought her disease and an early death, but it wasn’t a capital crime. Stealing to feed your starving children was.
From what Tom had told him, Sebastian figured the boy had been nine years old when he and his brother stood on the docks and watched their mother being rowed out to a transport lying at anchor in the Thames. The older by three years, Huey had taken it upon himself to care for his younger brother the best he knew how—until they caught Huey for stealing, too. Huey wasn’t as lucky as their mother. They’d hanged him.
Lovejoy’s voice broke into Sebastian’s thoughts. “We discovered the identity of the man you killed by the river.”
Sebastian moved his head against the hackney’s cracked leather upholstery. “I didn’t kill him. He fell.”
Lovejoy’s lips twitched, which was about as close as the dour little magistrate ever came to a smile. “His name was Ahearn. Charles Ahearn. Ever hear of him?”
Sebastian shook his head. “What is known of him?”
“Nothing to his discredit. He served as tutor to Lord Cochran’s sons until the youngest went off to Eton last fall.”
“What’s he been doing since then?”
Lovejoy withdrew a large handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose. “That we’re not sure.”
Sebastian had become aware of a heavy stench of raw smoke overlying the other smells of the district, the reeking tannery pits, and the fetid stink of the shambles. Now, as they turned onto Giltspur Street, they could hear shouts and running feet and the roaring crackle of flames, the hackney struggling to wind its way through a thick crowd. From the distance came the steady clang, clang, clang of the fire bell.
“Something’s on fire,” said Lovejoy, craning his neck to look out the window.
Sebastian could see it now. Flames danced across an ancient pitched roof and shot from windows that yawned like gaping holes in a crumbling brick facade. Thick black smoke billowed up to mingle with the low gray clouds ahead.
“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian, throwing open the door to leap down even before the hackney had rolled to a halt. “It’s the Norfolk Arms.”
Chapter 48
The lane was a confusion of sound, of roaring flames and screaming women and smoke-blackened men, their sweat-slicked faces reflecting the orange glow of the fire as they lined up to form a chain, water sloshing from buckets quickly passed from hand to hand.
Sebastian pushed his way through the crowd, his gaze scanning the flame-licked facade of the old inn. Black ash swirled about him, drifting down like dirty snow. He could feel the heat of the fire against his face, feel it sucking the air from his lungs. As he watched, smoke curled from beneath the door of the little bow-windowed button shop that lay beside the inn. Then the front window exploded and the entire building burst into flames.
A great moan went up from the crowd around him. This was what they all feared, that the fire would spread. It was always a danger in any part of the city. But here, where houses built of dry old timbers leaned toward one another across narrow, twisted streets, one carelessly minded candle could consume an entire district in a night.
Sebastian shifted his attention to the crowd. He expected to find the big black innkeeper at the forefront of the men dashing bucket after bucket on the growing inferno. But Caleb Carter was nowhere to be seen.
Sebastian’s gaze stopped on a tall girl with pale gray eyes and lanky blond hair who stood near the curb. For an instant, her gaze met his. He saw her eyes widen with recognition, her mouth going slack.
She whirled to run. Sebastian was on her, his hand closing hard on her upper arm, jerking her around to face him. “Where’s Carter?” he demanded, hauling her up close to him.
She stared at him, her eyes huge, her nostrils flaring with fear.
He gripped her other arm and lifted her up until her feet barely touched the ground, her head snapping back and forth as he gave her a shake. “Where is he, damn you?”
“The cellars! He said somethin’ about the cellars—”
Sebastian thrust her aside. She stumbled but was off and running before he even turned away.
The fire had yet to work its way down the alley to the back of the inn, although he could hear its warning hiss, smell the acrid tinge of smoke in the sultry air. He found the thick wooden doors to the cellar closed and bolted from within. There would be another entrance, from inside the inn itself, but time was running out. Sebastian grabbed a nearby length of iron and brought it down hard. The wood cracked and splintered.
Someone shouted. “Hey! What you doin’ there—”
Ignoring them, Sebastian kicked in the shattered doors.
The rush of air from the cellars was unexpectedly hot and dry, and already tinged with smoke. For a moment, Sebastian hesitated. If the gunpowder Tom had watched being unloaded was still stored here, Sebastian could be walking into an explosive death. But he didn’t think the men he was dealing with were that careless.
Someone had left a lamp lit in the farthest reaches of the cellar. Sebastian could see the distant, steady glow as he plunged down the worn stone steps. The smoke was thicker here, seeping down through the ceiling boards overhead.
At the base of the steps he paused. The cellar itself was earthen floored. Tall racks of oak barrels and row after row of bottles loomed around him, the air heavy with the rich scents of French wine and brandy overlaid with the stench of burning wood. The sounds of the fire were muffled here, but coming closer. He could hear the distant roar and, from somewhere nearer, an ominous sizzling crackle.
From nearer still came a man’s wet, hacking cough.
Sebastian turned toward the sound, making his way cautiously amidst the towering racks. He found the innkeeper facedown in the earth, his arms flung wide, his legs sprawled. As Sebastian watched, the big man drew his arms beneath him, his weight on his elbows as he struggled to push himself up. The back of his bald head was dark and shiny with blood that trickled down his neck, soaked the white collar of his shirt.
Groaning again, Carter pressed his palms flat to the earth and gave a mighty heave that sent him rolling onto his back. He lay there, his chest jerking with each breath. The blow to the back of his head had obviously stunned him. But what had laid him low and brought a bloody foam to his mouth was the knife someone had thrust between his ribs.
The African’s eyes rolled in his head, his chest heaving again as Sebastian went to kneel beside him.
“You,” said Carter, hi
s face contorting with pain. “What the hell—”
He fell into a fit of coughing. Sebastian slipped his hands beneath the man’s shoulders, raising his head to help him breathe. “Who did this to you?”
Carter’s throat worked as he struggled to force the words out, bloody spittle foaming around his mouth. “F—”
Sebastian leaned closer.
The hot scent of urine filled the air as the black man’s bladder let loose. He was almost gone, his chest jerking as he fought to suck in air. “Fu—”’ His upper lip curled, the light in his dark eyes flickering, fading. “Fuck you,” he said with a rattling gasp. And the light in his eyes went out.
Sebastian eased his hands from beneath the big man’s shoulders and laid the body on the hard-packed earth. The glow in the cellars had taken on an orange tinge. Looking up, Sebastian saw flames licking across the ceiling.
He pushed to his feet. The kegs of gunpowder might be gone, but the cellar’s rich store of brandy would be nearly as inflammable. Sebastian leapt for the stairs, just as the door from the inn’s yard exploded and tongues of fire shot down the steps toward him.
Chapter 49
A thick pall of smoke stung Sebastian’s eyes, tore at his throat. Throwing one crooked arm in front of his face, he took the stairs to the alley two at a time.
He was halfway up the steps when he heard a tearing crack above him. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder in time to see a fiery beam crash onto the stone steps behind him, bringing half the ceiling down with it and unleashing a fierce blast of heat that slapped him in the back, knocking him to his knees.
Coughing badly now, he pushed on, practically crawling the last few steps. Wrapping one hand around the edge of the shattered cellar doors, he heaved himself up and staggered out into the cool of the night.
He stood with his hands braced on his knees, his head bowed as he sucked in great drafts of sweet, life-giving air. Behind him, the inn had become a fiery shell. Lungs aching, he swung around and watched as the walls collapsed inward, sending a torch of flames and fiery embers roaring up toward the cloud-filled sky.
He felt the evening breeze cool against his skin. The breeze, and something else that stung his eyelids and ran down his cheeks as he lifted his face to the sky.
Rain.
SEBASTIAN WAS SITTING on an ancient stone mounting block and wrapping a wet handkerchief around his singed hand when Lovejoy found him.
The little magistrate’s hat was gone, his collar crooked, his normally spotless shirtfront smudged with a black stain that was turning gray now in the steady rain. “If your lad was right and there’d been gunpowder in that cellar, the explosion would have taken out half the street,” said Lovejoy, removing his spectacles to wipe the lenses.
Sebastian used his teeth to tighten the knot in his handkerchief. “The gunpowder’s gone. They probably moved it last night after Tom was taken up. They couldn’t run the risk of someone deciding to investigate the boy’s story.”
Lovejoy’s head fell back, the muscles of his face twitching as he stared up at the smoldering facade. “And the fire?”
“Was set to destroy whatever evidence they might have missed, I suppose.” Sebastian stretched to his feet. “That and to cover up the murder of Caleb Carter.”
Lovejoy shot him a quick look. “You mean the black innkeeper? He’s dead?”
“I found him in the cellars. Someone had slipped a knife between his ribs.”
“But…why?”
“Think about it. Last Wednesday, the Marchioness of Anglessey was seen walking into this inn. As far as we know, no one except her killer ever saw her alive again. A few days later, I show up asking questions about her. Then last night, my tiger watches a shipment of gunpowder being delivered and hears talk of a reversal of the Glorious Revolution of 1688. Something serious is afoot here. But the only link we had to it was Caleb Carter and this inn.”
Sebastian paused to stare up at the smoking, crumbling walls of the building before him. “And now they’re both gone.”
STOPPING AT PAUL GIBSON’S SURGERY at the foot of Tower Hill, Sebastian found Tom asleep in Gibson’s back bedchamber.
“I thought it best,” said Gibson, one cupped hand shielding the flare of his candlestick. “He was exhausted.”
Sebastian stared down at the sleeping boy. “Is he all right?”
“He had a bad fright. But nothing worse.”
Sebastian nodded. There was no need to elaborate. They both knew what could happen to the boys and girls—and men and women—unlucky enough to find themselves in one of His Majesty’s prisons.
“He kept talking about someone named Huey,” said Gibson, leading the way to the parlor.
Sebastian nodded. “His brother. I gather the boy was hanged.”
Gibson sighed. “These are barbarous times in which we live.” He went to pour two glasses of wine. “This conspiracy to depose the Hanovers…any idea who might be involved?”
“To have any chance of success it would need the allegiance of prominent men, both in the army and the government. But do they have that support?” Sebastian shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen any sign of it. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. The Norfolk Arms was surely only at the periphery.”
“Could Anglessey be involved?”
“It’s possible, I suppose. Although I’d be surprised.” Sebastian took the wine from Gibson’s hand and went to sink into one of the tattered leather armchairs before the empty fireplace. “I haven’t found anyone associated with Lady Anglessey’s death who’s at all in a position of power.” He paused. “Except for Portland, of course. And he’s such a rabid Tory, he hardly seems a likely candidate to be advocating revolution.”
Gibson came to stand before the cold hearth. “Any idea yet how Lady Hendon’s necklace fits into all of this?”
Sebastian glanced up into his friend’s open, concerned face. Once, years ago in Italy, he and this man had been to hell and back together. Their friendship had nothing to do with rank or birth, but with a shared moral code and the deep, mutual respect of two men who had tested each other’s mettle and found courage under fire and a levelheaded response to danger.
But even the best of friendships have their limits. Not even to Kat had Sebastian been able to bring himself to say, I don’t want to believe it, but I’m becoming more and more convinced that my mother didn’t drown on that long-ago summer day. Because if she had, this triskelion would have spent the last seventeen years buried in silt someplace at the bottom of the Channel. It wouldn’t be playing a part now in what happened to Guinevere Anglessey.
So Sebastian simply drained his wine and said, “No. It’s still a mystery.”
REACHING THE HOUSE IN BROOK STREET, Sebastian intended to go upstairs, face his valet’s tears over another ruined coat, and change into evening attire. Instead he wandered into the library, poured himself a brandy, and stood staring down at the empty hearth.
There was a time for subtlety and cleverness, and then there was a time for brute force. Sending Tom to scout out the neighborhood of Giltspur Street had been a mistake, he decided. Not only had he placed the tiger in unconscionable danger, but he’d also missed the chance to go back to the Norfolk Arms himself and directly press Caleb Carter for the truth about the Marchioness’s visit to the inn. Now it was too late.
He became aware of a bold hand beating an insistent tattoo at the front door.
“I’m not at home, Morey,” Sebastian said as his majordomo moved to open the door.
“Yes, my lord.”
Taking a sip of his brandy, Sebastian glanced out the window overlooking the front street. A smart carriage drawn by a pair of beautifully matched dapple grays stood drawn up before the steps. He didn’t need to see the coronet on its panels to know its owner.
He could hear Morey’s polite, soothing tones, blending with a woman’s voice, louder and only too familiar.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said his sister, Amanda. “I know perf
ectly well Devlin is at home. I saw him climb the steps myself just moments ago. Now, you can either announce me, or I shall simply go looking for him. The choice is yours.”
Sebastian went to stand in the library’s doorway, the brandy glass held lightly in his unbandaged hand as he studied the tall, slim woman in heavy mourning who stood in the marble tiled entry. “Leave off harassing the poor man. He’s simply following orders.”
Amanda turned her head to look at him. “As I am only too aware.” Her eyes widened at the sight of him, her nostrils quivering at the stench of smoke and soot. “Merciful heavens. What have you been doing? Hiring yourself out as a chimney sweep?”
Sebastian laughed and stepped back to sketch her a flourishing bow. “Do come in, my lady.”
She swept past him, jerking off her gloves but making no attempt to remove her bonnet. “You realize, of course, that you have the entire Town talking about you. Again.”
“Oh, surely not as bad as the last time.”
She swung to face him, her blue eyes blazing. “Is it too much to ask that you have some consideration for your niece?” She waved one hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, not for my sake. But for Hendon’s. She is his granddaughter, after all.”
Sebastian frowned. “Stephanie? What has she to do with anything?”
“She is seventeen. In less than a year she will be making her come out. What do you think will be her chances of contracting a respectable alliance if her uncle is known to make it a hobby of consorting with murderers?”
Sebastian went to pour himself another drink. “Sherry?” he asked.
Amanda shook her head.
“I’m not consorting with Lady Anglessey’s murderer,” said Sebastian. “I’m simply trying to discover who he is.”