by C. S. Harris
He was one of the most prominent, articulate Whigs in the House, Lord Frederick, urbane and witty and—unlike most of the Prince of Wale’s set—remarkably temperate. When the Prince was sworn in as Regent in a few days’ time, it was commonly assumed that Fairchild would be selected to help form the new Whig government.
Sebastian stared thoughtfully at the blue envelope in his hands. Here, surely, was the “F” referred to in Rachel York’s red leather-covered book. Could Lord Frederick even be the father of her unborn child? And maybe her murderer?
The room was cold, the fire on the hearth having been allowed to burn itself out. The sweet scent of lilac water hung heavy in the air, but beneath it Sebastian caught a hint of another odor, a sharp, metallic stench only too familiar to any man who’d ever gone to war.
With a sense of profound foreboding, he tucked the envelope into an inner pocket and stood up. The door to the dressing room stood half ajar. One hand on the pistol in his greatcoat pocket, Sebastian crossed the room to push the door open wider. . . .
And found himself looking at what was left of Mary Grant.
Chapter 37
She lay sprawled on her back, her eyes wide and sightless, her torn, bloodied clothes shoved up to reveal flesh gleaming pale and naked in the fading light. Her throat had been hacked so savagely that her head had nearly come off.
Sebastian stood just inside the doorway, his gaze traveling around the small, wainscoted room. He hadn’t seen the Lady Chapel at St. Matthew of the Fields after Rachel York’s killer had left her there, but he imagined it must have looked much like this, the blood splattered high and wide across the surrounding walls until it ran down the paneling in thin rivulets, the killer’s bloody handprints standing out stark and damning on the bare white flesh of the dead woman’s spread thighs.
There was nothing Sebastian could do for this woman now, but he crouched beside her anyway and touched his fingertips to her bloodstained cheek. She was still faintly warm.
He sat back on his heels, his hands gripping his knees as he gazed down into those pale, unseeing eyes. She was younger than he’d expected her to be, probably no more than twenty-five or thirty, with flaxen hair and a sallow complexion and the kind of sharp, small features one saw often on the streets of London. She must have thought she was a downy one, awake on every suit. She’d seen a chance to take everything that had once belonged to her mistress—the fine furniture, the expensive clothes and jewels—and she’d seized it. She must have thought she’d hit upon a way to set herself up for a good long while.
Except that all she’d really done was set herself up for murder.
Sebastian stared at the bloody handprints on Mary Grant’s thighs. The pattern was the same for both women: first the kill, then the sexual assault. It spoke of a man driven to murder by a desire to slake a peculiar, sick kind of lust. Except that the link between the two women could only mean that their killings weren’t random: whoever had killed Rachel York had not come upon her simply by chance in the Lady Chapel of St. Matthew of the Fields. He had sought her out. And then he had tracked down her maid, Mary Grant, and killed her, too.
But why? Why?
What if the sexual use of the women’s bodies had been, not the reason for the killing, but an effect, a release of the excitement and bloodlust generated by the act of killing? Mary Grant could have been killed because she surprised her murderer in the act of searching her rooms, or because she had known something that might have identified him as Rachel York’s killer.
Or had the killer marked both women for death for some other reason entirely?
Sebastian fingered the envelope in his pocket. Whether it had been dropped by mistake or been left, deliberately, so that it might be found, the involvement of a man such as Lord Frederick Fairchild in this affair was ominous. The two women had been linked to a French spy ring, while Lord Frederick was the man most likely to be named the next prime minister of England when his dear friend, the Prince of Wales, took over as Regent. . . .
A whisper of movement brought Sebastian’s head jerking around, but it was only the heavy satin drapes at the window, shifting in a sudden draft. He could hear the wind outside, picking up now. It would be dark soon.
He pushed to his feet. He knew the urge to cover Mary Grant’s bloody, abused body, to shield her from the staring, assessing eyes that would in time find her, but he forced himself to turn away and leave her rooms essentially the way he had found them.
He was letting himself out the street door when he brushed past a stout matron who paused to look straight up into his face. And in that brief instant before he turned away to hurry down the front steps, he recognized her, and saw, in turn, the flicker of recognition in her eyes.
“My lord!” she called after him. “That is you, isn’t it? Lord Devlin?”
Sebastian kept walking, his hat pulled low, his shoulders hunched against the cold. But his heart had begun to pound, and he was cursing silently to himself.
Her name was Mrs. Charles Lavery, and she was the widow of a colonel who’d served with Sebastian in the Peninsula. She would think, for now, that she had been mistaken, that she’d simply seen a stranger who happened to remind her in some vague way of the young viscount she’d once known. She’d tell herself she was silly not to have noticed sooner the shabbiness of his clothing, the touches of gray where his hair showed beneath his hat. But when they found Mary Grant’s body, as they surely would, Mrs. Lavery would recall this chance encounter.
And tighten the noose around Sebastian’s neck.
“I don’t get it,” said Tom, his small face pinched with the effort of assembling his thoughts. They were in a hackney carriage, the light from the streetlamps flickering over the worn leather upholstery as they turned down Pall Mall, heading toward St. James’s.
“Lord Frederick is a Whig,” said Sebastian, struggling to explain early nineteenth-century English politics in a way that might make sense to a child of the streets. “But for the last twenty years or so, the Tories have dominated the government.”
Tom shoved his fists deep into the pockets of the warm coat Sebastian had bought him and made a rude noise through his nose. “Not much to choose between the lot of them, if’n you was to ask me.”
Sebastian smiled. “In many ways, you’re right. But in general, the Tories see themselves as staunch defenders of the country’s established institutions, such as the monarchy and Church of England, which means they’re against any kind of change, especially things like religious toleration and parliamentary reform—”
“Things the Whigs is for?”
“Basically. And unlike the Tories, the Whigs are against continuing the war with Napoleon.”
Tom looked up in surprise. “You mean, they like the French?”
“Hardly. But they question the Tories’ motives for continuing the war. War is costly. It leads to high taxes and government loans taken out at high interest, which is good for the large landowners and merchants who are lending to the government, but not so good for the common people, like farmers and tradesmen and day workers. If the Whigs come to power, we’ll very likely see a peace treaty with France.”
Tom nodded, his eyes bright with understanding. “So what you thinkin’? That this Lord Frederick’s been playin’ some underhanded game with the French, and ’e offed them two women because they threatened to squeal on ’im?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s simply in someone’s best interest to make it appear that way.”
“Meanin’ the Tories,” said Tom.
The boy was surprisingly quick. Sebastian nodded. “That’s right.”
“Your da’s a Tory, ain’t ’e? Chancellor o’ the Somethingeranother?”
Sebastian glanced sideways at his young friend. “Who told you that?”
“Miss Kat.”
“Ah.”
They were nearing the Recital Rooms on Ryder Street. Faint strains of a violin could be heard, barely discernible above the rattle of carriage wheels
and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Leaning forward, Sebastian rapped on the front panel, then settled his hat low over his eyes and wound his scarf carefully about his lower face as the jarvey cut in close to the curb and pulled up in the shadowy netherworld between two streetlamps.
Sebastian stood in the shadows and watched the bejeweled, perfumed crowd of men and women descend the front steps of Compton’s Recital Rooms.
Even in this rarified collection of expensively dressed gentlefolk, Lord Frederick stood out, a handsome, urbane figure in flawless white linen and an inimitably cut coat. Laughing and talking amongst themselves, the small, self-absorbed group had just reached the footpath and turned toward the Mall, probably intending to sup at Richard’s, when Sebastian stepped forward, a dark figure half-hidden in shadow. “Lord Frederick?”
Lord Frederick turned. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if’n I might have a word with you, my lord?”
A shade of annoyance passed over the other man’s amicable features. “Not now, my good man. But you may come see me tomorrow, if you like.”
“If’n that’s the way you wants it,” said Sebastian, settling his hat even lower. “I was thinkin’ maybe you’d prefer a more private conversation, considering what I got to say. But I could come by your house in the mornin’, if’n you don’t mind your family findin’ out about your dealings with Rachel Y—”
Lord Frederick took a quick step forward, his breath hissing out a warning as he threw a glance back over his shoulder, as if to make certain his friends hadn’t heard. “For God’s sake, keep your voice down.”
Sebastian simply stared back at the man expectantly.
Lord Frederick hesitated, then said curtly, “Excuse me one moment.” Turning toward his friends, he said with a wide smile, “Go on without me. I’ll catch up with you later.” His smile faded the instant he swung back to Sebastian. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Sebastian shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his greatcoat, and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Well, you see, we found your name in Miss York’s appointment book—you do know Miss Rachel York, the one who was murdered Tuesday last in Westminster? We were wondering if you could tell us what it was doing there.”
Lord Frederick had an admirable control over his features. Not a flicker of either surprise or consternation showed in his smooth, amiable face. “You’re from Bow Street, I assume? I’m sorry, but my acquaintance with Miss York was entirely superficial. I really don’t see how I could possibly be of assistance to you.”
Sebastian sighed. “I was afraid you’d say somethin’ like that. The thing is, you can talk with me straight here and now, all nice and friendly. Or we can have our little chat down at Bow Street.”
“You’re bluffing. You wouldn’t dare.”
Sebastian met the other man’s gaze, and held it.
Lord Frederick looked away first. Pursing his lips, he blew out his breath in a long sigh, then gave a shaky laugh. “Very well. Miss York and I were having a little liaison. You know how these things are.”
“You mean, you was having sex with her.”
Lord Frederick laughed again, weakly. “Crudely put, but essentially accurate, yes.”
“And that’s all there was to it?”
“What more is there to such affairs?”
“Well, the answer to that might surprise you—leastways when the lady in question appears to have been working for the French.”
Fairchild might have control of his features, but he couldn’t stop the blood from draining from his face, leaving him looking pale and frightened.
Sebastian studied the other man with interest. “I’m guessing you’d have me believe you didn’t know about that?”
“No. Of course not. Are you quite certain of that?” Lord Frederick jerked out his handkerchief and pressed the fine folds of silk to his upper lip. “This is dreadful,” he said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief. “Just dreadful. There must be some mistake.”
The man was in obvious distress. But it was also true that he was no longer meeting Sebastian’s gaze.
“Where exactly were you last Tuesday night?”
“I spent the evening with the Prince, of course. Why?” Lord Frederick’s jaw went slack with sudden comprehension. “Good God. Surely you aren’t suggesting that I killed her?”
“You do have a motive. My lord.”
An unexpectedly powerful blaze of anger flared in the other man’s eyes. “You dare? You dare take that tone with me? What is your name? Hmm?” He stepped forward, his gaze narrowing as he tried to peer into Sebastian’s shadowy, muffled face. “Speak up, man. Who’s your superior at Bow Street? I swear to God, I’ll have your job over this.”
Sebastian smiled. “I never said I was with Bow Street.”
“What? Then who are you working for?” Fairchild demanded. But he spoke only to darkness and a scattering of dry leaves carried along by the night wind, for Sebastian had gone.
“He’s hiding something,” said Sebastian.
From the shelter of a columned portico, he and Tom watched as Lord Frederick strode briskly away, the tap-tap of his boot heels echoing eerily in the thickening fog. He had obviously changed his mind about rejoining his friends at supper; he was headed away from Richard’s in the Mall and toward Piccadilly instead.
Tom fidgeted with impatience. “Think he’s our man?”
“I’m not sure,” said Sebastian, one hand closing over Tom’s shoulder to hold him back when he would have moved. “But it’ll be interesting to see where he goes.” They waited until their quarry was almost out of sight. Then Sebastian squeezed the boy’s shoulder and let him go.
“Now,” said Sebastian.
With the grace and noiseless gait of an alley cat, Tom slipped from behind the column and darted forward, a shadow following a shadow through the mist-filled night.
Chapter 38
Sir Henry Lovejoy paused in the dressing room doorway and stared down at what was left of Mary Grant. They hadn’t covered the body yet, and the smell of her blood hung thick in the air. He was glad he hadn’t had a chance to eat his supper yet.
“There’s no doubt this time as to who did it,” said Edward Maitland.
Lovejoy glanced back at his constable. “There’s not?”
“We have a witness.” Maitland flipped open his notebook and turned it toward the golden pool of light cast by one of the oil lamps they’d lit. “A Mrs. Charles Lavery. She saw Lord Devlin leaving the building this afternoon.”
“She’s sure it was Devlin?”
“Said she knows the Viscount. Her husband served with Devlin in Spain.” Maitland closed his notebook with a snap. “No doubt he’s our man, sir.”
Lovejoy crouched down beside the dead woman and studied her face. She was young, but not particularly attractive. Nothing like Rachel York. “Why this woman? Why go through all the bother of tracking her down?”
“She knew Rachel York had gone to St. Matthew’s that night to meet him.” Maitland shrugged his expensively tailored shoulders. “So he kills her to shut her up.”
“But she’d already told us about that.” Lovejoy’s gaze drifted around the disordered room. “What else did she know, I wonder? And what do you suppose he was looking for?”
“Money,” Maitland suggested. “Or something to sell. Jewelry perhaps.”
“We’re dealing with the heir to an earldom here. Not some petty thief.”
“Still, he must be getting short of the ready by now, for all that. A man’s gotta eat.”
“Hmm. Perhaps. Yet Rachel York’s reticule had also been searched, if you’ll remember.” Lovejoy pushed to his feet, his knees creaking. “I wonder,” he said, half to himself. “I wonder . . .”
There was something peculiarly soothing about the sight and sound of a fire. Kat Boleyn sat with her feet curled up beneath her, her head tipped back against the silk upholstery of her drawing room sofa, her gaze on the flickering flames before her as she listen
ed to the voice of the man she’d once loved telling her about his visit to St. Jude’s Foundling Home.
And about Mary Grant.
“It’s not your fault,” Kat said when Devlin had finished and fell silent beside her. “It’s not your fault that he got to her first.”
“No. I know it’s not,” he said, his gaze on the fire.
“In a way, you’re this killer’s victim, too.”
“I know it’s not my fault,” he said again.
“But you’re still feeling guilty.”
He looked up to meet her gaze. A hint of a wry smile touched his lips, then faded as he sucked in a deep breath. “I suppose because in some way I can’t begin to understand, this all has to do with me. I keep circling around it, catching glimpses of it, but I can’t seem to grasp it. And in the meantime, these women are dying.”
She touched his shoulder and he turned toward her, his fingers digging into her arm as he buried his face against her breasts. She felt a shudder rip through him, then he lay still.
Disturbed by the tumult of her own feelings, she touched her hand, lightly, to his hair, just above the nape of his neck. “It’s odd, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “All those years Rachel went every Monday afternoon to St. Jude’s, and I never knew about it.”
He shifted so that his cheek lay against the bare flesh of her chest where it showed above the bodice of her gown, and his hand rested high on her stomach. “She was with child. Did you know?”
Kat’s fingers stilled in his hair. “No. I didn’t know. It happens sometimes. Even when one is careful.”
The tip of his finger traced a delicate pattern against the thin silk of her gown, spreading a warm glow that seemed to start from deep within her. And she marveled at the effect this man’s touch could have on her. Even when she didn’t want it to. Even when she tried to steel herself against it.