by C. S. Harris
That didn’t make what Sebastian was about to do any easier.
• • •
Once, Alistair St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon, had been the proud father of one daughter and three strong sons.
The two older boys were his favorites, a reality the youngest child, Sebastian, accepted even as it grieved him more than he ever let anyone know. Over the years, he had sought endless explanations for his father’s harshness, for the undisguised mingling of anger and bemusement that so often pinched the Earl’s features when his gaze fell on his youngest and least satisfactory son. Was it because Sebastian was so unlike the Earl, in temperament and interests as well as in appearance? Or was it for some other reason entirely? Sebastian could never decide.
And then, one by one, Hendon’s sons died, first the eldest, Richard, and then his middle son, Cecil, leaving only the youngest, Sebastian, as the Earl’s heir. It wasn’t until Sebastian was a man grown that he’d learned the truth: that Hendon’s beautiful, laughing, golden-haired Countess had played her husband false. That Sebastian was not, in fact, the Earl’s own son, but a bastard sired by one of the Countess’s nameless, faceless lovers. As Hendon had always known.
Always.
• • •
The Earl was dozing in a chair beside the library fire in his massive Grosvenor Square town house when Sebastian came to pause in the doorway. Hendon was in his late sixties now, his body stocky and slightly stooped with age, his heavily jowled face lined and sagging, his hair almost white and beginning to thin.
Sebastian paused in the doorway, his gaze on the man he’d thought of as his father for twenty-nine years—the man the world still believed to be his father. Sebastian supposed that, in time, he would be able to forgive Hendon for all the lies of his growing-up years. But he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive the Earl for allowing those lies to drive Sebastian from the woman he’d once loved with all his heart and soul. The fact that Sebastian had found a new love in no way diminished either his anger or the hurt that fueled it. Yet as his gaze traveled over the old man’s familiar, once well-loved features, he felt an upswelling of powerful, unwanted emotions that he quickly suppressed.
He closed the door behind him with a click and watched Hendon draw in his breath in a half snore, then straighten with a jerk.
“Devlin.” The Earl swiped one thick hand over his lower face. “Didn’t hear you come in. This is . . . unexpected.”
Since the two men had barely exchanged half a dozen painful, polite greetings for many months now, that was something of an understatement. Sebastian said, “I understand you’re involved with the delegation sent by Napoléon to explore the possibility of peace negotiations between our two countries.”
Hendon cleared his throat. “Heard about that, have you?”
“Yes.”
Hendon pushed to his feet and went to where his pipe and tobacco rested on a table near the hearth. “I expected you might, once you started looking into the death of that French physician—what was his name?”
“Pelletan.”
“That’s right; Pelletan.” He fussed with his pipe, filling the bowl with tobacco and tamping it down with the pad of his thumb. Then he cast Sebastian a sideways glance. “You know I can’t discuss the progress of the negotiations with you.”
“I realize that. What I’m interested in is the attitude of various individuals toward the possibility of peace. I’m told Jarvis favors continuing the war until our troops are in Paris and Napoléon is ousted from the throne.”
“I’d say that about sums it up, yes.”
“And Liverpool?”
“Ah. Well, the Prime Minister’s attitude is slightly different. He’d like to see Boney gone as much as anyone. But he’s also sensitive to the economic and political costs of the war. I suspect that if France would agree to withdraw to its original borders, Liverpool could find a way to live with the Corsican upstart. After all, Napoléon is now married to the sister of the Emperor of Austria; there’s something to be said for viewing their young child as a living union of the traditional with the modern. A reconciliation, of sorts.”
“True,” said Sebastian. He knew without being told where Hendon stood on the issue. As much as Hendon hated radicalism and republicanism, he’d been growing increasingly troubled by the toll that twenty years of war was taking on Britain and her people. “In other words, you and Liverpool are receptive to the negotiations, whereas Jarvis wants them to fail.”
“You said it; I didn’t.”
Sebastian watched the Earl light a taper and apply it to his pipe. “In my experience, Jarvis usually achieves what he wants.”
Hendon looked up, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked on his pipe, their gazes meeting through the haze of blue smoke. “Yes.”
“Any chance Jarvis could be actively working to ensure that the negotiations fail?”
“By literally butchering the members of the delegation, you mean?” Hendon sucked some more on his pipe, his eyes narrowing with thought. “Bit ghoulish, even for Jarvis, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps. What about the possibility that Jarvis has suborned Vaundreuil himself?”
“To be honest, I’ve wondered about that. I’ve no proof, mind you; it’s just a feeling I have.”
Sebastian nodded and started to turn away. “Thank you.”
“Devlin?”
He glanced back at the Earl.
Hendon’s teeth clamped down on the stem of his pipe. “How does Lady Devlin?”
“She is well.”
“And my grandson? When is he expected to make his appearance?”
The child would be no true grandchild to Alistair St. Cyr. But if a boy, he would someday become, in turn, Viscount Devlin and eventually Earl of Hendon. “Soon,” said Sebastian after only a moment’s hesitation.
Hendon nodded, his lips relaxing into a faint smile. And Sebastian knew again the whisper of an old emotion he did not want, a sensation all tangled up with every painful and joyous memory of a childhood he had no desire to revisit.
“You’ll let me know?” Hendon asked gruffly.
“Yes.”
And then, because there was nothing more to say, Sebastian left.
• • •
The night was cold, the fog a thick, foul presence that seemed to press down on the city. Sebastian walked through empty streets, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the moisture-laden air. He was trying to sort through a tangle of evidence and explanations surrounding this baffling series of murders. But his thoughts kept returning, unbidden, to a lonely old man standing beside his hearth, his pipe in his hand, his startlingly blue eyes clouded with a host of contradictory emotions that Sebastian suspected the Earl himself never completely understood.
He was about to turn and climb the steps to his house when he became aware of someone running behind him.
He whirled, his hand going to the dagger in his boot just as a breathless voice exclaimed, “My lord Devlin?”
One of Lovejoy’s constables appeared out of the fog, his open mouth sucking air painfully, his somewhat ponderous stomach jiggling with his half trot.
Sebastian relaxed. “Yes; what is it?”
The constable drew up, his full, florid face slick with sweat despite the cold, his hands on his knees as he hunched over and sought to even his breathing. “Begging your lordship’s pardon, but there’s been a murder. Sir Henry thought you might like to know.”
“What’s happened?”
“A gentleman’s been murdered in Birdcage Walk.” The constable straightened, his breath still coming in panting gasps. “Leastways, the lady—er—gentleman with her—er, him—says it’s a gentleman. A gentleman dressed up like a lady, it is. Never seen nothing like it in all my born days!”
Chapter 44
The promenade known as Birdcage Walk ran along the south side of St. James’s Park. A broad carriageway lined with rows of elm and lime, it was open to commoners traversing it on foot. Only members of the royal family w
ere allowed to drive down Birdcage Walk. It wasn’t a privilege they exercised often, but the prerogative remained exclusively theirs, nonetheless.
Over the past fifty or more years, the walk had become notorious as a popular “molly market,” or cruising ground. The area’s proximity to the nearby barracks meant that handsome young guardsmen eager to earn an extra guinea or two could inevitably be found here. As Sebastian walked beneath the fog-shrouded branches of the winter-bared trees, he wondered if that was why Ambrose LaChapelle had come here.
But as he approached the huddle of greatcoated men near the eastern end of the walk, he was surprised to see the tall, chestnut-haired Serena sitting hunched on a bench off to one side. She had her head down, her hands thrust between her knees in a posture that would have made more sense if she had been wearing breeches. Her green silk gown was torn, the black lace that had once trimmed the neckline ripped so that it dangled off one shoulder.
“Ah, Lord Devlin,” called Sir Henry Lovejoy, separating himself from the knot of constables beside what Sebastian could now see was the sprawled body of another woman—or in all probability a man in a woman’s red velvet gown, topped by a short white fur cape stained dark with blood. “I thought you might want to see this.”
Sebastian glanced again at Serena. The French courtier did not look up.
“What happened?” Sebastian asked the magistrate.
“Her name is Angel Face. Or at least, that’s what she called herself when she was wearing skirts. In breeches, he was James Farragut, a jeweler who keeps—kept—a shop in the Haymarket. According to the—” Sir Henry paused, as if trying to settle on an appropriate noun. “—the person who was with her—him, they were simply walking along the carriageway when an unknown man came up behind them, stabbed Farragut in the back, and then ran off.”
“Farragut is dead?”
“Oh, yes. I gather he died almost instantly.”
Sebastian went to hunker down beside the dead man. Of medium height and slim, he had softly curling dark hair and a delicately boned face ending in a strong jawline. Sebastian had never seen him before. “How did you know I might be interested?”
“The . . . person . . . who was walking with the victim suggested it.”
Sebastian pushed to his feet and went to where LaChapelle still sat. The French courtier might have fought bravely against the forces of the Revolution, but the murder of his friend had obviously affected him profoundly. “You all right?”
“Yes.” Serena thrust out her jaw and blew a long breath up over her face. “Oh, God; it’s my fault. Angel is dead because of me.”
Sebastian sat on the bench beside her. “What were you doing here?”
A ghost of a smile touched the courtier’s painted lips. “Caterwauling, of course. There are some grand guardsmen to be found along here.”
Caterwauling. Sebastian had heard they also called it “picking up trade” or finding someone to “endorse.” He said, “Bit chilly, isn’t it?”
Serena shrugged. “The cold tends to discourage the bastards working for the Society for the Suppression of Vice.”
Sebastian stared off across the fog-shrouded park. “Why do you say you’re responsible for Angel Face’s death?”
Serena kept her gaze on the sprawled body of her friend. “She was cold. I lent her my fur cape. It’s very distinctive—I’m known for it. I think whoever killed her saw it and thought she was me.”
Sebastian studied the dead Haymarket jeweler. In the darkness and fog, she could easily have been mistaken for the French courtier. And yet . . .
“You can’t know that for certain,” said Sebastian.
“What? You think this is a coincidence?”
Sebastian shook his head. “What can you tell me about the man who stabbed her?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. It all happened too fast. At first, I thought he’d simply run up behind us and pushed Angel, to be rude. People do that sometimes, you know. But then she coughed and staggered against me, grabbing my dress to try and stay upright, so that I had to catch her. By the time I realized she’d been stabbed, the man who’d done it was gone.”
Sebastian studied the rows of limes along the border of the carriageway. Just to the south of the park lay the Recruit House and, beyond that, the gardens at the rear of the Gifford Arms Hotel. Until now, everyone killed had been either a member of the French delegation or connected to it in some way. So why the hell had LaChapelle been attacked?
Aloud, he said, “Who would want to kill you? Not just any random molly, but you?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Sebastian brought his gaze back to the courtier’s painted face. “Did you tell the magistrates who you are—I mean who you really are?”
Serena rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Do you truly think I would? There will be an inquest, remember. What would you suggest as my choice of attire for the occasion? Should I go as Serena Fox, or as Ambrose LaChapelle, the gentleman who was cruising Birdcage Walk dressed as a lady? Either way, what do you imagine my reception would be?”
“I wouldn’t think you’d care.”
“Do you know how many mollies have been beaten to death by London mobs?”
“No. But I would imagine it’s a fair number.”
“It is.”
Sebastian watched the mist drift between the dark trunks of the trees. He could smell the damp grass and the wet stones of the walk and the spilled blood of the murdered man. “If you’re not going to tell me who you think did this, then why the bloody hell did you have the magistrates alert me to what happened?”
An unexpected smile flashed across the molly’s somber features. “It was amazing the effect your name had on the local constabulary. One minute they were all set to hustle me off to the nearest roundhouse. Then I chanced to utter your name, and it was like a magic talisman. I’d tried asking them to contact Provence, but they seemed to find it difficult to believe that the uncrowned King of France would consort with one of my kind.” She paused. “You obviously consort with all kinds.”
Sebastian suspected chance had nothing to do with it. But he simply rose and said, “I suggest you avoid dark parks and arcades for a while—or else, if you must, carry a muff gun and keep your wits about you. If you should suddenly think of someone with an interest in doing away with you, you know where to find me.”
He was turning toward Sir Henry when he recalled something Lady Giselle had said to him the previous night, at the Duchess of Claiborne’s soiree. He paused. “What can you tell me about the ‘Dark Countess’?”
Serena leaned back against the bench’s rails. “Good God; what has she to do with anything?”
“I have no idea. Who is she?”
“No one knows, actually. That’s one of the reasons why she’s called the ‘Dark Countess.’ She lives in a castle in Thuringia and has never been seen in daylight—only glimpsed in the shadowy interiors of carriages. When she walks the castle’s grounds, she is always veiled, and she dresses only in black—black gown, black gloves, black veil. She has a man with her—a count, although they say he is neither her husband nor her lover. Speculation has it that he may be a courtier. Or her keeper.”
“Her keeper?”
“Mmm. Those who serve her are kept carefully guarded. But rumors have naturally circulated. They say she’s in her mid-thirties and is as blond and blue-eyed as our own dear Marie-Thérèse was as a child. Oh, and she has a fondness for the fleur-de-lis.”
The stylized lily or iris had been associated with the royal family of France for a thousand years. Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. Only that one can understand how certain speculation might have arisen. The journey of Marie-Thérèse from Paris to Vienna in 1795 was cloaked in secrecy, as were her years in the Temple. Some believe she was raped while in prison, that she was pregnant when released by the revolutionaries and had to be hidden away. Others suggest that her experiences ove
rturned the balance of her mind, so that after her release she was either unable or unwilling to take up the kind of prominent role required of the only surviving child of the martyred King and Queen of France.”
“The theory being that an imposter was put in her place, while the real Marie-Thérèse lives out her life in seclusion in a castle in Germany?”
“That is the theory, yes. Although anyone with any sense knows that it is pure myth.”
“Why is that?”
Ambrose LaChapelle met his gaze. “Because anyone undertaking to arrange such a dangerous substitution would be certain to select an imposter with a strong mental fortitude and unshakable balance. Whereas the Marie-Thérèse the world has seen these past eighteen years . . .” He shrugged and shook his head, as if unwilling to put the rest of his thoughts into words.
“Is she mad?” Sebastian asked quietly.
The courtier thrust the splayed fingers of one hand through his hair in a typically masculine gesture. “She is damaged. No one can deny that. You’ve noticed her voice? They like to say it is the result of her refusal to speak to her jailors—that she found it difficult to make sounds once she finally began to speak again. Yet she also likes to boast of her proud responses to the revolutionaries’ taunts and questions, and she frequently recites her rosary aloud.”
“So what did happen to her voice?”
“I have heard that severe emotional trauma can permanently affect one’s vocal cords, although there are also those who suggest she screamed so long and so loud that it damaged her voice.”
“Was she raped in prison?”
“If she was, she would never admit it. But when one thinks of what was done to her brother . . .” Again, that silent, suggestive lifting of the shoulders. “I’ve heard her say she used to sit up all night, dressed, in a chair because she was afraid to undress and go to bed. Why do that unless something had happened to make her afraid? Can you really imagine that the men who did such vile things to the boy Prince would spare the Princess? An attractive but despised young woman, alone and utterly in their power?”