by C. S. Harris
The cold had driven enough people off the streets to make the man behind him particularly noticeable. Short and stocky, with sandy hair and a slouch hat pulled low over his eyes, he looked much like a respectable tradesman. He stayed perhaps twenty feet behind Sebastian—close enough to keep him in sight without being too obvious. But when Sebastian quickened his step, the man walked faster; when Sebastian allowed his pace to slacken, the man likewise slowed.
The slouch-hatted shadow followed Sebastian up Ludgate to Fleet Street. After another two blocks, Sebastian swung about to stride rapidly back the way he had come.
Slouch Hat paused and turned as if in rapt admiration of the parasols displayed in the bow window of the shop beside him.
Sebastian walked right up to him. “So who the hell are you and why are you following me?”
The man gave an exaggerated start of surprise. “Yer honor?”
“You heard me. Who are you working for?”
“I wasn’t fol—”
Sebastian grabbed the man’s shoulder and swung him around to slam his back against the soot-stained brick wall beside them. “I suggest you don’t try my patience,” he said, enunciating each word carefully. “A brilliant young woman is dead, and I am in no mood to play games. Who set you to following me?”
“I don’t know what yer talkin’ about.”
The man tried to pull away, but Sebastian hauled him back and wedged a forearm up beneath the man’s chin. “Not so fast.”
The man squirmed in his grasp. “Oye! Let me go!”
“When you tell me who—”
Sebastian broke off as he caught the crunch of snow-muffled footsteps coming up behind him, fast. The man’s gaze shifted for one telltale instant to something over Sebastian’s shoulder just as Sebastian heard the unmistakable snick of a blade being drawn from its leather sheath.
“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian. Grabbing Slouch Hat by his coat, he pulled the man away from the wall and swung around just as a tall, lanky man with a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face lunged at Sebastian with a dagger.
Such was the speed and force of the attack that the assassin was unable to break away. Sebastian felt the man in the slouch hat shudder under the impact of the blade. Blood poured from the man’s mouth as he pitched forward to knock Sebastian off his feet and land on top of him.
“Jack!” shouted the lanky man, trying to yank the dagger from his friend’s back as Sebastian fought to shove the stricken man away. Over the folds of his woolen scarf, the assassin’s gaze met Sebastian’s. Filled with murderous rage, the man’s eyes were oddly mismatched, one noticeably larger than the other and not quite on the same plane. Then the killer abandoned his knife and ran.
Sebastian scrambled out from under the dying man.
“Who sent you?” said Sebastian, raising the man’s head so that he wouldn’t choke on his own blood. “Who sent you, damn it!”
The man’s mouth worked. Sebastian bent over him, only to jerk back his head as the man tried to spit in his face. Then the light of rage and hatred faded from the man’s eyes, leaving nothing but the cold, vacant stare of death.
* * *
“So who is he?” asked Sir Henry Lovejoy sometime later as the two men stood side by side, staring down at the dead man at their feet. The snow fell around them in a sibilant rush.
“‘Jack,’ according to the man who accidently killed him,” said Sebastian. “But beyond that, I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen him before, and he’s not carrying any identification.”
“And his companion?”
“Was likewise unknown to me—as far as I could tell. He had a scarf covering most of his face, but his eyes were definitely memorable.”
Lovejoy frowned at the spreading pool of crimson snow around the dead man. “You’ll need to testify at the inquest, of course.”
“Yes.”
“Any idea who might want to have you killed?”
“None.”
Lovejoy pursed his lips. “Well, at least Bow Street can get involved in this death. I don’t see why the palace should object.”
“Unless of course the palace sent him,” said Sebastian.
The two men’s gazes met. But rather than say anything, Lovejoy simply burrowed his fists deeper into his pockets and blew out a harsh breath that rose in a white cloud to freeze on his eyelashes.
* * *
Hero was buttoning the tucked bodice of a fine black wool carriage gown when Sebastian came to stand in her dressing room’s doorway. She glanced over at him, then went back to her buttons. “So is that your blood all over you, or someone else’s?”
He walked over to inspect his face in the mirror above the washstand. “Someone else’s.” He reached for the pitcher and poured water into the bowl. “Two men just tried to kill me in Fleet Street. One of them got away. The other didn’t.”
“He’s dead?”
“He is. Unfortunately, he died without revealing whom he was working for.”
She watched him dab at the streak of blood on his cheek with a wet cloth. “Any idea who that might be?”
“Not really. At the moment the most likely suspect in Jane’s death is probably her own husband, Edward Ambrose. But he doesn’t know that I suspect him, so why would he try to kill me?” He glanced over at her. “Where are you off to?”
“Clerkenwell. Coachman John thinks he can get me there in the sleigh, so I’ve had Cook pack a basket of food.”
“For the cooper’s wife who gave birth on Thursday?”
“Yes.” She reached for her hat and pivoted back to her dressing table to position it just so. “I’m also taking a sack of coal. I don’t know how the poor of the city are surviving with everything either impossible to find or dreadfully dear.” She turned to face him again, her gray eyes troubled.
“What?” he asked, watching her.
“It’s just that I have the most lowering reflection that I’m doing this simply as a pitiful sop to my own conscience. In the grand scheme of things, what does it matter if I help one desperate mother and her children when thousands more are starving and freezing to death?”
“It’s a beginning.” He went to take her face in his hands and gently kiss her mouth. “Be careful, will you?” he said, his gaze locking with hers.
“I’m not the one somebody just tried to kill. You be careful.”
Chapter 18
It was still snowing when Sebastian reached Covent Garden, big, soft flakes that drifted lazily down on the city.
This was a part of London he’d known well as a young man just down from Oxford, when he’d fallen hopelessly in love with a brilliant, unknown young actress named Kat Boleyn. At the time he had expected to spend the rest of his life with her—have children with her, grow old with her. Then a series of well-intentioned lies tore them apart and very nearly destroyed him.
It had been a dark period in his life, one he didn’t like to remember. But in time he’d learned that a powerful and enriching love can come into a man’s life more than once. And gradually his affection for Kat had shifted from something passionate and desperate to something warm and good, as if she were indeed the half sister he’d once believed her to be.
Now the most acclaimed actress of London’s stage, Kat was currently starring in the title role of Queen Boudica at Covent Garden Theater. And it was there that he found her, sorting through a motley collection of dusty stage props in the warren of frigid rooms below the stairs. She was in her mid-twenties now, a beautiful woman with rich auburn hair, her father’s vivid blue eyes, and a wide mouth that curled into a welcoming smile when she turned and spotted him picking his way toward her through piles of battered shields and wooden swords jumbled together with papier-mâché horse heads and a stuffed raven.
“I was wondering when I’d be seeing you,” she said.
“Oh? Are you
becoming prescient?”
“I’ve no need to be. No one in the theater can talk of anything other than Jane Ambrose’s death and your interest in it.” She set aside the elaborate headpiece of beads, tarnished wire, and feathers she’d been trying to straighten. “So it’s true? Was she murdered?”
“It was either murder or manslaughter.” He tripped over a crate of masks and collided with a rusty suit of armor. “Did you know her?”
Kat reached out to steady the rocking armor. “I did, but not well. I’ve no idea who could have killed her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He found himself next to a big old wooden chest and promptly sat on it. It was cold enough down here that he could see his breath. “What about her husband, Edward Ambrose? Do you know him?”
“Ambrose? Of course. His plays and operas are brilliant. I’ve been in half a dozen or more of them over the years.”
“What about the man himself? What do you think of him?”
She took her time in answering. It was one of the things she had in common with her natural father, the Earl of Hendon—this tendency to think carefully and weigh her words before speaking. “He’s well liked in the theater—which is unusual, because not many writers are. He has a reputation for being affable and easygoing.”
“You say that as if you disagree with the general consensus.”
“Oh, I won’t deny he comes across as quite pleasant. But I’ve never been entirely convinced it’s genuine.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I don’t know if I could point to any one thing. It’s probably more a feeling I’ve had.” She shivered and clutched the thin shawl she wore tighter around her shoulders. “You think he killed his own wife?”
“He’s certainly on my list. There’s a rumor he has a mistress—possibly an actress or an opera dancer. Do you know if that’s true?”
“I’ve heard whispers. But I don’t know for certain, no.”
“Could you find out?”
“I can try.” Another shiver racked her frame, chattering her teeth together.
He shrugged off his greatcoat and dropped it around her shoulders. “How about if we continue this conversation over a nice hot cup of tea?”
She laughed. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
* * *
They sought refuge in a nearby coffeehouse with a roaring fire and the welcoming aroma of freshly baked scones. She was on her second scone when she said casually without looking up, “There’s something else you wanted to ask me about, isn’t there?”
He smiled, because she had always known him so well. Dropping his voice, he leaned in closer over the table. “I need to talk to a smuggler familiar with Rothschild’s operation in the Channel. I don’t mean one of his confederates, but a competitor—someone who would be willing to tell me what I need to know.”
The request might have struck a casual listener as beyond bizarre. But then, few in London knew that as a fierce Irish patriot, Kat had once passed information to the French, or that she was the widow of a flamboyant ex-privateer who’d dabbled in smuggling himself.
“You think Rothschild could be involved in her death?”
“It’s possible. Can you find someone?”
A flicker of something unidentifiable crossed her features. But all she said was “Give me a few days.”
After that, they talked for a time of Simon’s coming birthday and Hendon’s recent attack of the gout. Then Kat fell silent, her face thoughtful.
“What?”
“I was remembering one of the reasons why I’d come to doubt Edward Ambrose’s reputation as a genial man. About a year or so ago, when we were doing his Fool’s Paradise, his wife was at the theater helping organize the costumes. He got into a disagreement with her over something, and I saw him take hold of her wrist and twist it hard enough that she gave a small gasp.”
“It was deliberate?”
“Oh, yes. And what made it particularly chilling is that he was smiling all the time he did it.”
“Lovely.”
She nodded. “I saw him do something similar just a few days ago.”
“When?”
“Tuesday evening. I was walking past the Opera and noticed them standing at the top of the steps, beneath the portico. It was raining, and I wasn’t near enough to hear what they were saying, but it was obvious the conversation was tense. He grabbed her by both arms and shook her—quite hard. And then she pulled from his grasp and ran away. It was beginning to get dark, but I could see her face well enough as she passed to know that she was crying.”
“Bloody hell,” said Sebastian.
Kat met his gaze, her features solemn. “If he did kill her, I hope you can prove it.”
Sebastian took a swallow of his tea, found it cold, and pushed the cup aside. “Believe me, I’m trying.”
* * *
Sebastian turned his steps once more toward Soho Square. The snow was falling now in windblown swirls, a billowing curtain of white lit by a strange light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
It was only midday, but he found himself walking through nearly deserted streets, the ice stinging his cheeks, his breath a frozen mist that hovered around him. Where did they all go? he found himself wondering—the tradesmen and cart drivers, costermongers and paupers whose voices normally echoed through the narrow, canyon-like streets of the city? For how long could they continue to seek refuge from a winter too brutal to be borne before they began to starve, go mad, die?
He walked on, his shoulders hunched against the driven snow as he tried to put together the puzzle of Jane Ambrose’s death with three-quarters of its pieces still missing. In the last forty-eight hours his grasp of the woman she once was had begun to strengthen, the reality of her life and the way she’d lived it emerging like a shadowy form still half hidden by a storm. He saw a talented musician denied the brilliant career that could have been hers had she only been born male, and a devout, loving mother, faithfully honoring her religion by enduring an unhappy marriage only to then be devastated by the loss of both her children.
How could such a woman come to terms with that blow? he wondered. Impossible to do, surely, without questioning every assumption, every platitude by which she had always sought to live. Jane’s brother swore she’d taken her marriage vows too seriously to ever think of leaving her husband or taking a lover. But had that remained true? Would Christian Somerset know if it did not?
Jane’s husband had made a practice of hitting her. Hurting her. What would a man such as Edward Ambrose do if he discovered his wife’s infidelity—or suspected it? Hit her in the face? Rape her?
Kill her?
Chapter 19
The body of Jane Ambrose lay in a silk-lined coffin set up on two straight-backed wooden chairs before the dining room windows overlooking Soho Square. Her face was like wax, her body shrinking in on itself so that she looked diminished, so much less than the vibrant woman she’d been in life. The laying-out woman had dressed her in a high-necked gown of simple black muslin with a black lace-trimmed bonnet that effectively hid both the shattered side of her skull and the exploratory incisions from Alexi Sauvage’s abbreviated postmortem examination. The strange, inexplicable burns on her hand were covered by fine black gloves. Any other secrets her body might have had to tell were hidden and would never be known.
Edward Ambrose stood beside his dead wife’s coffin, his gaze on her still, pale face. His shoulders were slumped, his cravat askew, and he looked up at Sebastian’s entrance to show an unshaven face with eyes swollen as if from lack of sleep. He gave all the appearance of a man devastated by the death of a wife he loved. But then, Sebastian had seen men weep inconsolably at the gravesides of women they’d killed.
“My apologies for the intrusion,” said Sebastian, pausing just inside the dining room door, his hat in his hands.
<
br /> Ambrose nodded, his lips pressed together tightly. “I understand it’s necessary.”
“Is there a place we can talk?” asked Sebastian.
He saw a flicker of something in Ambrose’s bloodshot eyes that was there and then gone. “Yes. Of course.”
The playwright led the way to a crowded library dominated by two pianofortes. Sheet music lay scattered everywhere, along with stacks of books, several violins, and a flute. “Have you discovered something?” he asked, turning to face Sebastian. He did not invite him to sit.
“Actually, yes. I’m hearing reports that you have a mistress. Is that true?”
Ambrose’s head jerked back. “Good God, no!”
Sebastian studied the other man’s suddenly high color and tightened jaw. “Let me give you some advice: When it comes to murder, it’s never a good idea to lie. It makes you look guilty.”
Ambrose straightened his shoulders, his nostrils flaring wide as if he were working to keep his temper in check and his voice even. “I do not keep a mistress.”
“If you do, I will find out about it eventually. You do realize that, don’t you?”
“I do not keep a mistress and I did not kill my wife. That is what you’re insinuating, isn’t it?”
Sebastian let his gaze drift around the room, taking in again the multiple musical instruments, the basket of mending beside the hearth. It looked very much like a space Jane had shared with her husband rather than the private retreat he had insinuated the last time Sebastian had spoken with him. “You had a quarrel with Jane late Tuesday on the steps of the Opera—a quarrel that ended with you shaking her and her in tears. And don’t even think about trying to deny it because you were seen by someone I know and trust.”
Ambrose walked away to stand looking out the window at the narrow snow-filled garden to the rear of the house. “Husbands and wives quarrel. Why should I deny it?”