Who Speaks for the Damned

by C. S. Harris

  “Only one thing?”

  He huffed a laugh. “Multiple things.” Shifting Simon’s weight, he reached into his pocket to draw out the folded page from the Morning Post he’d found in Nicholas Hayes’s room at the Red Lion. “When I first saw this, I immediately focused on the Count de Compans’s name. My assumption at the time was that Hayes kept the page so he’d have Compans’s address. But the Count told me he’s still living in the same house where Chantal was killed, which means Nicholas already knew exactly where to find him.”

  Hero reached to take the page. “So why did Nicholas save it?”

  “Look at the June second entry under ‘Fashionable Arrangements for the Week.’”

  “‘Lady Forbes’s rout, St. James’s Square,’” Hero read, then glanced up. “Good heavens.”

  Sebastian nodded. “I skimmed right over it at first because I didn’t know about Hayes’s connection to Lady Forbes.”

  “Do you think he approached her?”

  “Possibly. Although it’s also possible he simply couldn’t resist trying to catch a glimpse of her from afar.”

  A faint breeze had come up, and Hero was silent for a moment, watching the limbs of the trees shift against the hard blue sky. “What a tragedy it all was.”

  Sebastian nodded. “What I find particularly interesting is that when I arrived at Carlton House on the night of Nicholas’s murder, I found Seaforth talking to Sir Lindsey Forbes. It meant nothing to me at the time. But then this morning, when Seaforth walked into the Swan for the inquest, the first person he paused to speak to was, once again, Forbes. That strikes me as an unlikely coincidence.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? What could possibly be the connection between the two men?”

  “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.” Simon began to squirm to get down, his tears forgotten. Sebastian set the boy back on his feet, then looked up at Hero. “Care to go to tonight’s ball for the Allied Sovereigns?”

  “I can’t believe they’re having a ball tonight on top of everything else.”

  “Yet they are. And I suspect both LaRivière and Forbes will be there.”

  * * *

  That evening’s event in honor of the visiting Allied Sovereigns was being hosted by the Earl of Cholmondeley. After sailing to Deptford and back that day, the visiting dignitaries had attended a formal dinner given by the Marquis of Stafford.

  They were scheduled to leave for Oxford at six the next morning.

  “Who do you think will collapse first?” asked Hero as they worked their way around the outer edges of Cholmondeley’s hopelessly overstuffed ballroom. The Allied Sovereigns had been guests of honor at a week’s worth of levees, dinners, balls, drawing rooms, banquets, and more, and yet fashionable London was still as anxious as ever for glimpses of the celebrated war heroes and assorted monarchs. “Prinny? King William? Or old Blücher?”

  “Definitely not Blücher,” said Sebastian as they watched the bewhiskered septuagenarian field marshal stomp down the line of a country dance with a pretty girl on his arm. “He’s an old warhorse.”

  “I suspect you’re right.” She watched Blücher laugh and give his young partner’s hand a squeeze. “Why on earth are they going to Oxford?”

  “Honorary degrees.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” He let his gaze drift over the perspiring, bejeweled crowd. “I don’t see Forbes.”

  “There,” said Hero, deliberately looking away. “By the orchestra, in conversation with Lady Jersey.” She paused. “Do you even know him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “How precisely does one go about accosting a man in the middle of a ball in order to discuss the murder of someone who once ran off with his wife?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sebastian. “But I’ll think of something.”

  * * *

  Sir Lindsey Forbes was turning away from Lady Jersey when Sebastian walked up to him and said cheerfully, “Ah, there you are.”

  Forbes stared at him. “Are you addressing me?”

  “I am.” Sebastian squinted up at the vast chandelier hanging over their heads. “Between the hundreds of hot candles and at least an equal number of hot guests, it’s rather close in here, wouldn’t you say? Shall we continue this conversation outside?”

  “We’re not having a conversation,” said Forbes, and kept walking.

  “Or,” said Sebastian, raising his voice ever so slightly, “if you prefer, I could follow you across the ballroom, shouting my questions as we go. No doubt the Earl’s guests would enjoy some of the revelations that might entail.”

  Forbes pivoted slowly to face him. The light from the endless blazing candles lent a soft shimmer to his carefully combed silver hair and surprisingly smooth, unlined face. But his eyes were narrowed and hard, his tight lips curled into something that was not a smile. “You bastard.”

  “The choice is yours.”

  Without another word, Forbes strode to the row of French doors overlooking the terraced gardens and thrust one open. Sebastian followed.

  The night was hot and sultry, but after the stifling ballroom, the fresh air felt like a blessed relief. The wind that had come up that afternoon was even stronger now, thrashing the branches of the elms in the Earl of Cholmondeley’s gardens and banging a loose tile somewhere in the distance. His lordship had decked his garden with colorful little Chinese lanterns, but at least half of them had been blown out, while those that remained lit were dancing about chaotically, their feeble light seeming to accentuate rather than alleviate the dark, unwelcoming shadows of the wind-tossed trees.

  “What the devil is this about?” demanded Forbes, walking to the end of the deserted terrace before turning to face him.

  Sebastian went to stand some feet away from him, his gaze on the lanterns dancing in the wind. “Did you know Nicholas Hayes had returned to England? Before he was found dead, I mean.”

  “Of course not.” It was said with just the exact touch of scorn and righteous indignation.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Of course I’m certain. I’ll have you know I’m a religious man, and I take our Lord’s injunctions on honesty very seriously. Very seriously indeed.”

  “Oh? So what does your Lord say about carelessly starving to death a million or so wretchedly poor Indian peasants? Or can those injunctions be safely ignored?”

  Forbes’s nostrils flared. “I don’t have to stay for this.”

  He started to turn toward the ballroom doors, but Sebastian stopped him by saying, “Just a few more questions.”

  Forbes swung about. “What?”

  The air between them was palpably vibrating with the dangerous undercurrents of everything left unsaid—about Nicholas Hayes’s elopement with the woman who was now Forbes’s wife; about the hasty marriage that had surely been forced on young Kate Brownbeck by her father. But even Sebastian found himself shying away from addressing those issues directly.

  He said instead, “How well do you know the Earl of Seaforth?”

  “Seaforth? Well enough. Why do you ask?”

  “Did you know his cousin Nicholas? Eighteen years ago, I mean.”

  “Goodness gracious, no. Why would I? By all reports the fellow was an incorrigible rogue. I really don’t see why—”

  “Are you familiar with a man named Titus Poole?”

  Forbes’s expression remained completely under his control, his face bland and pale in the wind-tossed moonlight. But Sebastian knew he was considering denying it. Knew too when Forbes realized such a denial could potentially be a mistake. “The company has used the fellow a time or two to retrieve stolen property. Why do you ask?”

  “Because he was seen following Nicholas Hayes several days before he died, and it’s been suggested someone might have hired him to kill Hayes.”

  “I don’t see w
hy you think that might have anything to do with me.”

  “Really? You don’t?”

  Forbes brought up one hand to stab the air between them with a pointed finger as he carefully enunciated each word. “You. Be. Careful.”

  “Just one more question,” said Sebastian as the man started to leave again.

  “What now?” The tone was one of annoyed exasperation, of a busy, important man humoring an irritating imposition.

  Sebastian drew Nicholas Hayes’s strange bronze disk from his pocket and held it out in the palm of his hand. “Do you have any idea what this is?”

  Forbes gave the piece a quick, dismissive glance. “It looks like it’s from those Turkish baths in Portman Square. Why do you ask? What has it to do with anything?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” said Sebastian, and closed his fist around the token.

  * * *

  Sebastian was working his way toward where he could see the Count de Compans near the ballroom entrance when the Prince Regent’s powerful cousin stepped in front of him.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded Jarvis.

  Sebastian met his father-in-law’s hard stare. “I was invited.”

  “You never come to these things.”

  Sebastian glanced over to where the French Count had paused to greet some acquaintance. “I do on occasion.”

  Jarvis followed Sebastian’s gaze, his gray eyes narrowing. “I want you to leave Compans alone.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, Why? The man is currently acting as the representative of the King of France. These royal visits and all the pomp and celebration surrounding them are not intended simply to flatter the vanity of the Prince Regent, you know. They are serving a very real and critical purpose, and that is to solidify for the future a network of vitally important alliances. Our current alliances may have prevailed against Napoléon, but they are nevertheless fragile and vulnerable. Do you have any idea of the havoc you would wreak by casting an ominous cloud of suspicion over one of the pivotal men involved in reconstructing the old order?”

  “You’re suggesting the fate of the world rests on my not pursuing whoever is responsible for sinking a sickle into Nicholas Hayes’s back?”

  Jarvis’s lower lip curled. “No one cares who killed Nicholas Hayes. If the authorities had managed to get their hands on the scoundrel, he’d have been hanged as fast as they could tie a rope around his neck.”

  “Undoubtedly. So did you never wonder why whoever killed him didn’t use that option as the easiest means of dispatching the man?”

  “No. Nor have I any intention of wasting my time ruminating on such sordid matters. The war may be over, but the peace is only beginning and it’s delicate. If you want to go chasing after some sickle-wielding madman, then do so, by all means. But leave Gilbert-Christophe de LaRivière out of it.”

  “I’ll be certain to give your preferences in the matter all the respect they deserve,” said Sebastian, turning toward the door.

  Jarvis put out a hand, stopping him. “I’m serious.”

  Sebastian studied his father-in-law’s angry, set face. “So am I.”

  Jarvis let his hand fall. “As you wish. You’ve been warned.” He turned and walked away.

  Sebastian glanced again toward the ballroom entrance.

  The Count de Compans was gone.

  Chapter 35

  I ’m beginning to suspect that Nicholas Hayes came back to England to kill all four of them,” said Hero as their carriage rolled through the dimly lit streets of Mayfair toward home. “Seaforth, Compans, Brownbeck, and Forbes. And I can’t say I’d blame him if he had.”

  Sebastian looked over at her and smiled. “To be honest, neither would I.”

  She fell silent, her gaze on the dark shops flashing past. Sebastian watched the light from the swaying carriage lamps limn her cheek with a soft golden glow, and knew what she was thinking. Reaching out, he took her hand.

  She said, “It’s been four days now. Where could that little boy be?”

  “It’s possible he—”

  Sebastian broke off as the seat back between them exploded in flying fragments of cloth and stuffing, and the crack of a rifle shot cut through the night.

  “Get down!” he shouted, pulling Hero to the floorboards. He caught her face between his hands. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. But what—”

  “Stay down!”

  The coachman was cursing, trying to rein in the plunging horses as Sebastian thrust open the carriage door and rolled out to hit the ground running. “Get the carriage out of here! Now!” he shouted as he darted toward the yawning black mouth of the alley from which he estimated the shot had come.

  The night was wild, the hot wind sending bits of paper scuttling down the street and whipping at the tails of Sebastian’s dress coat as he ran. A well-trained rifleman could typically fire three rounds a minute, maybe four. That kind of expertise was rare, but Sebastian was still counting the seconds as coachman John whipped up his horses and the carriage disappeared into the night with a rattle and clatter.

  Sebastian had almost reached the alley when the night exploded again in fire and acrid smoke.

  Eighteen seconds.

  “Bloody hell,” he swore, the knees of his elegant breeches sliding through rotten cabbage leaves as he dove behind a pile of overflowing, battered dust bins. He heard running footsteps that stopped abruptly, and knew that the shooter had relocated to a position farther up the alley.

  Eighteen seconds. Either his assailant had brought two rifles, or Sebastian was dealing with an expert shooter.

  Or he was facing more than one rifleman.

  It was this latter possibility that kept Sebastian hunkered down behind the dust bins. One man could shoot and then reload while his partner took another shot. In which case confidently counting to eighteen could get Sebastian killed.

  He was aware of the sweat rolling down his cheeks, his breath coming in quick pants, his throat so parched that the darkness of the night and the pungent stench of drifting gun smoke sent him hurtling back to another time, another place . . . a place of sun-blasted, dry mesas and sandstone villages that had already been old by the time of the Crusades. A distant rumble of thunder became the boom of cannons, the howl of a tomcat the cry of a frightened Spanish child, the enemy in the alley before him a foe he had battled a thousand nights in his dreams.

  Drawing a steadying breath, he listened carefully, his gaze raking the shadows. The night might have been dark and alive with the wind, but Sebastian’s senses were abnormally acute. One man, he decided—there, at the far end of the alley near some broken crates.

  One man. Maybe two rifles, but Sebastian doubted it.

  Wishing he had his boots and the knife he kept sheathed in one of them, Sebastian shifted his position and gave one of the dust bins a heave. It rolled out into the alley with a satisfying rattle and crash that flung rubbish in a wide arc and set a nearby dog to barking.

  The rifleman obligingly, foolishly, fired again. Pushing up with a smile, Sebastian charged.

  He saw the man rise from his position, the lower half of his face obscured by some kind of cloth, his eyes widening as he realized the hunter had suddenly become the hunted. Then the man turned and ran, his rifle hitting the paving stones with a clatter as he threw it away to lighten his load.

  Sebastian knew an almost overwhelming urge to go after him. But the man had a good hundred-foot lead on him, and the possibility of a partner waiting somewhere out of sight remained.

  Sebastian drew up just before the end of the alley, swallowed the strong, primitive need to give chase, and turned to pick up the abandoned rifle.

  Then he went home to his wife and infant son.

  * * *

  That night Sebastian dreamt of a storm-tossed sky and of the pitiful wail of an infan
t lost somewhere in the howling darkness.

  He ran through a desolate landscape shrouded by a wild, tempest-riven night, searching frantically, finding nothing. Then a tall, ancient wall built of crude sandstone blocks rose up before him, stopping him. He turned to say something to Hero, but she had vanished. She had been there, beside him. He was certain she’d been beside him. Now she was gone

  “Hero?” he cried. But the wind snatched away his voice as if it had never been. Then the wailing of the child receded into the distance, and he heard his wife scream.

  “Hero!”

  He awoke with a jerk, his heart pounding in his chest and his mouth dry. Turning his head, he saw Hero lying awake beside him, her eyes wide and still in the darkness.

  “Bad dream?” she said.

  He reached for her, pulling her to him. She came hotly into his arms, her mouth opening to his as his head came up off the pillow seeking her hungrily. She slid on top of him, her thighs straddling his hips, her naked breasts heavy against his chest. He ran his hands up and down her back, finding solace in the solid warmth of her bare flesh beneath his touch.

  “I lost you,” he said. “You and Simon both. You were there, and then you were gone.”

  She took his face between her hands, her breath warm and soft against him as she gazed solemnly into his eyes. And he felt his love for this woman swell within him so powerful and frightening that it hurt.

  “It was a dream,” she said, and kissed him again.

  Her lips were soft and tender, her hands seeking, her body opening itself to him. They moved as one, slowly at first, then quickening, lost in the heat of their passion and their need. He found himself swirled away, surrendering to the joy of the moment and the ultimate rapture of release. Then she smiled, murmuring, “I love you. I love you, I love you,” and he held her tight against him.