by C. S. Harris
Sebastian settled his hat on his head. “Where were you last Thursday evening, by the way?”
Rather than answer, Brownbeck went to sit heavily in his chair and reached for his quill. “Good day, my lord. And don’t come back.”
Chapter 40
Y ou’re stuck, you bleedin’ fool!”
Sebastian could hear Grace Calhoun’s husky shout even before he turned into Chick Lane.
A wagon carrying a load of long wooden beams had tried to cut the corner too sharp and was now wedged between a chandler’s and the butcher shop opposite. Grace Calhoun stood tall and imposing in front of a nearby greengrocer’s, her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed as she watched the wagoner uselessly whip his horses. “You can beat them poor beasts to death, but all that’ll get you is a dead team. It won’t do nothin’ to move your bloody wagon. You’re gonna need to back up and take that corner wide, the way you should’ve done in the first place.”
Sebastian reined in, and for an instant Grace’s gaze flicked to him. But she gave no other indication she either saw or recognized him. She stayed where she was until the cursing, grumbling driver began to back his team. Then she turned to Sebastian and said, “What are you doin’ here again?”
Sebastian handed his reins to Tom and hopped down. “We need to talk about Nicholas Hayes.”
She huffed a low laugh and started walking toward the Red Lion. The afternoon had turned sultry, with a solid covering of high white clouds that somehow brought no relief from the heat.
“Ain’t got nothin’ more to say about him.”
Sebastian fell into step beside her. “Did you know he had a child by a rich man’s daughter—an infant that died?”
“And if I did?”
“Is that why he came back to London? To punish those responsible for his child’s death?”
She turned in through the ancient narrow arch that led to the Red Lion’s dilapidated old stable yard. “I told you, I don’t know why he came back.”
“Were you his lover eighteen years ago?”
That stopped her. She drew up in the shadow of the arch, her lips twisting into a hard smile that nevertheless managed to carry more than a hint of sadness. “Lover? Nah.”
“But you were more to him than just the owner of the inn where he found refuge.”
When she remained silent, he said, his voice low and earnest, “I need you to help me understand him.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” What could he say? Because bringing this man’s murderer to justice was more important to Sebastian than he could begin to explain, even to himself? Because he felt driven to prove that Nicholas Hayes had been wrongly convicted so long ago? Because while nothing could be done at this point to alleviate the tragedy of the dead man’s life, it was somehow vitally important that the tragedy be both recognized and remembered by someone?
But Sebastian could say none of those things. And so he said, “Because I don’t want whoever killed him to get away with it. To go on living his life while Nicholas is just . . . dead.”
She stared directly into his face, and he wondered what she saw there—if she understood perhaps better than he did himself why he was doing this. Then she drew a deep breath that parted her lips, and her eyes became unfocused in a way that made him think she looked within. Just when he thought she would tell him to leave her, she said, “All right.”
They sat on an aged stone bench in the shade cast by the inn’s crumbling high walls and talked of long ago. The courtyard smelled of damp stone and the lichen staining the worn pavers near the largely unused stables; deep in the shadows, the exposed ancient bricks had taken on a pink glow.
She told him of a troubled, lonely young man bereft of the woman he loved and a child he would never see. Of a son cast off by an unforgiving father and adrift. At twenty, Nicholas Hayes had been wellborn, handsome, refined—everything a brilliant, beautiful, but lowborn and uneducated woman raised in the hardscrabble back alleys of London had never dreamt could be hers. But for a time they had come together, and in her mature, understanding arms, he had found a measure of solace and a temporary respite from the soul-crushing pain into which his once-privileged life had descended. Then came a brother’s suicide and a young countess’s death, and the young man’s life turned into a living hell.
Sebastian said, “How did he learn of the death of the child?”
She glanced up at a couple of house martins darting around the eaves of the inn, then fixed her gaze on Sebastian. “There was this East India Company man—I can’t remember his name.”
“Forbes?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Forbes. He taunted Nicholas with it.”
Sebastian sucked in a breath that hissed between his teeth. “With the child’s death?”
She nodded. “He went to see Nicholas in Newgate not long before he was due to be loaded on the transport ship. That man, he hated Nick real bad. Seems he’d offered for that rich man’s daughter once, and the rich man, he was more’n happy to bless the marriage. Only because of Nick, she’d refused him the first time.”
“And then turned around and married him?”
“Does that surprise you? Her a gentlewoman with a babe on the way?” Grace Calhoun gave Sebastian a look redolent with all of a woman’s contempt for male ignorance. “That East India Company man, he told Nicholas the rich man’s daughter was his now and the baby was dead. And then he laughed.”
Sebastian found that his hands had curled into fists, and he had to force himself to open and press them flat on his thighs. He said, “Did you know Nicholas was dying of consumption?”
She was silent for a moment, her face pinched. “Not for sure. But he was coughing something fierce, and I know the signs. I asked about it, and he said he reckoned he wasn’t gonna make old bones.”
“You haven’t seen the boy Ji since Nicholas was murdered?”
“No. Reckon something musta spooked the lad, made him think he ain’t safe here.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Meybe he seen somebody hanging around he didn’t trust.”
“If he were spooked, where would he go, do you think?”
“How would I know?”
Sebastian suspected she knew a great deal that she still wasn’t telling him, but all he said was “Do you think it’s possible Ji could be Nicholas’s son?”
“I never figured him for anything else.”
“But Nicholas never said anything?”
“No.”
He watched her head jerk toward a distant thump somewhere in the depths of the inn, and he found himself wondering not for the first time about the life’s journey that had brought her to the position she occupied in London’s dangerous underworld. He said, “Do you have any idea what Nicholas did during the weeks he was in London? Where he went? With whom he met?”
“No. There was one time—a few days before he was killed—when I could tell he was upset about somethin’ that’d happened. But he didn’t want to talk about it. I think maybe he might’ve gone to see his sister, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
Sebastian stared at her. “Nicholas Hayes has a sister?” Bloody hell, he thought; no one had mentioned the existence of a sister.
She gave an incredulous laugh. “You didn’t know? Anne is her name—Lady Anne.”
“Were they close?”
“No. Nicholas said she took after his da too much for them to ever get along. But she’s all he had left, so I reckon he could’ve seen his way to maybe contacting her.”
“Would she betray him, do you think?”
Grace pushed to her feet, her attention all for shaking out and brushing off the skirt of her gown. “To Bow Street, you mean?”
“Or to his enemies.” Like maybe her cousin, Ethan.
She looked over at him. “You think the likes of me kno
ws anything about the likes of some earl’s daughter? Why don’t you ask her? She’s Lady Bradbury now.” Her gaze flicked away from him to a cat stalking a mouse in the shadows beyond the stable door, then came back. “So she ain’t gonna be buryin’ him?”
“No. I am. This evening, at St. Pancras. If you know where Ji is, you might let him know.”
She shook her head. “I keep tellin’ you, I don’t know where the boy is.” And such was the flare of worry and sorrow he glimpsed in her eyes that, for the first time, he found himself believing her.
Chapter 41
L ady Bradbury—born Lady Anne Hayes—was the wife of a dour, stout Yorkshire baron some fifteen years her senior. His lordship’s town house on Stratton Street was not large, but it was extremely well-appointed and richly furnished, thanks to her ladyship having outlived all three of her brothers and thus unexpectedly inheriting a handsome sum from her late father, the Second Earl. Sebastian knew these things because before approaching her, he stopped by Park Lane to talk to his aunt Henrietta.
“You didn’t ask about any sisters,” said the Dowager Duchess in response to Sebastian’s somewhat testy question. “I was under the impression you were interested in Seaforth’s sons because of the succession.” Which he had to admit was true.
“Are there other sisters?” asked Sebastian.
“She’s the only one who lived to come of age. If I remember correctly, she was six or seven years Nicholas’s senior, and was married and off in Yorkshire by the time he ran into trouble. Most of her children are grown, although I believe there may still be a girl in the schoolroom and a boy at Eton.”
“What’s she like?”
The Duchess pressed her lips together in an expression that told him more about her opinion of Lady Anne than words ever could. “To put it bluntly, she’s a sanctimonious, moralizing prude. I’ve no doubt that if she’d been born into a bourgeois household she’d be one of the Chapham Sect. I swear, they’re proliferating these days. If they have their way, we’ll all have to give up dancing and playing cards, and start fainting at the mere mention of a piano’s ‘legs.’”
“She doesn’t sound like the kind of person Nicholas would approach for help.”
“Not if he knew his sister—and one assumes he did.”
“Perhaps she was different when she was younger.”
“Oh, no, she’s always been like that. Most of the Hayes family are.” She gave a disdainful huff. “A bunch of insufferable killjoys that range from the merely unimaginative to the profoundly hypocritical.”
“What’s Lord Bradbury like?”
“Much the same. But then, he’s from Yorkshire, and the family never used to be very flush. Needless to say, the match was far from brilliant for an earl’s daughter, even if Seaforth’s title was of only recent origin and Irish to boot. And I see that smile on your face, Sebastian, and I know what you’re thinking, but these things do matter. My point is, she didn’t make a particularly good marriage because at the time all three of her brothers were alive and her dowry was rather small. But in the end she came into an unexpectedly large inheritance when her father died.”
“Which means she was either lucky or unlucky, depending on how one looks at it.”
“Oh, believe me, she imagines herself to be most unlucky. Those kind always do. I’ll be surprised if she agrees to see you. Most people know by now that you’re looking into Nicholas’s murder, and Lady Anne likes to pretend he never existed.” She glanced at the ormolu clock on the drawing room mantel. “And now you must go away and leave me in peace so that I can dress for Lady Cartwright’s dinner in honor of the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg. The vast majority of the visiting Allied Sovereigns are dead bores, but I admit to finding the Tsar’s sister entertaining—in the same way that one is amused by a fireworks display.”
“I thought they were all up at Oxford for the next couple of days.”
“Most of them are. But the Grand Duchess has elected to remain in London, hence tonight’s dinner.” The clock began to strike the hour, and she stood up and shooed her hands at him. “Now go away.”
* * *
Sebastian’s knock at Lady Bradbury’s door was answered by a gaunt-faced butler who looked dubious when Sebastian presented his card, but bowed and went away to see if her ladyship was receiving visitors. He came back almost immediately with her ladyship’s apologies. Lady Bradbury would shortly be preparing for an evening at Drury Lane and was thus unable to see him.
“Drury Lane? How fortuitous. Please tell her ladyship that since she can’t see me now, I’ll make it a point to find her at the theater later this evening. I have some important questions about her brother I’m looking forward to asking her, and will try not to inaccommodate her too much.” The butler’s eyes widened in alarm as Sebastian gave one of his nastier smiles. “You will give her ladyship my message, won’t you?”
He turned away and walked slowly back to his curricle. He’d hopped up and was gathering his reins when her ladyship’s front door flew open and a liveried footman came pelting down the steps.
“Lord Devlin! Lord Devlin, please do wait.” The young footman skidded to a halt beside the curricle. “Her ladyship has reconsidered your request and decided that it will be convenient to see you now.”
* * *
She received him in an elegant drawing room hung with pearl-colored silk delicately painted with a Chinese pastoral scene. A life-sized, full-length portrait of her ladyship, painted à la Diana by Lawrence when she was perhaps ten years younger, dominated a room finely furnished with more satinwood pieces than it could comfortably hold.
Like her brother, Lady Anne was of above-average height with dark hair threaded with gray. She also had her brother’s long nose and fierce straight brows, although the effect was not as attractive on her. Sebastian wondered if that was owing to a difference in proportions or if the problem was simply that over the years Lady Anne’s personality had stamped itself on her face. When he was a child, Sebastian’s mother used to laughingly tell him whenever he pulled a face that his features would freeze that way. And while he knew she said it to tease him, he’d also come to realize there was an element of truth to that age-old warning. It didn’t happen instantly, of course, the way children thought. But there was no doubt that over time most people’s personalities showed on their faces for all to see. And Lady Anne’s face told anyone who cared to look that she was a haughty, selfish, self-absorbed, and petty woman.
She stood beside the room’s empty hearth, one hand resting on the expensive white marble mantel, her head tilted back at a belligerent angle and her face pink with indignation. But she refused to acknowledge that he had successfully maneuvered her into agreeing to see him. Instead, she bowed her head in a condescending way and said, “I’m told you have some questions you wish to ask.”
She did not invite him to sit.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” said Sebastian, wandering the room in a way she obviously did not like but was unable to stop since she refused to invite him to sit. “I’m wondering, did you know your brother Nicholas had returned to England?”
“Of course not.”
Her haughty disdain reminded Sebastian of Sir Lindsey Forbes’s response to the same question. Both tone and words were identical. He said, “Do you have any idea why he came back?”
“I do not. My brother and I were never close, and I have spent the last twenty years trying to forget he ever existed.”
“Then I suppose you don’t have any idea who might have killed him either?”
“Seriously, Lord Devlin? What difference does it make who killed him? The man was an escaped convict, long thought dead. The world is better off without him.”
Sebastian searched this cold, smug woman’s face, trying to understand how two siblings could come from the same set of parents and yet be so different. “What about the current Lord Seaforth? Is
your cousin, Ethan, capable of such a thing, do you think?”
Her long nose quivered. “Good heavens, no. This is beyond outrageous.” Reaching out, she gave the bellpull a sharp tug. “I must ask you to leave now.”
“Can you think of anyone Nicholas might have contacted since returning to London?”
“I told you,” she said icily, “my brother and I were never close.” She glanced over at the young footman who had appeared at the entrance to the drawing room. “Lord Devlin is leaving.” To Sebastian, she added, “And if you come back, I will not be at home.”
He inclined his head in the polite bow that civility required and yet still managed to make her stiffen. “I think you’ve told me everything I need to know.”
Chapter 42
T hey buried Nicholas Hayes that evening in a quiet corner of St. Pancras’s churchyard. Shortly before dusk, the sky took on a peculiar color, like a washed-out cloth tinged with hints of old brass, and a hot wind gusted up that felt gritty and dirty against their faces yet carried no hint of coming rain.
It wasn’t the “done thing” for ladies to attend funerals, but Hero was there, as were Jules Calhoun, Mahmoud Abbasi and his young son, Hamish McHenry—looking half-drunk and half-sick—and Mott Tintwhistle. Sebastian was wondering how the old cracksman-turned–dolly-shop owner had known. Then Grace Calhoun arrived, dressed in unexpectedly severe black and accompanied by her beefy barman. She stood silent and stony-faced through the short graveside service. And then she left.
Afterward, Sebastian and Hero stood alone beside the raw grave, with the gusting wind flattening the rank grass of the churchyard around them. “I wonder how he would feel about lying here,” Hero said suddenly.
“He knew he was dying when he came back to England. I suspect he didn’t much care where his body ended up.”
She stared off across the jumble of moss-covered tombs and headstones, toward the wind-thrashed treetops of Pennington’s Tea Gardens. “I wish Ji could have been here.”