by C. S. Harris
“Discover anything?” Sebastian asked, thankfully setting aside the ancient grimoire.
“I did, actually,” said Calhoun. “It seems that in the immediate aftermath of the murder, Lambeth Street showed little interest in interviewing the residents of the area.”
“When Yates was in custody.”
“Yes. But constables began canvassing the neighborhood on Wednesday, asking all sorts of questions.”
“Interesting, given that Leigh-Jones was at the time still confidently insisting on Yates’s guilt.”
“Indeed, my lord. Yet it was Mr. Leigh-Jones himself who spoke to the corner greengrocer yesterday morning.”
“Not today?”
“No, my lord. Definitely yesterday.”
“So before Foy’s death. I wonder what—”
“Gov’nor!”
Sebastian broke off as Tom’s voice echoed through the house. They could hear the boy’s footsteps pounding across the entry’s marble floor. “Gov’nor!” The tiger burst into the room, eyes wide, chest heaving, mouth agape as he sucked in air.
“Well, what is it?” asked Sebastian.
“It’s Russell Yates! ’E’s dead.”
The ex-pirate lay beneath a sheet on a bed in his Cavendish Square house, his dark, too-long hair a stark contrast to the white linen pillow cover, his hands folded at his chest, his eyes closed, his features so serene that he might have been sleeping. But Sebastian knew death when he saw it.
Kat knelt beside the bed, her head bowed in prayer, the beads of a rosary slipping through her fingers. Sebastian paused in the doorway, aware of a flicker of surprise. He’d always known Kat was raised Catholic, but somehow he’d assumed she no longer practiced her faith. In that, he realized, he had erred.
She looked up then, made the sign of the cross, and rose to her feet.
He went to enfold her in his arms, and she came to him without hesitation and trembling with need. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and as she rested her head on his shoulder, a faint sob racked her body. For one long, suspended moment, he simply held her. Then she drew back, putting space between them.
He said, “Tell me what happened.”
She swiped a palm across one wet cheek. “We were on our way to the theater. Yates had insisted on riding with me. He never does that, but he was worried because of the attack in the market. We were just making the curve near St. Giles when an old traveling coach came charging out of an alley and forced my own carriage into the churchyard wall. There were two men dressed in livery, as well as the driver. But I could tell by their voices that none of them were what they seemed. The driver struck my coachman with a long staff, knocking him from the seat. Gibson says he’s concussed, but he should be all right.”
Sebastian knew a deep sense of disquiet. While some of the heaths surrounding the city could still be dangerous, it was unheard of for a carriage to be held up on the streets of London itself.
She drew a shaky breath. “One of the men dragged me out of the carriage. He was going to kill me. Only, Yates shot him. And so . . .” Her voice cracked. She swallowed, but it was still a moment before she could continue. “And so one of the other men killed him. And then . . . It was the strangest thing. Once Yates was dead, they let me go and drove away.”
“You think they were the same men who attacked you in Covent Garden Market?”
She shook her head. “No. These men might have been dressed as servants, but their voices were educated.” Her jaw hardened, her nostrils flaring with a quickly indrawn breath. “I think they were Jarvis’s men.”
“You recognized them?”
“No. But he came to see me. Here. Tonight.”
“Jarvis came here?”
She nodded. “Less than two hours after Yates was killed. He wanted to make certain that I had a perfect understanding of the situation that now exists between us.”
“Namely?”
“I keep his secret, I keep my life. I choose to destroy him . . . I destroy myself.”
Sebastian searched her strained face, noting the new lines of anger and determination that bracketed her mouth. He had never discovered the nature of the documents Yates held, but there was no doubt in his mind that they were powerful indeed.
He said, “Did Jarvis tell you he was behind tonight’s attack?”
“No. But what other explanation is there? Those men made it obvious their purpose was to kill me. Not Yates. Me. But once they’d shot Yates, they let me live. ‘You know our orders,’ I heard one of them say. I think Jarvis gave strict instructions that they were to kill either me or Yates—but not both of us.”
“If the French are still convinced that Yates killed Eisler and stole the blue diamond, they would be very careful not to kill the only two people who might know the current location of the stone.”
“True. But then, why not kidnap me, the way the men at Covent Garden sought to do? Why not take me, force me to hand over the diamond, and then kill me?”
He studied her pale, beautiful face. “I don’t know. Have you managed to learn anything about the agent tasked by Napoléon to recover the French Blue?”
She shook her head. “My friend claims not to have been told. From what he said, I suspect the individual involved is English, although a second person was recently dispatched from Paris to assist him.”
“Him?”
“Or her. My contact did not specify which.”
She fell silent, her gaze drifting back to Yates’s pallid face.
Sebastian reached out to take her hand in his. “I’m so sorry, Kat,” he said. “I know how much Yates had come to mean to you.”
She drew in a deep breath that shuddered her chest. “In the past, I never allowed myself to be frightened. But . . . I’m frightened now.”
He tightened his grip on her hand. “I will always stand your friend, Kat. Always. No matter what happens.”
Her gaze met his. “Will you, Sebastian? And if Jarvis was behind this?”
“I told Jarvis a year ago that if he harms a hair on your head, I’ll kill him. That hasn’t changed.”
“And what will it do to your marriage, do you think, if you kill your wife’s father?”
He said nothing, but there was no need. For they both knew the answer to her question.
Chapter 53
C
harles, Lord Jarvis, was with the Regent in a gaming hell near Portland Place, his bored gaze fixed on a spinning roulette wheel, when Sebastian walked up to him and leaned in close to say, “I understand you made a visit to Cavendish Square this evening.”
Jarvis shifted his gaze to the Prince. “You refer, I take it, to my condolence call on Yates’s devastated young widow?”
“A condolence call? Is that how you would describe it?”
“You would describe it differently?”
Sebastian studied the big man’s full, arrogant face. “A year ago, I warned you that if you made a move to harm Kat Boleyn, I would kill you. Understand this: My marriage to your daughter changes nothing. If I discover that you were behind tonight’s attack, you’re a dead man.”
Jarvis turned to look directly at him, the gray eyes that were so much like his daughter’s narrowed and hard. “Likewise, I presume you understand that your marriage to Hero in no way protects you. You interfere in any way with what I deem necessary for the preservation and prosperity of the realm, and I will eliminate you. Without hesitation or regret.”
The two men’s gazes met, clashed.
Sebastian gave a slow, measured bow and walked away.
Hero returned to Brook Street to find Devlin sprawled in a worn leather armchair beside the library fire, his gaze on the glowing embers, the black cat stretched out on the hearthrug beside him.
He looked up when she paused in the doorway.
A nearby brace of candles cast a harsh pattern of light and shadow across his lean features. “Have you seen your father?” he asked.
“No; why? Have you two been at swords and daggers again?”
“Something like that.”
She went to rest one hand on his shoulder in an awkward gesture of comfort. “I heard about Yates. I’m sorry; I know you liked him.”
He covered her hand with his own. “He was an interesting man. I’d like to have known him better. And now . . . he’s dead.”
“Kat Boleyn was unharmed in the attack?”
“Yes.”
“Thank goodness for that, at least.” She hesitated. “Surely you don’t think Jarvis had something to do with what happened tonight?”
“Honestly?” His head fell back, his gaze meeting hers. “I don’t know.”
She could feel the anger and determination that twanged through him. And she knew the heartache and deep disquiet of a woman who loved two men—a father and a husband—who hated each other.
She said, her voice quiet but steady, “He’s my father, Devlin. I cherish no illusions as to what manner of man he is. But I still love him dearly.”
“I know.”
“And it doesn’t make any difference, does it?”
“It does. But . . .”
“But not enough.” She moved to scoop up the black cat and cradle him against her for a long, silent moment. Then she looked up. “I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”
A soft whisper of ash falling on the grate filled the sudden hush in the room.
He said, “Do you want me?”
“Yes.”
Their lovemaking that night had an edge to it, a raw desperation that hadn’t been there before.
Neither spoke again of that day’s events, or of the shadow it had cast between them. But the awareness of it was there, as was the knowledge that the woman to whom Sebastian had lost his heart so long ago was now free.
Saturday, 26 September
Sebastian’s dreams took him many places. To a wild, windswept Cornish hillside overlooking a rocky cove; to hot, fever-racked nights beneath a West Indian sky aglitter with a universe of unfamiliar stars; to a dry, sun-blasted land of smoke-blackened walls and vacant-eyed women and the desiccated, bleached bones of long-dead men.
But that night, Sebastian dreamed of demure ladies in gowns of heavy velvet and brocade, their wimples white in the spring sunshine. He wandered crushed-gravel paths shaded by leafy chestnut trees; breathed in the scents of lavender and apothecary roses, vervain and lemon balm. Climbing the steps to a broad, freshly swept terrace, he entered a graceful sandstone house, its leaded windows unshrouded by ivy or cobwebs or the grime of ages.
The flagstones beneath his feet were well scrubbed and unbroken, the newly whitewashed walls hung with rich tapestries and crossed swords. As he moved down the passage, he heard the distant lilting notes of a pipe, a child’s laughter, a man’s chanting voice suddenly hushed. And he awoke with a start, legs swinging over the edge of the bed as he sat up, the icy air of the pale morning biting his naked flesh.
“What’s wrong?” asked Hero sleepily, rolling over to lay a hand on his arm.
“There’s something about Eisler’s house that has been bothering me for days now.”
She sat up, her dark hair tumbling about her bare shoulders as she hugged the quilt to her against the cold. “What about the house?”
He pushed to his feet. “Something in the proportions of the rooms is off. I can’t quite put my finger on it. But I want to take another look at it.” He glanced back at her. “Care to come?”
“Do you think Perlman will agree to let us search the house again?”
Sebastian smiled. “I don’t intend to ask him.”
The door to the crumbling old Tudor house in Fountain Lane was opened by a sour-faced woman in black bombazine and a yellowing cap. She was as stout as her husband was lean and a good fifteen to twenty years younger, with thick, bushy gray brows, a bulbous nose, and small dark eyes half-hidden by fat, puffy lids.
“Good morning,” Sebastian said cheerfully. “I’m—”
“I know who you are.” She sniffed. “Campbell’s off to market this morning—thanks be to God. Ever since you come here the other day, he’s done nothing but crow about how he ‘helped’ the great Lord Devlin with one of his ‘investigations.’ Humph.”
Sebastian and Hero exchanged glances.
Hero said, “We’re here to look at the house again,” and brushed past the housekeeper without giving her a chance to object. Just inside the entrance, Hero drew up in undisguised astonishment. “Good heavens.”
“Sure, then, the place ain’t as clean and tidy as it could be,” bleated Mrs. Campbell, her manner changing instantly from challenging to wheedling. “But then, Mr. Eisler was ever so particular about his things, preferring to see them disappear beneath dust and cobwebs rather than have me lay a hand on them.”
“And did he take the same attitude toward the floor?” asked Hero, her gaze focused on the ancient flagstones half-buried beneath decades’ accumulation of dried leaves, dirt, and debris.
“It’s only me now, you know. And I’m not as young as—”
Sebastian said, “Thank you, Mrs. Campbell. That will be all for now.”
The housekeeper sniffed and disappeared toward the kitchen, muttering beneath her breath.
Hero turned in a slow circle, her eyes widening as she took in the jumble of exquisite, dust-shrouded furniture, the row after row of grand old masters, their heavy gilded frames mildewed and flyspecked.
“The entire house looks like this,” said Sebastian.
“And you think the proportions of the rooms are off? How can you even see the proportions through this mess?”
Sebastian led the way through the stone-cased archway to the corridor. “First, look at the size of the chamber Eisler used as his office.”
She peered through the door at the chaos wrought by Samuel Perlman’s determined search for his uncle’s account books.
Sebastian said, “Now come back through here”—he strode to the long parlor and pushed aside the curtain that covered the second door—“and look at where this room ends.”
Frowning, she went back and forth between the two rooms several times, then came to stare thoughtfully at the parlor’s back wall. “I see what you mean. It’s as if there should be another small room between the two chambers. Part of the space is obviously occupied by the chimney for this massive old fireplace. But it’s offcenter, and there isn’t a hearth on the other side, as you would expect.” She glanced over at him. “What are you suggesting?”
Sebastian moved to the fancifully carved mantelpiece and began methodically pushing, pulling, and twisting the various intricately depicted beasts and fruit-laden garlands. “My brother Richard noticed something similar in our house in Cornwall. We eventually realized there was an old priest’s hole everyone had long ago forgotten.”
Hero came to help, focusing her attention on the muntins, styles, and rails of the paneled wall to the left of the hearth. But after a moment, she paused and sniffed.
“What is it?” he asked, watching her.
“Don’t you smell it?”
He shook his head. “Mold? Dry rot? Dead men’s bones? What?”
“And here I thought all your senses were unnaturally acute.”
“Not my sense of smell. It’s actually rather poor.”
She turned to look at him. “Really? I can think of any number of situations in which that would be a definite advantage.”
“This obviously isn’t one of them. What do you smell?”
“Urine. It’s very strong—and the smell is coming from behind this section here.” She tapped on it experimentally. “Does that sound hollow to you?”
“Your knife?” she said, watching him. “You’re going to use your knife? For what?”
He eased the tip of his blade into the joint nearest the hearth. “If I can find the catch—” He paused as he felt the edge of the dagger hit metal. He worked slowly and carefully, manipulating the catch in first one direction, then the other. Shifting the blade to beneath the latch, he pressed upward and heard a faint snick.
The panel slid to one side.
“I suspect that’s cheating, but it’s still impressive,” said Hero.
“Thank you.”
Thrusting his dagger back into its sheath, he pushed the panel open wider.
The space beyond was perhaps six by eight feet, dusty and empty except for two ironbound wooden trunks, a basket of small glass containers stoppered with cork, and a faint damp stain still visible on the paving stones just inside the opening. In the stale air of the ancient enclosed space, the odor of urine was pungent.
Hero wrinkled her nose. “Do you think someone was shut up in here so long they couldn’t hold it?”
A crumpled cloth lying to one side of the entrance caught Sebastian’s attention. Reaching down, he found himself holding a cheap configuration of yellowed muslin reinforced by whalebone, its tapes badly frayed with wear.
“Good heavens,” said Hero. “It’s a woman’s stays.”
Sebastian passed it to her.
“They’re so tiny.” She looked up to meet his gaze. “You think these stays belonged to the owner of the blue satin slippers?”
Sebastian swung around to look back at the long, old-fashioned parlor. Anyone shut up in the priest’s hole would have had an excellent view of whatever transpired in the room . . . if there was a peephole.