by C. S. Harris
“Street urchins?” Ashworth laughed out loud. “And you suspect me?” The smile vanished as if it had never been. “First of all, I like girls, not boys. Secondly, I don’t kill them.”
“But you do enjoy playing with whips. And you’ve been known to get carried away.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The girl at Number Three was not seriously harmed. I blame the Bligh sisters for what happened; the ninny was not properly prepared.”
“Prepared,” said Sebastian. He had expected Ashworth to deny Grace Bligh’s accusations. Instead, the man had confirmed everything without hesitation or remorse.
Ashworth’s jaw hardened. “Yes; prepared. And now you really must excuse me.”
“Where were you at half past one early Monday morning?” said Sebastian as the man started to turn away.
Ashworth swung to face him again. “Why do you ask?”
“Because that’s when Benji’s killers were interrupted in the process of burying the body at the old Rutherford Shot Factory.”
Ashworth smiled wide, his teeth gleaming even and white in the lamplight. “As it happens, I dined Sunday evening with your own dear sister, Lady Wilcox, and my beautiful bride-to-be. We then attended Mrs. Hanson’s soiree before putting in an appearance at Lady Littlefield’s ball. I escorted the ladies home shortly after two.” He tipped his head as if in thought. “You know, one might almost suspect you of not wanting this match.”
“Of course I don’t want this match. I haven’t forgotten Nathan Broadway.”
“Who?”
“The boy at Eton you bullied to death.”
“Ah. That was a long time ago.”
“I haven’t heard anything to suggest you’ve changed.”
That unpleasant smile still firmly in place, Ashworth executed a mocking bow and strolled away.
Sebastian called after him, “You wouldn’t happen to know the actor Hector Kneebone, would you?”
There was a faint yet definite hesitation in the Viscount’s stride. But he kept walking and did not look back.
• • •
Sebastian roamed the crowded, boisterous streets of Covent Garden, feeling oddly detached from the noisy gaiety that swirled around him.
The discovery that Stephanie was about to marry the kind of man who paid to abuse young girls—and who had carried that abuse to a degree that alarmed even the jaded abbesses of Pickering Place—filled him with deep disquiet. He had a nearly overwhelming urge to storm into Lady Holbook’s soirée, grab Amanda by the shoulders, and ask what the bloody hell she could be thinking, encouraging such a match. But he forced himself to keep walking. If he were to have any hope of convincing his sister, he would need to approach her calmly and carefully.
And so he turned his thoughts instead to the second man named by Grace Bligh: the actor Hector Kneebone. The fact that Grace had told the truth about Ashworth didn’t necessarily mean that she was being similarly honest about Kneebone, but it did make it more likely. Rory Inchbald had insisted the man he saw driving the cart the night of Benji’s murder was a gentleman. And while it was doubtful that Kneebone had been born a gentleman, he certainly played one quite successfully on the stage.
• • •
Covent Garden Theater lay on Bow Street, not far from the famous Bow Street Public Office. It was a place Sebastian had once known quite well, for long ago when he was barely twenty-one and just down from Oxford, he had fallen blindly, passionately in love with a young, little-known actress named Kat Boleyn. In the years since then Kat had risen to become the most acclaimed actress of the London stage. And while fate—in the form of the Earl of Hendon—had driven Sebastian and Kat apart not once but twice, she would forever be an important part of Sebastian’s life.
She had spent the past year away from the stage recovering from a personal tragedy. But she was back in London for the coming season and would be appearing as Viola in Twelfth Night when it opened at Covent Garden Theater in just two days.
He found her in her dressing room making last-minute adjustments to her costume. She looked around as he entered, the light from the candles on her dressing table flaring golden and warm over her famous high cheekbones; small, upturned nose; and wide mouth.
“Devlin!” she cried with a laugh, pushing up to come toward him with her hands outstretched and a sparkle of delight in her eyes—those vivid blue St. Cyr eyes she had inherited from her natural father, the Earl of Hendon.
He caught her hands in his and held them, his gaze searching her beautiful, familiar features. He hadn’t seen her since the dark days following the death of her husband, Russell Yates, twelve months before. Her marriage to the colorful ex-privateer had been one of convenience, but Sebastian knew that a real affection had developed between them, and Yates’s murder—especially the circumstances surrounding it—had affected her profoundly. “How are you, Kat? Truly?”
“Much better. Truly. I’ve spent a great deal of time walking along misty seashores and forcing myself to confront any number of things I should have dealt with long ago.” She tipped her head to one side. “And you? I hear you’ve a fine young son.”
He smiled. “Simon. Seven months old, handsome, brilliant, and vociferously teething.”
She laughed again. “I can see you’re happy.”
“I am.”
“You know that’s what I’ve always wanted?”
He squeezed her hands and let her go. “I know.”
There’d been a time not so long ago when Sebastian had believed he could never love anyone but this woman, when the thought that she could never be his had sent him into a downward vortex that almost killed him. But then Hero had come into his life, and Simon, and together they had helped him find a powerful new love, one that brought a peace and deep contentment such as he’d never believed possible.
He loved Kat still and always would. Yet seeing her now underscored for him the ways in which his affections for her had shifted. And he realized with a certain sense of bemusement that at some point in the past year he had come to love her essentially as if she were indeed the half sister he’d once to his horror believed her to be.
She bent to tuck her breeches into her boots. “I saw Paul Gibson this afternoon.” She paused, and Sebastian waited for what he knew was coming, for even after Hendon had done his best to drive Sebastian and Kat apart, she and Gibson had remained good friends. “He tells me he’s asked for your help in another murder.” She made no attempt to hide the worry in her voice. Sebastian’s involvement in murder investigations had always troubled Kat, for she knew how much each one cost him.
“It’s one of the reasons why I’m here,” he said. “What can you tell me about Hector Kneebone?”
She straightened slowly. “You think Kneebone is involved in this?”
“Possibly. How well do you know him?”
She turned to her looking glass and began coiling her thick auburn hair up beneath a jaunty feathered cap. “Not all that well. He only arrived here from Bath a few years ago and he’s mainly been at Drury Lane. He’s very popular with audiences.”
Sebastian rested his shoulders against the nearest wall. “What about with his fellow players?”
She shrugged. “He’s arrogant and he can be abrasive. But then, he’s hardly unique in that.”
“What do you know of his taste in women?”
“Well . . . he is very handsome, and the gentlemen of the town have never been the only ones who like to choose their lovers off the boards.” Something of his reaction must have shown on his reflection in the mirror, because she paused to look at him over one shoulder. “That shocks you?”
He gave a soft laugh. “I suppose it shouldn’t, but I must confess it does. So who are his lovers?”
“I’ve heard his conquests include at least one duchess, three countesses, and any number of lesser ladies. But is it true? I don
’t know.” She finished fussing with her cap and turned away from the mirror. “What makes you suspect him?”
“His was one of two names given me by a decidedly unsavory abbess in Pickering Place.” He hesitated, then said, “The other was Lord Ashworth.”
“Dear Lord,” she whispered. “Have you heard—”
“About Ashworth’s betrothal to Stephanie?” Sebastian nodded. “Hendon has asked me to use my nonexistent influence with Amanda to try to put an end to it. As if I could somehow convince her that she really doesn’t want to see her daughter a marchioness.”
He watched as a succession of troubled emotions flickered across Kat’s face. She wasn’t normally so transparent. She said, “I wish you could find a way to forgive Hendon for what he did.”
“I can’t.”
“He only had your best interests at heart.”
“Did he? In my experience Hendon’s interest is all for the St. Cyr name and the St. Cyr bloodline and the St. Cyr legacy. If one of my mother’s grandparents hadn’t been a St. Cyr herself, do you seriously think I’d still be acknowledged as his heir?”
“You wrong him. You really do.”
When Sebastian remained silent, her mouth curled up into a crooked smile.
“What?” he demanded, watching her.
“Hendon may not have sired you, but you’re still far more like him than you’d care to admit.”
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
The warning bell sounded in the distance, and she turned toward the door. “Think about it.”
“Huh.” He pushed away from the wall. “Where does Kneebone lodge? Do you know?”
“I believe he keeps rooms in Bedford Street.” She hesitated, then reached out to rest her hand on his arm. “Gibson told me some of what was done to that poor dead boy. Whoever you’re looking for is beyond vile, Devlin; he’s evil. Please be careful.”
“Is Kneebone capable of such a thing, do you think?”
She considered this for a moment. “I wouldn’t have said so, no. But, then, whoever did this must be very good at hiding his true nature, wouldn’t you say? And who is better at playing a part than an actor?”
Chapter 14
Hector Kneebone kept rooms in a once grand seventeenth-century house that had been broken up into respectable lodgings.
Sebastian spent some time nursing a tankard of ale in a nearby tavern called the Blue Boar, then followed that up with a glass of wine at a neighborhood coffeehouse. His seemingly innocuous questions elicited the exact location of the handsome young actor’s rooms, along with a wealth of lurid details about the string of well-dressed, veiled ladies who arrived at his door in hackney coaches both day and night.
If Kneebone indulged in any other activities, no one seemed to know about them.
Some half an hour before rehearsals at Drury Lane were likely to end, Sebastian slipped up the stairs and let himself into the actor’s rooms with a simple device known as a picklock. He eased the door closed behind him, then paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The combination parlor and dining room was small but expensively furnished with grand, gilt-framed mirrors, an inlaid cherrywood table, and elegant settees covered in a striped burgundy and navy blue silk. Through an archway he could see a massive tester bed and walls hung with burgundy silk and more mirrors.
Hector Kneebone obviously enjoyed looking at himself.
Sebastian searched the rooms quickly and quietly, all the while listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He found an astonishing number of expensive snuffboxes and other trinkets, some with their scented billets-doux from the actor’s admirers still attached. But none of it suggested any link to what had been done to Benji Thatcher or his missing sister.
Then Sebastian’s gaze settled on a carved wooden chest set atop a low bookcase to one side of the bed.
Covered with scenes of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, the chest was some eighteen inches long and twelve inches high. It opened to reveal crimson silk cords of varying lengths and thicknesses, a hemmed length of black silk such as one might use for a blindfold, and a leather whip.
Sebastian closed the chest and stared down at the volumes on the shelves below. Some were risqué classical works by the likes of Epicurus and Petronius. But most were by French writers of the last two hundred years, including Charles de Saint-Évremond, Claude Prosper Jolyot de Crébillon, Choderlos de Laclos, Rétif de la Bretonne, and the Marquis de Sade. Sebastian had no need to open one to understand the significance of Kneebone’s collection.
They were known as “licentious books” or “bawdy stuff.” Like the popular gothic romances of the day, their themes were often dark. But here were no supernatural elements, only an aggressive anticlericalism and radical philosophy wrapped up in an ostentatiously uninhibited exploration of sexuality that ranged from naughty and playful to cruel and depraved.
One of the books, ornately bound in tooled black cordovan leather, was particularly striking. Purporting to be by the Marquis de Sade, it bore the title of a manuscript lost long ago in the turmoil of the French Revolution. Slipping the volume from the shelf, Sebastian opened the book and found himself staring at an engraved depiction of a naked woman, her hands bound over her head, flinching away from a lash.
He was flipping through the pages, growing more and more disturbed, when he heard the outside door open below and a man’s footsteps cross the entry hall toward the stairs. Sebastian thrust the book back into place. He paused long enough to select a length of silken cord from the carved chest, then went to flatten himself against the wall beside the hall door.
Holding one end of the cord in each hand, he listened as the footsteps reached the landing and continued up to the first floor. The man was whistling now, a soft, sweet rendition of an obscure piano concerto. The music broke off as he stopped outside the door, fumbled for his key, and tried to turn the lock. He grunted when he realized the door was unlocked. But he was obviously unconcerned, for the whistling started up again as he pushed the door open.
The lamp from the stairwell threw Hector Kneebone’s shadow across the floor as he walked inside and half turned to close the door. Stepping away from the wall, Sebastian looped the silken cord over the actor’s head and kicked the door closed behind them.
“Wha—” Arms flailing uselessly, Kneebone let out a frightened yelp as Sebastian cinched the cord up beneath the actor’s chin.
“Relax,” said Sebastian softly, his mouth close to the man’s ear. “I’m here neither to murder you nor rob you. We’re simply going to have a nice little conversation. Understand?”
As if he didn’t trust his voice, Kneebone nodded, the whites of his eyes gleaming a ghostly blue as he tried desperately to see who was behind him. He was a well-made man with the curly black hair and light brown eyes so often seen in Cornwall and Wales. He was also at least four inches shorter than Sebastian.
“Good,” said Sebastian, cinching both ends of the cord in his right fist. By rolling his hand inward, he could easily shrink the diameter of the loop while carefully controlling the pressure he was exerting. “Now tell me about Benji and Sybil Thatcher.”
Kneebone suddenly found his voice. “Who? What? What are you talking about? Who are you?”
“Never mind who I am. I want to hear what you know about a missing little girl and her fifteen-year-old brother who was raped, whipped, and murdered.”
“Murdered? I don’t know anything about any murder! What boy?”
“Benji Thatcher.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He had a little sister named Sybil who is now missing. Ever hear of her?”
“Good Lord; no.”
Sebastian rolled his fist ever so subtly. “I had a look at your bookcase. You’ve been reading the Marquis de Sade. Like that sort of thing, do you?”
/> “It’s fascinating. Don’t you think?”
“Actually, no.”
Kneebone swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple moving up and down against the cord. “Just because I read about that sort of thing doesn’t mean I actually do it.”
“No? Then why the silken bonds and whip in the chest?”
When Kneebone remained silent, Sebastian tightened his grip on the cord, pulling the actor back and off balance. “I know about Pickering Place. About how you’re no longer welcome there since a certain incident they didn’t care to particularize.”
“That . . . that was a mistake. We were smoking hashish, you see—the girl and I. We were so focused on the moment I got carried away.”
“Perhaps you ‘got carried away’ with Benji and Sybil Thatcher.”
“Good God. Ask anyone; they’ll tell you I like playing with women, not boys.”
“And young girls,” Sebastian reminded him. “Number Three is known for the youth of its ‘merchandise.’”
“All right, yes; I like young girls. I’ll admit it. But not too young.”
“That makes it all right, does it?”
“Lots of girls are married at fourteen or fifteen.” Kneebone tried again, uselessly, to twist around so that he could see Sebastian’s face. “You don’t know what it’s like, having to tumble all the grand ladies who come here; being forced to smile and somehow pretend to like it while they grope me. Some of them are old.”
“You say that as if you’re expecting my sympathy. You could always turn them away.”
“You think so? Have you any idea what it would do to my career, if I were to turn them down? How long do you think I’d last if the Duchess of X and my Lady Y flounced out of here in a pet to tell all their friends that, ‘Oh’”—Kneebone’s voice rose in a mocking imitation of a Mayfair matron’s cut-crystal vowels—‘I really didn’t think that new young man at Drury Lane is so divine after all’?”