by C. S. Harris
The butler looked unconvinced, but he showed Sebastian to a dusty library and then tottered off to ascertain if his lordship was receiving yet. He returned some minutes later, ashen faced and breathless from his climb up and down the stairs. “His lordship is still in his dressing room, but he will see you now.”
Ashworth’s plump little valet scooted himself out of the Viscount’s dressing room when Sebastian walked in. His lordship was seated at his dressing table, his fingertips soaking in a crystal bowl of warm water. He was clad in exquisite doeskin breeches and a fine linen shirt still open at the neck. The man’s house might be suffering neglect, but Ashworth’s losses at table and turf were obviously not allowed to impact the glory of his wardrobe.
“You’re lucky to find me up,” said Ashworth, shaking a wayward lock of honey-colored hair from his eyes. “What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing abroad at this hour?”
“Trying to catch a killer.”
“Still?”
“Still.” Sebastian went to stand beside the window overlooking the street. But he kept his gaze on the other man’s face. “Tell me about Bridget Leary.”
Ashworth calmly lifted his fingers from the water and began pushing back his cuticles with a soft cloth. “Who?”
“Bridget Leary. She was one of your housemaids.”
“Do you seriously think I know the names of my current housemaids, let alone those who’ve left my employ?”
“I’d think you’d remember this one. She was quite pretty, and you used to tie her up and abuse her with a whip.”
Ashworth laughed. “Abuse? I think not.”
“What would you call it?”
Ashworth tossed the towel aside and swiveled on the bench to face him. “You must have been talking to that ridiculous mother of hers.”
“So you do recall the girl.”
“Vaguely.”
“And you don’t deny whipping her?”
“No. But I don’t think you quite understand. She enjoyed our sessions—or at least she was perfectly willing to pretend she did in exchange for a few extra guineas.”
“So where is she now?”
“I’ve no idea. I’m afraid she thought she was far too clever for her own good. The silly chit tried to blackmail me, although she backed down quickly enough when I threatened to have her prosecuted. I always assumed she went home.”
“She didn’t.”
“No? Then she must have left London for fear I meant to carry through on my threat.”
“Her mother thinks you killed her.”
“Really? I should have the old harridan taken up for slander.”
“You can’t. She’s dead.”
“Contacted you from the grave, did she?”
When Sebastian remained silent, Ashworth rose from his dressing table and reached for one of the cravats his valet had laid out for him. “I wonder, has anyone in the course of this decidedly plebeian investigation of yours pointed you toward the comte de Brienne?”
“As a matter of fact, they have. He claims he only plays with consenting adults.”
“And you believe him?”
“As much as I believe you.”
Ashworth froze in the act of looping the cravat around his neck, then continued, his face a serene mask. “Did you never wonder how a man who fled his home as a penniless young refugee twenty years ago manages to finance such a comfortable lifestyle today?”
Sebastian pushed away from the window. “What are you suggesting now?”
Ashworth positioned himself before one of the room’s full-length mirrors. “I should think that rather obvious. How else would a French émigré without land or investments accumulate such impressive wealth?”
“I can think of several possibilities.”
“Can you?” Ashworth glanced over at him. “You obviously possess a more active imagination than I.”
“I doubt it,” said Sebastian.
But the Viscount only smiled.
Sebastian turned toward the door, then paused to look back at him and say, “Tell me: What do you think of the Marquis de Sade?”
“De Sade?” Ashworth kept his attention on the intricacies of tying his cravat. “Have you read him?”
“Not a great deal.”
Ashworth adjusted a fold. “Some find his works titillating, some find him boring, while others consider him revolting.”
“And you?”
“The truth is, there’s nothing he writes about that can’t be found in any collection of old Popish paintings. Did you never wonder why our religious forebears took delight in such vivid, detailed portrayals of lovely young virgins being sexually mutilated or broken naked on the wheel?”
“Actually, no; I never did.”
“‘Ferocity is always either a supplement or a means to lust.’”
“I take it that’s a quote from de Sade?”
“Is it?”
Sebastian said, “Have you read Les 120 journées de Sodome?”
For one telling moment, Ashworth’s gaze met his in the mirror. “Unfortunately that work was lost in the destruction of the Bastille.”
“Was it?”
Ashworth smoothed the folds of his neckcloth and swung away from the mirror, his brows drawn together in a frown, his hands resting on his hips. “What has any of this to do with the death of some Clerkenwell pickpocket?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Sebastian, opening the door. “But I’ll figure it out.”
Chapter 27
The boy walked the rolling hills above Clerkenwell, his head bowed, his collar turned up against the cold wind. He was tired and his feet hurt, but he’d already looked everywhere there was to look for Sybil in Clerkenwell, and so he’d taken to searching the fields beyond.
“Sybil?” he called, pausing to cup his hands around his mouth. “Sybil! Where are you?”
He stood still, listening. But he heard only the wind shifting the branches of a nearby hawthorn and bending the tall grass around him.
He didn’t want to find the girl. He’d always liked Sybil and he knew only too well what the gentleman would do to her if he got his hands on her. At the thought of it, the boy shivered and wiped his sleeve across his runny nose.
He didn’t want to find her, but not as much as he was afraid he might not find her. Because if he didn’t find her, he knew what the gentleman would do to him. The gentleman was already getting impatient with him. The boy could tell. He was afraid it was only a matter of time before the man found another boy to replace him. And then he would end up like Benji.
And all the others.
He stumbled on a tuft of grass and went down, hitting the ground hard and cutting the palm of one hand on a sharp stone. He lay there for a moment, winded and trying not to cry. He told himself he needed to get up, needed to keep looking for Sybil.
Instead, he simply squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in the sweet-smelling earth.
• • •
“I was disappointed not to find you at Lady Aldrich’s ball last night,” Lady Jarvis told Hero as mother and daughter walked companionably side by side along the wind-ruffled Serpentine in Hyde Park. “I thought you might attend.”
“Devlin is investigating the murder of a child in Clerkenwell—in fact, two, in all likelihood.”
“Children? How perfectly dreadful.”
The distress on her mother’s face made Hero regret mentioning it. She added quickly, “Plus I’ve begun the research for a new article.”
“Have you?” Her mother smiled. “Won’t Jarvis be pleased?”
Hero laughed out loud. “So how was Lady Aldrich’s party?”
“A terrible squeeze, which is surprising, given how thin of company London is at the moment. It’s a pity Cousin Victoria couldn’t go with us; she would have enjoyed it immensely. Unfortunat
ely, such entertainments are out of the question for a year. Although I do think it’s wrong to ask a young woman her age to mourn a husband for two years, as some suggest.”
“Oh, definitely.” Hero studied her mother’s relaxed, smiling face. “You like her a great deal, don’t you?”
“I do, yes; more and more. And I am particularly grateful to have her with me now that Emma has had to leave.”
Hero drew up in surprise. “She what?”
Emma Knight was the impoverished relative who’d served as Lady Jarvis’s companion since Hero’s marriage the previous year. Although once vivacious and energetic, Lady Jarvis had seen her health seriously undermined by a long string of tragic miscarriages and stillbirths. Her last, disastrous pregnancy had brought on an apoplectic fit that left her so weakened in mind and body that Hero had taken over running the various Jarvis households from an early age. And when she married Devlin, she’d found the young, widowed Emma to take her place. “When did this happen?”
“She left this morning,” said Lady Jarvis, turning to watch a pair of ducks take flight from the water’s surface. “She received an urgent message from her family last night. Seems her father is gravely ill and is asking to see her before he dies.”
“It was my understanding Emma’s father had disowned her.”
“He had. Which makes his decision to reach out to her now so heartwarming, don’t you think? Sometimes the approach of death leads us to reevaluate what we consider important. She asked me to apologize to you for her hasty departure, but I told her she need have no qualms about leaving me in Cousin Victoria’s care.”
“I’ll start looking for someone to replace her right away.”
“No need to be in a rush, my dear. Victoria has assured me she’s quite happy to stay until we find someone suitable.”
Hero started to say something, then swallowed it. Cousin Victoria’s presence in Berkeley Square should have made Hero feel better. She tried to tell herself that her instinctive dislike of the woman was irrational and baseless.
But the sense of uneasiness remained.
Chapter 28
They buried Benji Thatcher that afternoon, in a light, misty rain that fell out of a low gray sky.
Sebastian stood beside the gaping hole of the dead boy’s new grave, his heart heavy with sadness and frustration as he listened to the reverend’s voice drone on. “‘In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life . . .’”
The assembly of mourners was small. Constable Mott Gowan and Icarus Cantrell were there, along with Jem Jones, while Toby the Dancer watched from the far edge of the churchyard as if afraid to draw any closer to—what? Sebastian wondered. That silent, shrouded form? Constable Gowan? Or Sebastian himself?
Paul Gibson appeared halfway through the short graveside service, looking disheveled and shaky. He had his coat collar turned up and kept his head bowed, although Sebastian suspected that was less because of the rain and more out of a desire to hide his gray, unshaven face and sunken eyes.
“‘We commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him. . . . Amen.’”
The rain was falling harder now. The sexton set to work, quickly shoveling dirt back into the grave while the Reverend Filby tucked his Bible up under the shelter of his arm and drew Sebastian beneath the cover of the nearby church porch. “No sign yet of what’s become of Benji’s sister?” asked the clergyman, his jowly pink face slack with concern.
Sebastian shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”
The reverend let out his breath in a pained sigh, his gaze narrowing as he stared off across the wet, crowded mass of gray tombstones. Toby the Dancer had disappeared. “I worry about them—the street children, I mean,” said Filby. “They are so dreadfully vulnerable.”
“I suspect that’s why the killer preys on them,” said Sebastian. “They make easy targets.”
“‘Suffer the little children,’” quoted the reverend, sadly shaking his head. “‘Suffer the little children . . .’”
• • •
Afterward, Sebastian hauled Gibson off to a pub on Clerkenwell Green.
“You look like hell,” said Sebastian, setting two tankards of ale on a table in the dark corner where Gibson was hiding.
Gibson hunched his shoulders. “Don’t start on me. I’ve already heard it all from Alexi.”
“She’s worried about you.” I’m worried about you, Sebastian thought, but he didn’t say it.
The Irishman rasped one hand across his beard-stubbled face. “It doesn’t often get to me, what I do. But this time . . . this time it has. I keep trying to imagine what manner of man could do such a thing, but I simply can’t. I mean, even though I believe it’s wrong, at some fundamental level I can still understand someone who kills in a fit of rage or jealousy or fear. Those are emotions every one of us has felt at some time or another, haven’t we? The only reason we don’t all go around murdering people isn’t because we don’t feel those emotions; it’s because something stops us. Whether you call it conscience or empathy for our fellow beings or obedience to the dictates of God, the fact remains that something stops us. So even though we don’t kill, we can still understand the compulsions that drive your typical killer. But this? I can’t begin to understand what was in the mind of the man who did that to Benji Thatcher. That wasn’t the unbridled manifestation of some emotion we’ve all experienced. It’s something else. And I’m not sure I want to understand what it is.”
Sebastian took a long, slow drink of his ale. “I think what drove Benji Thatcher’s killer was a desire for pleasure.”
Gibson looked up at him with haggard, bloodshot eyes. “How can anyone derive pleasure from causing an innocent such unimaginable fear and pain?”
“That I can’t answer.”
Gibson dropped his gaze to his ale again. He started to take a drink, then changed his mind and pushed the tankard aside. “You have to find this killer. Anyone who kills for pleasure will do it again and again, until he’s stopped.”
“I know,” said Sebastian. “That’s what worries me.”
• • •
Sebastian was leaving the tavern when he heard his name called and turned to find Constable Mott Gowan trotting after him.
“My lord,” panted the constable, skidding to a halt on the wet paving. “I meant to tell you before, but it went clean out of my head after we buried the boy.”
“Tell me what?” said Sebastian, guiding the man out of the path of a heavily laden brewer’s wagon.
“I asked around Hockley-in-the-Hole, the way you suggested. But I couldn’t find anybody who remembered seeing either Benji or Sybil last Friday.”
“I’m not surprised. I suspect most people would be hard-pressed to tell one ragged child from the next.”
Gowan nodded sadly. “Is there anything else you can suggest I do, my lord? Because the truth is, I’m plumb out of ideas.”
“I can’t think of anything right now. But I’ll be certain to let you know if I do.”
The constable nodded again. “There is one thing I heard you might be interested in,” he said hesitantly.
“Oh?”
“An ostler at the Red Lion mentioned seeing a gentleman in a bang-up rig—not that evening, mind you, but a couple days before.”
“What did he look like?”
“The gentleman? The ostler couldn’t remember nothing about the man himself. But he had a clear recollection of the rig: a yellow phaeton drawn by a real showy dapple gray.” Gowan paused, his eyes narrowing. “That means somethin’ to you?”
“Yes,” said Sebastian. “It does.”
• • •
Gentlemen of the ton were frequently known for their favorite horses and carriages. Lord Petersham owned only brown carriages and brown horses; Mr. Markham favored a shiny black cur
ricle pulled by a perfectly matched snowy white pair. And Sir Francis Rowe was famous for his dashing little yellow-bodied phaeton drawn by a lovely dapple gray mare.
It took some time, but Sebastian finally tracked the Butcher of Culloden’s grandson to an exclusive shop on Bond Street, where he found the Baronet inspecting an array of diamond-encrusted fobs presented on a velvet-lined tray by an obsequious jeweler.
Sir Francis lifted his head as Sebastian came to stand beside him. “Not you again.”
Sebastian showed his teeth in a smile. “Yes.”
The Baronet signaled the jeweler to leave them and turned his back to the counter. “Do I take it you’re still obsessed with the death of that Clerkenwell pickpocket?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because the boy’s little sister is still missing. And because I object to sharing my city with anyone capable of that kind of barbaric cruelty.”
“Oh? And what has any of this to do with me, precisely?”
“You were seen in Hockley-in-the-Hole several days before the boy disappeared.”
“And this strikes you as nefarious, does it?”
“Is there a reason why it should not?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. My family has long owned property in the area. It’s the same reason I was in Clerkenwell the day my snuffbox was stolen.”
“Manage your property yourself, do you?”
“Not on a day-to-day basis, no. But I do sometimes take a hand in matters when necessary.” Rowe rested his elbows on the counter behind him. “I do hope you don’t intend to continue hounding me over this ridiculous affair.”
“Actually, given that you refuse to say where you were either Friday evening or Sunday night, I suspect I shall.”
Sir Francis let out a long, ostentatious sigh. “Very well; although I warn you, you’ll feel the fool for pressing the matter. As it happens, I was with my dear cousin the Prince Regent from mid–Friday afternoon till the wee hours of the morning. And if you are inclined to doubt my word, you may verify it with your own wife’s father, for Jarvis was there, as well.”