by C. S. Harris
He nodded and swiped his sleeve across his nose. “Had a wee babe, we did. A little boy. But he didn’t last much longer than his ma.”
“Did you ever . . . Did you ever think of doing anything else?”
“Besides bein’ a street finder, ye mean?” He considered the question a moment, then shrugged. “I guess when I first started, I figured I’d do it fer a little while and then move on t’ somethin’ different. But the years jist slid away from me and somehow it never happened. Now I can’t even remember what it was I thought I wanted t’ do.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve again and reached to pick up his bag. “Can I have that shilling now, please, m’lady? I’d best get movin’ before it comes on t’ rain.”
* * *
Hero was standing beside her carriage and watching Bill Mullett limp down the lane, when she was surprised to see Devlin walking toward her. He was wearing a buff-colored driving coat with a cascade of capes at the shoulders and had his high-crowned hat tipped at a rakish angle, and she found herself smiling.
He nodded to where the ragged man was stooping to pick up some new treasure and stuff it in his bag. “So is he a bone picker or a pure finder?”
“A bone picker. You can tell because he carries a bag rather than a basket.”
“Oh.”
She said, “Were you looking for me? Has something happened?”
He drew her hand through the crook of his arm and turned their steps toward the river. “I want your opinion.”
* * *
They walked up Mill Bank Street toward the horse ferry landing, where a line of pollard oaks and beeches beckoned like a leafy oasis at the edge of Westminster’s foul warren of dirty, squalled lanes.
“Your father just went out of his way to track me down and threaten me,” said Sebastian.
“He threatened to kill you?”
“He didn’t specify.”
“Ah.” She kept walking. “Then it was probably meant simply as a general first warning.” She glanced over to find him smiling. “What’s so funny?”
“You say that as if it were an everyday thing, for a woman’s father to threaten to kill his daughter’s husband.”
“Huh,” she said.
He laughed out loud. “I was under the impression the Prince and the Tsar’s sister did not exactly hit it off.”
“They didn’t. I’m told the antipathy was instant and intense, although I haven’t heard the reason.”
“So why is Jarvis so anxious to keep me away from the Grand Duchess? I mean, I can understand a general desire not to displease the sister of one of the Allied Sovereigns. But somehow I had the impression there was more to it than that.”
“If there is, I don’t know about it.” They’d reached the river now, near where a single row of decent houses had been built facing the water. Beyond that stretched open country with market gardens scattered amongst wasteland and marshes where tall grasses and cat’s tails danced in the wind. Hero paused and drew the cold, wonderfully fresh air deep into her lungs. “I could pay a visit to Jarvis House. See what I can learn.”
“He won’t tell you anything. Not now that he knows I’m interested.”
“No. But if I go early this afternoon and catch my dear cousin Victoria alone, she might.”
Sebastian glanced over at her but wisely chose to say nothing. Hero’s attitudes toward her cousin Victoria were . . . complicated.
They paused to watch the horse ferry pull away from the far bank and work its way toward them across the gray, wind-whipped water. Hero said, “Did you speak to Firth?”
“I did. He claims the quarrel Hendon observed grew out of Ashworth’s attempts to hire him to redesign the facade of some manor house.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Not exactly. He was definitely lying about something. I’m just not sure about what. But he did give me one piece of information that may prove useful: He says Ashworth forced himself on some girl who later committed suicide.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“No,” he agreed. “Supposedly the young woman’s mother vowed to make him pay.”
“Does Firth know her name?”
“He says no.”
“Ah. So how do you go about finding something like that out?”
He watched the ferry as it drew closer. It was near enough now that they could hear its ancient timbers groaning as it plowed through the rolling water. “If it’s well enough known that Firth has heard the whispers, then surely Ashworth’s good friend, Sir Felix Paige, will have heard about it.”
She looked over at him. “Yet he didn’t mention the woman to you before, when you asked him who might have killed Ashworth.”
“No, he didn’t. And I can’t help but wonder why.”
* * *
It was still unfashionably early when Sebastian reached Sir Felix Paige’s town house on Cork Street—far too early for a gentleman to be receiving visitors. The Baronet’s fastidious butler tried to deny him, but a few carefully veiled insinuations convinced the man to go off and see if his master would receive him.
Sir Felix was seated on a low stool in his dressing room, clad only in breeches and an open shirt while his valet bustled about shaving him. “I trust this is important,” said the Baronet, not even bothering to glance toward the door when Sebastian was shown up by a nervous footman.
Sebastian went to stand beside the window overlooking the street. “It is if you consider murder important.”
“Still on that, are you?”
“Yes.”
The Baronet kept his head perfectly still as the valet eased the razor up one soapy cheek. Only his eyeballs slid sideways. “And you think I might have acquired some useful information in the last twenty-four hours? I haven’t, you know.”
“No new theories?”
“None.”
“Tell me about the girl Ashworth raped. The one who recently committed suicide.”
Sir Felix shifted his gaze to the far wall. The silence filled with the scrape of the valet’s razor sliding across his master’s face.
“I take it you did hear about it?” said Sebastian.
“I heard the talk. Didn’t believe it, of course.”
“You didn’t? And here I thought you knew Ashworth well.”
Sir Felix’s jaw flexed. “He wasn’t as bad as people thought.”
“Actually,” said Sebastian, “he was far worse.”
When Sir Felix remained silent, Sebastian said, “The young woman—what was her name?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Sebastian watched the valet use a cloth to carefully wipe the last traces of shaving soap from his master’s face. “Leave us,” Sebastian said to the man.
The valet’s eyes widened as he looked from Sebastian to his master. Sir Felix sat forward. “Seriously, Devlin? You can’t go around giving orders to another man’s servants.”
Sebastian pushed away from the window. “I thought you might not want your man to hear what I have to say. But if you don’t mind it spreading all over town—”
Sir Felix caught his valet’s eye and nodded toward the door. “Go.” He waited until the man left, then came up out of his chair in a rush with his fists clenched. “If you ever try something like that agai—”
Sebastian caught the Baronet by the front of his shirt and swung him around to slam his back against the wall with a thud that rattled the pictures in the room. Sir Felix bucked, then went still when Sebastian shoved one forearm up under his chin and leaned into his windpipe. “Don’t. Don’t even think about threatening me.”
“What the d—”
“Your dear friend Ashworth used to help Sir Francis Rowe kidnap, rape, and kill street children. Children. Do you expect me to believe you didn’t know that?”
Sir Felix made a faint gurgling sound.
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“Shut up,” hissed Sebastian, leaning in harder. “For all I know, you helped them too. Did you? Did you?”
“Can’t . . . breathe,” gasped the Baronet.
Sebastian eased up on him a bit. “Understand this: I’m going to find the answers I need, even if it means destroying you in the process. Now, what was the name of the young woman who killed herself?”
“I don’t know,” croaked Sir Felix.
Sebastian started to lean in hard again, but the man gasped and said, “Wait! I honestly don’t know. All I know is that there was some scandal about a French fortune-teller at a soiree a few weeks ago. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it—it was quite the on dit at the time. I wasn’t there, but you can surely find someone who was.”
“What soiree?”
“At the home of the Marquis of Egremont.”
Sebastian took a step back and let him go. “If you’re—”
He broke off as Sir Felix came away from the wall in a lunge, leading with a right hook that grazed Sebastian’s chin before he could bring up his forearm in a sweeping block.
“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian, burying his fist just below the Baronet’s sternum.
The air left Sir Felix’s lungs in a whoosh as he doubled over and went down on one knee. Sebastian grabbed the man’s shoulders and slammed him back against the wall again. “When I asked you yesterday who you thought might have killed him, you didn’t say anything about some French fortune-teller.”
“I didn’t think about her, damn you. For all I know, the story about the girl killing herself is just that—a story.”
“If the fortune-teller exists, I’ll find her,” said Sebastian, who had an aunt known to be close friends with the Dowager Marquesa of Egremont. “If not, I’ll be back.”
Chapter 14
Born Lady Henrietta St. Cyr, the elder sister of the current Earl of Hendon, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne was officially although not technically Sebastian’s aunt. But neither Sebastian nor the Duchess had ever allowed that technicality to interfere with their relationship.
She was in her seventies now and had been a widow for five years. But she still lived in the grand Park Lane mansion to which she had come as a bride of eighteen. On those occasions when her son, the current Duke of Claiborne, to whom the house actually belonged, came up to London, he stayed with his family in a much smaller house in Half Moon Street. It occurred to Sebastian as he climbed his aunt’s steps that the St. Cyr women seemed to make it a habit of maintaining possession of their late husbands’ houses even in widowhood. But whereas his relationship with his half sister, Amanda, had always been strained, he adored his aunt Henrietta.
She was a large, dignified woman, white haired, with her brother’s bulky build and a massive bosom. She resembled Hendon too much to ever have been pretty, even when young. But she had a tall, magnificent carriage and stately presence, and she had always possessed superb taste in clothes.
He found her seated beside the fireplace in her morning room, wearing a round circassian robe of emerald velvet decorated at its high waist and hem with rows of silver and emerald tassels. She’d been reading a book but laid it aside when he entered. “Well, I suppose I should thank you for not coming to visit me at some ungodly hour for a change,” she said.
“Reading again, dear aunt?” He bent to kiss the rouged cheek she turned up to him. “If you’re not careful, people are going to start calling you a bluestocking.”
“Not for reading Byron. Everyone is mad about him these days.” She pulled a face. “The poetry is pleasant enough, I suppose, if you enjoy that sort of thing. But he’s still shockingly bad ton.” Aunt Henrietta’s opinion of Byron had never recovered from the night she encountered him relieving himself in a potted plant in the lobby of Steven’s Hotel.
She leaned forward now as she stared at Sebastian, and he realized she was studying his chin. “Good heavens, Devlin, have you been engaging in fisticuffs?”
Sebastian put up a hand to finger the swollen graze on the side of his jaw. “Not exactly.”
“Huh.” She settled more comfortably in her chair. “I assume you’re here because of Stephanie?”
“You’ve heard about Ashworth?”
“I doubt there’s anyone in London who hasn’t heard about Ashworth. I won’t pretend I’m sorry he’s dead, but I do wish he could have found a way to achieve that happy result in a less sensational manner.”
“Have you seen her? Steph, I mean.”
The Dowager shook her head. “Not yet. Poor girl. Can’t think what she was about, getting mixed up with such a bounder. But at least she’s managed to be rid of him quickly. Amanda must be crushed. She was positively besotted with the idea of her daughter becoming a marchioness.”
“She can console herself with the thought that her firstborn grandson will someday be a marquis.”
“There is that,” she agreed. “Now, out with it. Why are you here? And don’t even think of trying to bamboozle me into believing it’s because you’ve suddenly been overcome by a hankering for the pleasure of my company. I know what you’re like when you’re investigating a murder.” She paused. “At least, I assume you’re trying to find out who killed him—although I can’t think why. If you ask me, it’s good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“I agree. Unfortunately, there’s a distinct possibility that Ashworth was killed by a woman.”
“Oh, dear.” She sat perfectly still, one hand coming up to press against her lips. “Not—oh, surely not Stephanie?”
“I honestly don’t know. Did you by chance attend a soiree given by Lord and Lady Egremont a few weeks ago?”
“I did, yes. But what has that to say to anything?”
“I’m told they brought in a fortune-teller to entertain their guests.”
“They did, yes; a card reader. They’ve become shockingly popular, you know. It beggars belief how many otherwise perfectly reasonable people can swallow such nonsense.”
“Do you remember this particular fortune-teller’s name?”
The Dowager frowned. “I should. Give me a moment. She’s French—or at any rate she did a good job of pretending to be. And she has a rather pronounced limp. Supposedly her leg was crushed in one of the Revolutionary journées, although goodness knows if that’s true.”
“Ashworth was there?”
“He was, yes. That I do recall, because the fortune-teller singled him out specifically. At first, he was a good sport and played along with her. But then she started talking about some girl who’d killed herself because of him and supposedly laid down a curse that would hound him to hell. Needless to say, the atmosphere in the room changed markedly. He tried to laugh it off, but people were looking at him, and there was more than a bit of whispered speculation. He left soon after.”
“Was Steph with him?”
“No. I believe it was not long after the twins’ birth. Although the truth is, I don’t think anyone has seen them together for months.”
“She tells me they agreed to go their separate ways if she was delivered of an heir.”
“Then she was lucky; not only an heir but a spare as well, both in one fell swoop.” The Dowager was silent a moment, her plump, beringed fingers absently playing with the tassels on her gown, her face thoughtful. Then she shook her head. “I keep thinking the woman’s name is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to grasp it. I guess my memory isn’t what it used to be. I’m afraid I’m getting old.”
“Nonsense. You can remember every scandal that has rocked the ton in the last fifty years. But given your conviction that fortune-telling is all a farrago of nonsense, I suspect you didn’t pay much attention to Madame Whatever-her-name-is.”
“Blanchette,” said Aunt Henrietta suddenly in triumph. “Madame Marie-Claire Blanchette.”
* * *
Leaving the Dowager’s hous
e some minutes later, Sebastian paused at the top of the steps, his gaze on the rolling green expanse of Hyde Park on the far side of Park Lane. The rain that had begun just after noon had ended, leaving the grass sodden and the trees dripping. He was turning toward his waiting curricle when a lady’s barouche dashed past, drawn by a team of dapple grays. He caught a quick glimpse of its occupant’s flawless profile and guinea gold hair beneath a black widow’s bonnet. Then she was gone.
“Wait here,” he told Tom. “I shan’t be but a moment.”
The barouche was already slowing down before the stately detached house that took up all of the next block. By the time Sebastian reached Lindley House, the carriage had stopped and a footman was letting down the steps. Sebastian held out his hand to his niece. She hesitated a noticeable instant, then put her hand in his and let him help her alight.
“Uncle,” she said with a bright smile that didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. “This is unexpected.”
She was wearing a deeply somber black gown made high at the neck and without a touch of adornment. Her bonnet, gloves, and shoes were all black. She looked every inch the grieving young widow, and it was all—all—for show.
“How are you, Steph?” he asked, drawing her out of earshot of the footman and abigail who were assembling armloads of paper-wrapped purchases. “Honestly.”
Her color was high, her eyes brittle with what he realized was quietly seething rage. “Honestly? I just spent two hours in Bond Street shopping for mourning clothes while everyone stared at me as if I were a two-headed giraffe. No one actually came up and asked me to my face if I killed Anthony or ever let him tie me naked to the bed. But they didn’t hesitate to whisper about it to one another—and quite loud enough for me to hear.”
“You could leave town for a while,” he suggested. “After the funeral.”
“You mean run away and hide?”
“Until the tattle-mongers move on to something new. They will, you know. Eventually.”