Who Slays the Wicked (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery Book 14)

by C. S. Harris

  “Devlin is looking into it,” Hero said carefully. “But it’s early days yet.”

  They ordered tea and talked for a time of fashion and the Season, which was now in full swing. Only then did Hero casually bring the conversation around to the purpose of her visit, saying, “Have you met the Tsar’s sister yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Victoria. “Although I did see her driving up Bond Street this morning in her barouche. I’m told she always drives with the top down so she can wave to the crowds. They adore her, of course. Jarvis says the Prince is quite put out about it.”

  Hero took a slow sip of her tea. “I wonder why she’s come to England so far ahead of the others?”

  “It’s curious, isn’t it? Did you hear she rejected the cutter Prinny sent to pick her up from Holland? She was beyond insulted—seems a paltry naval cutter is quite beneath the dignity of a Tsar’s daughter. Fortunately, one of the Royal Dukes came to the rescue by lending his frigate to the cause.”

  “Charming. So that’s why they dislike each other?”

  “Well, that was the beginning. The Prince then made the mistake of hurrying around to the Pulteney Hotel to meet her so quickly after her arrival in London that she hadn’t had time to change, with the result that he encountered her on the stairs in all her travel dirt.”

  “And she was outraged by this as well?”

  “Mmm. She treated him as if he were an overweight, aged buffoon, and he resented it.”

  “Fancy that.”

  Victoria let out a soft laugh, a gay melodic ripple of amusement that brought an impish smile to her face. “I understand everyone is all agog to see her up close at the Russian ambassador’s ball tonight—particularly since Countess Lieven is said not to be one of her admirers.” She paused, her head turning slightly at the sound of the front door opening below, followed by the low murmur of a man’s familiar voice in the entry hall and his heavy footsteps upon the stairs.

  “Jarvis?” said Hero, feeling like a cat caught amidst the pigeons. “Already?”

  He appeared in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Hero, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “This is a surprise.”

  “Jarvis.” Victoria glanced over at him, her amusement still animating her face. “We were just gossiping about all the interest in the Grand Duchess. Countess Lieven’s ball tonight will doubtless be a dreadful squeeze.”

  “It should definitely be more entertaining than the usual such fare,” he said. For one brief instant, his gaze met Victoria’s, and a silent message passed between them.

  The exchange was meant to be private, but Hero caught it. And she knew her father well enough to understand that whatever Jarvis’s interest in the Grand Duchess, Cousin Victoria knew about it. And she’d just reassured him that she had given nothing away.

  Chapter 17

  Sebastian stood beside the library fire, his gaze on the slowly kindling flames. He was trying to decide how he would react if a child of his killed herself as a result of some man’s rape. Would he be able to bide his time, skillfully spinning out a long, sadistic revenge? Or would he simply kill the bastard?

  Sebastian suspected he’d probably kill the bastard.

  If Madame Blanchette had indeed been the one who hacked Ashworth’s chest into a bloody pulp, Sebastian would find it hard to blame her. It would be an impossibly long walk from Golden Square to Curzon Street and back again for a woman with a badly crushed leg. But she could have taken a hackney. And London’s hackney drivers were all licensed and answerable to Bow Street.

  Sebastian was still pondering the possibilities of this when Sir Henry Lovejoy stopped by Brook Street.

  “Something has come up that may or may not be relevant to Ashworth’s murder,” said the magistrate, accepting Sebastian’s invitation to settle in one of the chairs before the library fire.

  Sebastian took the seat opposite him. “Oh?”

  “Thursday night, just before dawn, a wherryman was heading back toward Lambeth after dropping a passenger at the Westminster Steps when he chanced to look up and see a young woman standing on the bridge, near the center of the river. She was well dressed enough that it struck him as odd for her to be out alone at that time of night. Then he realized there was another woman standing behind her.”

  “And?”

  “One of the women had a bundle in her arms. As he watched, she held it out over the water and let it go. He assumed it must be a babe—says he’s pulled more dead infants out of that river than he cares to remember. So he rowed to it as quickly as he could and managed to haul it into his boat before it went under.”

  People were always throwing newborns into the Thames. How great must a person’s poverty, desperation, and fear be, Sebastian had always wondered, to do such a thing?

  “So was it a babe?”

  Lovejoy shook his head. “It was a bundle of women’s clothes: a fine woolen cloak, a muslin gown beautifully embroidered around the hem with birds and flowers, and undergarments. All were covered with blood. He thought about it for a day, and finally decided it was strange enough that he brought them to us.”

  Sebastian felt a curl of apprehension so sudden and intense, he wondered if it showed on his face. “The wherryman said the women were young?”

  “He said one of them was, at least—the one who threw the bundle in the river. The other was hanging back, and he didn’t get as good a look at her. The night was so dark and misty, he says he probably wouldn’t have seen them at all if they hadn’t been standing by a lamp, but he thought the one in front had dark hair.”

  Not Stephanie, then, thought Sebastian. Although he wished he knew for certain that her abigail was fair too.

  “Obviously,” Lovejoy was saying, “there could be a simple explanation for it that has nothing to do with Ashworth’s murder. But I’ve set one of my constables to taking the gown around to the city’s various fashionable modistas. If there were any identifying signature marks on it, they’ve been removed. But it’s distinctive enough that whoever made it should be able to recognize her own work and identify the customer she made it for.”

  Undoubtedly, thought Sebastian. But would a fashionable modista identify the owner of a blood-covered gown brought to her by Bow Street, and thus risk losing an important customer? Unlikely. Aloud he said, “The gown could have been purchased from a secondhand shop.”

  “There is that. And unfortunately, such proprietors are considerably less likely to cooperate with us.” Lovejoy looked at him expectantly. “Have you discovered anything of interest?”

  Sebastian found himself reluctant to mention his morning encounters with either Russell Firth or Madame Blanchette. “Nothing definite,” he said vaguely. “Although I’ve been thinking we might try checking with the city’s hackney drivers. See if any of them picked up or let off a fare in the area that night.”

  “Mmm. Good idea,” said Lovejoy, reaching for his hat as he rose to his feet.

  Sebastian stood with him. “Have you ever heard of a ruffian called ‘Sid’? I don’t know his surname.”

  Lovejoy thought for a moment. “Not that I can recall. Sorry. Why? You think he might be involved?”

  “It’s possible. I’ll have to ask my valet if he knows of him.”

  Lovejoy looked vaguely startled. “Your valet?”

  “My valet,” said Sebastian without elaborating.

  * * *

  Sebastian’s valet was a slim, fair-haired gentleman’s gentleman named Jules Calhoun. Calm and unflappable, he possessed a rare genius for repairing the damage Sebastian’s more unorthodox activities sometimes inflicted on his wardrobe. But Calhoun’s talents with boot blacking and brush hid a dark and unusual past, for he’d been raised in one of London’s most notorious flash houses. His infamous mother’s connections to the city’s underworld were both vast and highly useful.

  “Sid?” said Calhoun with a frown
when Sebastian asked him. “Can’t think of anyone by that name offhand. But I can ask around if you’d like.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Sebastian.

  After Calhoun had gone, Sebastian went to stand, thoughtful, at the front window. The rain might have ended, but the day remained dark and blustery. He was still standing there when Hero’s yellow-bodied barouche drew up before the house and she came in, bringing with her all the scents of a wet spring afternoon.

  “Good, you’re back,” she said, her color high.

  “So, how was it?”

  She tore off her very fetching ostrich-plumed hat and tossed it aside with what sounded suspiciously like a smothered oath.

  Sebastian said, “That bad?”

  Stalking over to where he kept a brandy carafe and glasses, she poured herself a drink and took a long swallow. Then she took another before looking over at him, gray eyes sparkling with outrage and something else—something he couldn’t quite identify. “I have the most lowering suspicion that my cousin is sleeping with my father.”

  Sebastian walked over to pour himself a brandy. “I’ve been wondering that myself for some time now.”

  She stared at him. “You have? Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

  “Because it’s always been just a guess on my part; I’ve never seen or heard anything to confirm it.” He paused. “Why? What happened?”

  She went to fling herself into one of the delicate chairs near the bay window, the brandy glass cupped in her hand. “I asked Victoria about the Grand Duchess. She was very chatty and effusive in that way she has that makes you think she hasn’t a calculating thought in her head, when in reality nothing she says isn’t completely thought out ahead of time and fashioned to have precisely whatever effect she wants it to have. At any rate, she says the Prince Regent irritated the Tsar’s unbelievably demanding sister by attempting to transport her across the Channel in a cutter.”

  “What’s wrong with a cutter?”

  “Quite beneath Her Imperial Highness’s dignity, I’m afraid. It seems a Tsar’s daughter requires at least a frigate.”

  “Charming.”

  “Very. And then, to make matters worse, the Regent compounded the affront to Her Imperial Highness by arriving at the Pulteney Hotel to meet her before she’d had a chance to change out of her travel clothes.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I gather she was decidedly rude to him when he encountered her by chance on the hotel’s stairs. That—combined with the way the London crowds cheer her—has quite put up his back.”

  “In other words, we’re talking about two incredibly selfish and wholly self-absorbed royals, each believing themselves treated shabbily by the other.”

  Hero nodded. “If you care to see more of her, the Russian ambassador and his wife are giving a ball tonight in her honor—although I’m afraid we already sent our regrets.”

  “Frankly, once was enough.” He studied her strained, set face. “Jarvis was there?”

  “Yes. He surprised me by coming in unexpectedly. I think he guessed my mission, by the way.”

  “Probably.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he realized she was staring at his face. She said, “What happened to your chin?”

  “Sir Felix.”

  “He planted you a facer?”

  “More like a grazing blow than a facer, I’d say.”

  “Huh.”

  He waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he said, “What makes you suspect Jarvis is sleeping with your cousin?”

  She took a slow sip of her brandy and grimaced. “It wasn’t any one thing, exactly. It was more just . . . something about the way they were in tune with each other . . . the easy way they communicated without words. I know that sounds nebulous, but the reality was so intense that once I became aware of it, I wondered how I could possibly have missed it before. It was that powerful.”

  He went to stand behind her chair, his hands on her shoulders. He kept trying to think of something to say, something that might comfort her. But all he could come up with was I’m sorry, and that was so hopelessly inadequate that it seemed better left unsaid.

  Hero tipped back her head to look up at him. “I don’t know why I’m so surprised. In some ways, Victoria is exactly the kind of woman Jarvis has always admired: tiny, fair-haired, and pretty. In fact, she looks very much like the portraits I’ve seen of my mother when she was young. The difference is, my mother was given the typical but shockingly poor education considered proper for girls in her day. She was taught to sing, sew, dance, sketch, and converse in French and Italian, and that was about it. Her mind was quick—or at least it was until she suffered that dreadful apoplexy after her last stillbirth. But because she was so uneducated and had been taught to hide her intelligence, I don’t think my father ever realized she wasn’t the idiot he thought her to be.”

  “You mother was no idiot, even with her health weakened.”

  Hero gave a faint, sad smile. “The odd thing is, he’s always claimed he likes women who are ornamental rather than educated. Yet while Victoria affects a kind of chatty, cheerful mindlessness in public, she’s never made any attempt to hide either her intelligence or her learning from Jarvis. I wouldn’t have expected that to appeal to him, but it obviously does.”

  “People’s tastes can change over the years.”

  “Dear Lord,” said Hero suddenly, as if a thought had just occurred to her. “I don’t even like her. What am I going to do if he marries her?”

  “Get a lot of practice at smiling dissemblance.”

  She gave a hoarse laugh and set the rest of her brandy aside unfinished. “Morey said Sir Henry was here?”

  Sebastian nodded and told her about the bundle of clothes fished from the Thames. “Of course, it could have absolutely nothing to do with Ashworth’s murder,” he said.

  “A coincidence?” She looked over at him. “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”

  “I am skeptical of them, at least when it comes to murder. And yet they do happen.”

  “They do.”

  “If there is indeed a link, it lends credence to the theory that this murderer is a woman. Which is interesting, given that I’ve discovered Firth’s tale about the young woman who killed herself because of Ashworth is true.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Her name was Giselle Blanchette. Her mother’s a tarot card reader.”

  “You mean Marie-Claire Blanchette?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “You’ve heard of her?”

  “Mmm. There are some who say she’s a French spy.”

  “Oh? Is she?”

  “I’ve no idea. I didn’t get that from my father, if that’s what you’re asking. To be honest, I’m not entirely certain where I heard it. It could very well be nothing more than a vile rumor. You know what people are like.”

  “Well, she’s definitely French.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s a spy.”

  “No,” agreed Sebastian. “But if she’s not, it does make me wonder who started the rumor—and why.”

  Chapter 18

  Later that afternoon, as a weak sun sank lower in the cloud-filled sky, Sebastian walked through the ancient piazza of Covent Garden. Most of the vegetable and fruit sellers were gone by now, their stalls shuttered, the cobbles underfoot mushy with spoiled fruit and cabbage leaves mixed with dung. The air was filled with the cooing of the pigeons strutting along the pediment of the church of St. Paul’s and the laughter of a gang of ragged street children playing chase amongst the shuttered sections of the market. Soon the district’s theaters would be opening, and the focus of Covent Garden would shift from produce market to evening entertainment. Only the flower sellers were still here, their section a colorful collage of sweet-smelling lilies, daffodils, violets, and tulips.

  He
came across Kat Boleyn, the woman he was here to find, selecting a bunch of white violets near the piazza’s northern arcade. She was a strikingly attractive woman with luxurious auburn-lit hair, a wide, sensuous mouth, and brilliant blue eyes of the same distinctive shade as Stephanie’s—the famous blue St. Cyr eyes Kat had inherited from her natural father, the Earl of Hendon.

  She was the toast of London’s stage, as acclaimed for her acting ability as for her beauty. But when Sebastian first met her, she’d been a young unknown actress of sixteen and he barely twenty-one. Their ill-fated love had haunted him for years, while the discovery of her parentage—so tangled up with his—had nearly killed him. There’d been a time when he believed he’d never come to terms with it all. But they’d eventually managed to forge a new kind of relationship with an affection much like that of the sister and brother they’d once thought themselves.

  She looked up then, saw him, and smiled.

  “Do you come here every day before your performance?” he asked, walking up to her.

  She laughed and handed the flower seller the coins for her posy. “When I can.”

  They turned to walk through the banks of fragrant flowers toward the Strand. “I saw Hendon,” she said, holding the posy to her nose and breathing deep. “He tells me you’re trying to find who killed Ashworth.”