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

by C. S. Harris

  “Hopefully.”

  Countess Lieven’s husband stood at her side, receiving guests. But all eyes were on her, not the ambassador. She was an attractive woman, striking rather than beautiful, with an unusually long neck, dark, fashionably cropped hair, a firm chin, and a saucy mouth. Graceful and elegant despite her rather bony figure, she had a haughty manner that effectively conveyed her contempt for anyone she considered her inferior—which was virtually everyone. Even those who called themselves her friends admitted there was nothing amiable about her. She was neither intellectual nor bookish, but she was extraordinarily clever and calculating, and utterly ruthless.

  “Lord Devlin,” she said with a glittering smile as Sebastian bowed over her hand. “What a nice surprise. For some reason I had the idea you and your wife sent your regrets.”

  “Fortunately, we had an unexpected change in plans,” said Hero with a smile every bit as false as that of their hostess. “We knew you’d be thrilled.”

  The Countess’s eyes narrowed, but her smile never changed. “Just so.”

  “Point, counterpoint,” said Sebastian softly as they eased their way into a ballroom ablaze with the light of hundreds of candles shimmering over polished crystal and reflected by vast, flower-banked mirrors. The air was heavy with the smell of hot wax and hot, tightly pressed bodies.

  “It truly is an abominable thing to do,” said Hero. “To refuse an invitation and then come anyway. But she’s such a detestable person, I can’t seem to dredge up the least shred of compunction. I’ll never understand why she is so successful in society. No one actually likes her.”

  “It’s because she’s the female version of a bully. No one might like her, but an amazing number are willing to accept her inflated sense of her own self-worth.”

  “Yes. But why?”

  He scanned the crowd of bejeweled, silk-clad women and sweating men. “That I don’t know.”

  Hero unfurled her fan in a feeble attempt to stir up some breathable air. “Why exactly are we here?”

  “To watch. And listen. And leap to wild and probably faulty assumptions.”

  “I don’t see Her Imperial Highness,” said Hero, scanning the dancers.

  “No, but there’s Princess Ivanna Gagarin.” He cast a seemingly casual glance toward a square of couples near the musicians, then looked pointedly away. “The striking young woman in white crepe over pale pink satin.”

  “Pale pink satin and nothing else, from the looks of it,” said Hero, watching the Russian noblewoman move through the figures of the cotillion. “I think she’s even dispensed with the scandalous option of dampened petticoats.”

  “Interesting choice of partners,” said Sebastian as the dancers promenaded.

  Hero shifted her attention to the young gentleman opposite the Grand Duchess’s lady-in-waiting. “Who is he?”

  “An up-and-coming relative of the Foreign Secretary.”

  “Interesting, indeed. Didn’t she tell you she met Ashworth at one of Countess Lieven’s loo-parties?”

  “She did, yes. Suggestive, isn’t it?”

  * * *

  Sebastian waited until the dance ended and Ivanna Gagarin retired with her partner to a nearby refreshment room.

  “Excuse us for a moment,” said Sebastian, walking up to her escort with a hard stare that had the young buck backing away fast.

  “That was clumsy,” said Ivanna, taking a sip of her champagne.

  “But effective.”

  “Are you so very anxious to speak with me again, my lord?”

  “I am, actually. I’m hearing that the real reason the Grand Duchess came to London so far in advance of her brother was in hopes of securing a new husband—the Prince Regent, to be specific.”

  He expected her to deny it. Instead, she gave a laugh of what sounded like genuine amusement and said, “Ironic, is it not? Obviously, nothing will come of that now.”

  “You do realize, of course, that the Regent already has a wife.”

  “Wives are easily dispensed with.”

  “You mean by poison?”

  She kept her smile in place, but it definitely tightened. “That is one method, I suppose. Although a simple divorce is generally sufficient.”

  “The Prince has tried that approach—several times. Without success.”

  “Perhaps. Although I suspect that with the coming of peace on the Continent, Princess Caroline will find continued residence in England much less attractive.”

  It was common knowledge in certain circles that the Princess of Wales was growing restless. Her daughter, Charlotte, was terrified her mother would be tempted to leave England once peace was declared—an unwise move that would make Prinny’s dream of a divorce considerably easier to obtain.

  Sebastian said, “None of this explains why Her Imperial Highness has decided to remain in London for the next two months while awaiting her brother’s arrival.”

  Ivanna gave a negligent shrug. “She finds the London Season . . . amusing.”

  Sebastian looked out over the ballroom, where couples were still assembling for the next dance. “Yet she chooses not to dance?”

  “The Grand Duchess is not fond of music.”

  “That must make it difficult to enjoy the Season.”

  “There is more to the Season than music and dance.” Ivanna took another sip of her champagne. There was an air of coiled alertness about her that reminded Sebastian of a serpent preparing to strike. “I seem to recall Ashworth mentioning that his young bride is quite fond of dancing. How unfortunate that he should die at the beginning of the Season, thus depriving her of her fun.”

  Sebastian found it profoundly disturbing, the thought of Ashworth discussing Stephanie with this woman. “He spoke to you of his wife?”

  “Not a great deal. Although I assume you are aware of her affair with that young Welsh architect. What’s his name again? Ah, yes, Russell Firth.”

  She started to turn away, but Sebastian put out a hand, stopping her. “Did you get this from Ashworth as well?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what? ‘Exactly.’”

  “He’s not the one who told me.” Her lips quirked up into a taunting smile. “Now you must decide whether you believe me.”

  Sebastian searched her beautiful, quietly triumphant face. “Why were you involved with him? Truly.”

  “I told you: He intrigued me. I’d never met anyone quite like him.”

  “There are more than a dozen dead street children buried up at Clerkenwell who would agree with that last part, at least.”

  She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Street children?”

  “You would have me think you didn’t know?”

  “I’ve not the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Torture. Rape. Murder.”

  “I think you exaggerate.”

  “The dead don’t exaggerate.”

  “Then perhaps their translators do. All I know is that I’m sorry I never had the chance to get to know Ashworth better.”

  “Most people would consider that a blessing.”

  “Perhaps. But then, I’m not like most people.”

  And with that she glided away, a sensuous slip of a woman in pink silk that clung to her exquisite form like a shimmering second skin.

  * * *

  Sebastian was pushing through the tightly packed mass of Countess Lieven’s perspiring guests, looking for Hero, when Colonel Nikolai Demidov, his dress uniform dripping with gold braid, cut him off.

  “Vhy are you here?” demanded the colonel in a fierce growl. Unlike the Grand Duchess and her noble lady-in-waiting, Demidov spoke English with a heavy Russian accent.

  “Ah, he speaks,” said Sebastian. “I was beginning to wonder.”

  The colonel’s eyes narrowed. He looked to be in his late thi
rties, with dark hair, heavy dark brows, and the traditional thick, military-style mustache of the Imperial Guard. “You vill leave the Princess Ivanna alone.”

  “Or you’ll—what? Hack me to bits in my sleep? Stab me in the back and leave me as food for foraging pigs in some noisome alley?”

  “You laugh.” The colonel leaned in closer, his breath washing over Sebastian’s face as he made a heavy tssk-tssk sound with his tongue and teeth. Then he turned and walked away.

  Sebastian was still staring after him when Amanda came to stand beside him and demand in a low, harsh voice, “What are you doing here?”

  Sebastian brought his gaze to his sister’s face. He was really in no mood for this. “Dear Amanda. You’re the second person in as many minutes to ask me that. What do you think? That I’m here for some nefarious purpose?”

  “Of course you are.” She was wearing an elegant V-necked gown of silver silk edged with dainty white lace, a silk dowager’s turban crowned with a towering white ostrich plume, and the famous Wilcox diamonds. The effect was awe-inspiring.

  He said, “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be in mourning for your daughter’s dead husband? True, he’s only a son-in-law; but surely he should get at least two weeks?”

  She ignored the question, as he’d known she would. “Your presence here is making people talk.”

  “If the subject is Ashworth, then they’d be talking whether I was here or not. There’s something about being found dead tied naked to your bed that tends to provide fodder for gossip.”

  “Will you keep your voice down?” she hissed. “I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were actually enjoying this.”

  “I’m not the least bit sorry he’s dead, if that’s what you’re suggesting. But I never ‘enjoy’ investigating murders. It isn’t about the hunt, or the winning, or in fact anything about me. It’s about stopping someone who is dangerous. And in this instance, it’s also about protecting someone I love.”

  “I told you, you’re being ridiculous. No one with any sense would ever think to blame Stephanie for this.”

  Her words did not match the tight, worried anger in her face. He kept his voice low. “Was Steph having an affair with someone, Amanda? Do you know?”

  “Now you are going beyond ridiculous,” she snapped, and turned away.

  He was still gazing after her when Hero walked up to him. She said, “Amanda is not pleased, I take it.”

  “Not hardly. She thinks my presence here is making people talk.”

  “It is. And by confronting you like that, she just gave them more fodder for gossip.”

  * * *

  On the carriage ride home, he told Hero of his conversation with the Grand Duchess’s lady-in-waiting.

  “You think Ivanna Gagarin is telling the truth?” said Hero. “That Stephanie is having an affair?”

  “Ironically, it’s one of the few things she’s told me that I’m inclined to believe.”

  “Because it reinforces what Hendon chanced to witness in Hyde Park?”

  “Partially. But also because Princess Ivanna claimed Ashworth wasn’t the one who told her about it. If her intent was to deflect my suspicions away from his strange Russian connection and toward some tawdry romantic triangle, then it would make more sense for her to say she’d had it from him.”

  “But you probably wouldn’t have believed her, then.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  Hero was silent for a moment, her gaze on the darkened, quiet shops and rows of softly glowing streetlamps sliding by in the night. Then she said, “People are already whispering about Stephanie. If she was having an affair and word of it gets out, it won’t look good.”

  He took Hero’s hand in his and laced his fingers with hers. “You know Firth better than I. Could he have done this, do you think? Hacked two men to death?”

  “I don’t know him that well. Have you asked Stephanie herself about him?”

  “Yes, and she pretended she hardly knew him. But then, she would, wouldn’t she?”

  Chapter 20

  Sunday, 3 April

  Early the next morning, Sebastian took his Arabian mare for a ride in Hyde Park. It was early enough that the mist still hung in the upper branches of the plane trees lining Rotten Row. The air was fresh and cool, the park a tapestry of mellow browns and hazy greens carpeted with endless drifts of dew-dampened bluebells. He trotted up and down the Row, waiting.

  She arrived just as the clock towers of the city were striking eight, a golden-haired, solemn-faced young woman mounted on a big bay gelding. Her neat black riding habit was more somber than usual, but she still wore her little shako cap at a defiant angle.

  “Uncle,” said Stephanie, reining in beside him. The bay moved restlessly beneath her, eager to stretch its legs, for she had only recently returned to riding again after her confinement. “Do I take it this meeting is not by chance?”

  He turned his horse to walk up the Row beside hers, her groom following at a discreet distance. “There’s something important I need to ask you, and it’s delicate enough that I thought it best to broach the subject in as private a setting as possible.”

  “This sounds ominous. Are you going to ask if I killed my husband again? I didn’t, you know.”

  “Actually, it’s about the Welsh architect, Russell Firth.”

  He watched her carefully, saw her throat work as she swallowed before she turned her head to stare straight between her horse’s ears and affect a casual, almost bored voice. “What about him?”

  “To be blunt, Steph? I’m told you’re having an affair with him. Is it true?”

  “No!”

  He studied her pale, strained face. “I wish I could believe you. But I can’t.”

  She looked at him again, her vivid blue eyes snapping with anger. “Then why bother to ask?”

  “I hoped you might be honest with me.”

  She urged her horse into a fast trot. He caught up, and a silence stretched out between them filled only with the creak of their saddle leather and the rhythm of the horses’ hooves beating the soft earth of the track. Finally, she said, “I was with child until recently, in case you’ve forgotten. Exactly when do you imagine I indulged in this affair? Hmmm?”

  “You met him last spring, did you not?”

  “Good God.” She reined in hard. “Now what are you suggesting?”

  He drew up and swung his horse to face her. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to put the worst of his suspicions into words. Instead, he said, “Do you know anything about Ashworth’s involvement with a Russian noblewoman attached to the household of the Grand Duchess?”

  She stared at him a long moment before answering. “If you mean Princess Ivanna Gagarin, I’m aware of the whispers. But are they true? I don’t know. She’s a nasty woman. From what I hear, she and Ashworth deserved each other.”

  “Oh? What have you heard?”

  Her brows twitched together in a frown. “She likes to say her husband was killed at the Battle of Borodino, but that’s not strictly true. He was wounded there and carried to a nearby inn. She arrived a day later with great show to nurse him back to health although everyone said it was unnecessary, that his wound was minor and he was expected to make a quick recovery. And then he . . . died.”

  “Men die of seemingly inconsequential battle wounds all the time.”

  “Perhaps. But there’s a reason everyone suspected her of poisoning him. He wasn’t the first person to die inexplicably around her.” She made a soft, throaty sound that might have been a laugh. “There would be a certain poetic justice to it, don’t you think? For Ashworth to die at the hands of someone like her?”

  “But why would she kill him?”

  “You assume she needed a reason. You’re always so logical, Uncle. You have this idea that people do everything for a reason, that th
ey never act without carefully thinking their actions through. But that’s not actually true of most people. Perhaps she simply enjoys killing.”

  He had to admit this was one possibility he had not considered—that Ivanna Gagarin could have stabbed Ashworth over and over again simply for the sheer pleasure of taking another human being’s life. Given her affinity for Ashworth, it made a certain kind of twisted sense.

  Stephanie put up a hand to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. “I hear the inquest is tomorrow.”

  Sebastian nodded. “At eleven.”

  “What’s the point, when they have no idea who killed him?”

  “It’s necessary before the body can be released for burial.”

  “Ah. Well, I must say I’ll be glad when he’s buried. He’s evil.” She glanced over at him. “Where do you think it comes from? That terrible, twisted evil that lurks inside men like him.”

  He met her gaze. “I don’t know. A vicar would tell you that evil comes from Satan.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “No,” he said honestly. “I met an Egyptian holy man once who told me they believe evil has no existence in and of itself but is simply a lack of good—the same way darkness is a lack of light. That makes more sense to me. But I still can’t say I agree.”

  They rode on in silence, walking their horses, the wind slowly blowing the mist clear of the trees. He wanted to ask her when she had realized that Ashworth was fundamentally, irretrievably evil. He wanted to ask if her husband had discovered she was being unfaithful to him, thus setting in motion the series of events that ended with his hacked, bloody corpse tied naked to his bed. But the words would not come. And so he simply rode beside her, with the breeze damp against his face and the sweet sound of morning birdsong somehow accentuating the ache in his heart.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, he was in his dressing room, changing out of his riding habit, when Calhoun said, “I believe I may have identified that ruffian named ‘Sid’ you were asking about, my lord.”