Who cries for the lost, p.20
Who Cries for the Lost, page 20
Sebastian gazed down at the red, scrunch-faced, sleeping infant and smiled. “He is, yes. And how is Cousin Victoria?”
“She’s doing well. It was an amazingly easy delivery—especially for a first birth.”
“Thank God for that.”
“It’s always magical, isn’t it?” she said, looking over at him with a soft, joyous smile. And he felt his heart swell with so much love that it hurt.
“Always,” he whispered, his gaze locking with hers.
A heavy tread on the stairs drew their attention to where Jarvis himself was coming down toward them. “Congratulations, my lord,” said Sebastian, turning. “You have a fine new son.”
“Thank you,” said the big man. He paused beside Hero, his gaze on the child in her arms, his face so gentle, so filled with wonder and quiet joy, that Sebastian caught a glimpse that he’d rarely seen of a private side to this powerful, formidable man. Then Jarvis looked up, a speculative gleam banishing that brief moment of tenderness and vulnerability as his gaze settled on his son-in-law. “Did you wish to see me about something?”
Sebastian shook his head. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
* * *
It was some time later, when Sebastian and Hero were seated on the sunny terrace overlooking their rear garden while the two boys played with their big black cat, that Sebastian said to Hero, “How would you like to go to a ball tonight?”
She laughed and shifted the slant of her parasol so that she could look over at him. Then she said, “Oh, heavens, you’re serious. Which ball?”
“The one being given by the French Ambassador.”
“That’s tonight? With everything that’s going on, I’d totally forgotten it.”
“Do you feel up to it?”
“Yes, of course. But why?”
“Because the Ambassador from Spain is bound to be there, and it’s probably the easiest way to find out more about this diplomat who was involved in the negotiations that ended with the French prisoners being sent to Cabrera.”
“What do you think he can tell you?”
“I don’t know. But it seems a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? Such a man being posted to London now?”
“Coincidences do happen.”
“They do,” said Sebastian, watching Simon trail a length of string down a flagstone path for the cat to chase. “And sometimes their consequences can be deadly.”
* * *
The French Ambassador to the Court of St. James was a blue-blooded aristocrat named Claude-Louis-Raoul de La Châtre. His father, the previous Marquis de La Châtre, had been guillotined by the revolutionaries in 1793, while Claude-Louis fled France to organize a regiment of émigrés loyal to the deposed Bourbons. He was in his late sixties now, with a long nose, a prominent, full lower lip, and fiercely dark eyebrows that contrasted strikingly with the thin white hair he wore hanging long to his shoulders. Sebastian had never met the man, but he was the representative of the newly restored—although now once again deposed—Bourbons, and the Bourbons were not fond of Sebastian.
“Ah, monsieur le vicomte,” he said when Sebastian and Hero were presented to him. “And Lady Devlin. I have heard Marie-Thérèse speak of you both.” He paused, his heavy dark brows drawing together in a frown. “Often.”
“Oh, dear,” said Hero in a low voice after they’d turned away. “I get the impression the Daughter of France has not had nice things to say about us.”
“Evidently not.”
The roar of voices was so loud they could barely hear the music leaking from the ballroom as they worked their way through the press of laughing, gaily chatting members of London’s moneyed elite. “Do you even know what the Spanish Ambassador looks like?” Hero asked.
“No,” Sebastian admitted.
“Perhaps you can find Hendon and persuade him to introduce you to His Excellency while I stalk the Ambassador’s wife.”
“You’re optimistic if you think Hendon will agree to do any such thing.”
“Perhaps he’ll surprise you. One would think he’d be in charity with you, given that we actually came here as he asked.”
“Perhaps.”
But when Sebastian finally tracked the Earl to the supper room, he glared at his heir and said, “What the devil are you doing here?”
“You sound like Amanda,” said Sebastian, running his gaze over the rather meager spread the French embassy had provided for its guests. But then, funds did tend to dry up when one’s monarch has been deposed. “You’re the one who wanted me to attend tonight, remember?”
“Yes, but I didn’t expect you to actually come.”
“I need you to introduce me to the Spanish Ambassador.”
Hendon fixed him with a steady gaze. “Why?”
“I’d like to ask the man some questions—and I promise not to create a diplomatic incident in the process.”
“God preserve us,” muttered Hendon, setting aside his plate.
* * *
In contrast to the French Ambassador, the Spanish Ambassador to the Court of St. James—Carlos Gutiérrez de los Rios y Sarmiento de Sotomayor—was quite young, still in his thirties. His family was also old and aristocratic—he was the Seventh Count of Fernán Núñez—but they’d never been either excessively powerful or excessively wealthy, and his long boyish face bore a habitual smile of almost impish goodwill.
“An honor, sir,” said the Spaniard when Hendon introduced them and then withdrew with a warning glare at Sebastian. “I understand you fought in the Peninsula.”
“I did, yes.”
The Ambassador’s smile lit up his features. He was a small man, slightly built, with bushy eyebrows, large protruding eyes, and a small chin. “Hopefully someday you will be able to return to Spain and enjoy your visit in a time of peace.”
“I would like that,” said Sebastian, watching out of the corner of his eye as Hero adroitly collided with a pretty young woman he suspected was the count’s wife. “I wonder, did you ever meet my colleague, Captain Miles Sedgewick? He also fought in the Peninsula.”
The Ambassador’s genial smile faded. “I fear I never had the pleasure. He’s the gentleman who was recently found murdered?”
“He is, yes. I understand he knew one of the members of your diplomatic mission—someone he met in Cádiz in 1808 or 1809.”
“Ah, that would have been Francisco de la Serna.”
“Is he here this evening?”
“Unfortunately, no. He was recalled to Madrid last week. His father has taken ill and is not expected to live long.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. When did he sail?”
“Last Sunday, I believe.”
For a moment, Sebastian could only stare at the Spaniard as a new and profoundly disturbing thought occurred to him. “I understand he was a young, slim man?”
“Francisco?” The Spaniard gave a soft laugh. “Once, yes. But after so many years and a great many fine dinners and bottles of wine, both youth and slimness are difficult to maintain, yes?”
“They are indeed,” said Sebastian. “I’m sorry I missed him. Hopefully he’ll be returning to London soon?”
“Once this flare-up of war is over—which, God willing, will be soon.”
“God willing,” said Sebastian.
* * *
It was when Sebastian was working his way through the crowd toward Hero that he came upon his father-in-law.
“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Jarvis, stepping in front of him.
“Everyone keeps asking me that,” said Sebastian. “Why are you here?”
“You mean instead of staying home with my wife and newborn son? It was Victoria herself who urged me to come.”
She would, thought Sebastian. Jarvis and his new wife were very well suited to each other.
Jarvis frowned. “Why were you talking to the Spanish Ambassador just now?”
Sebastian cast a quick glance toward the door, where something—or someone—was causing a commotion. “He invited me to visit Spain again.”
There was a loud thump, followed by a curse.
“What the blazes is that racket?” demanded Jarvis, just as a small, skinny lad dressed in a tiger’s striped waistcoat wiggled his way through the jeweled throng of silk-and-satin-clad ladies and their gentlemen.
“A message come for ye from Bow Street,” Tom said breathlessly as he skidded to a halt beside Sebastian. “It’s one o’ them Weird Sisters. She’s been murdered!”
Chapter 39
Astrid Wilde lay slumped behind the counter of the room that had once, in its former life, housed a tavern. Her hands were curled limply at her sides, her head lolling awkwardly against one shoulder. The narrow cord that someone had used to kill her was still tight around her neck, embedded deeply in the flesh of her throat. Her wide-open eyes were bulging and bloody, her tongue so swollen it protruded from her mouth in a horrid grimace. A thin trickle of blood ran from one ear, and her bowels and bladder had let loose, soaking the skirts of her elegant old-fashioned gown of gold satin.
“Ghastly, isn’t it?” said Lovejoy, holding his handkerchief to his nose and mouth.
Sebastian let his gaze drift around the shelf-lined room, ablaze now with light from the lanterns of the constables who stood huddled together in groups of two and three, their shoulders hunched and their faces wary. There seemed to be an extraordinary number of them. “Any idea when this happened?”
“Her sister says she found her just after ten.”
“Which sister?”
“The Jamaican one.”
“Ah. And the other one—Sibil?”
“Says she only came in shortly before we arrived.”
“No one saw anything?”
“Nothing they’re willing to admit to.”
Sebastian jerked his head toward the somber groups of men crowded into the room. “Why all the constables?”
Lovejoy sighed. “It was the only way short of getting someone to call out the Army that I could convince anyone to accompany me here.”
“St. Giles does have a nasty reputation.”
Lovejoy dropped his gaze to the body at their feet. “It is well deserved.”
* * *
While Lovejoy was supervising the loading of Astrid Wilde onto the shell that would carry her body to Gibson’s Tower Hill surgery, Sebastian walked down the shadowy passage behind the counter to find Sibil Wilde seated in her ornately carved high-backed chair. A glass with a healthy measure of brandy stood at her elbow and her tarot deck lay strewn across the surface of the table as if she’d thrown it down in anger or disgust. Tonight she wore a gown of dark green velvet that looked like something from the days of Charles II, with slit sleeves joined loosely with ribbons and a full skirt with a satin underdress. The small chamber was lit only by the candelabra she had set in the center of the cloth-draped table, its flames leaping up golden and bright but leaving the corners of the room in shadow. She had her rich dark hair flowing loose around her shoulders, and she looked both beautiful and, somehow, very, very dangerous.
She had been simply staring down at the spilled cards. But she looked up when Sebastian came to stand in the doorway, and for a long moment her gaze met his. Then she said, “You’ve seen her?”
“I have,” said Sebastian, leaning against the doorframe. “Tell me what happened.”
“You think I know?”
“I think you do, yes.”
She settled back, her forearms resting on the carved arms of her chair. “Well, I don’t.”
He pushed away from the doorway to wander the shadowy recesses of the room. “Who would want to kill her?”
“I have no idea.”
He paused on the far side of the table, his gaze hard on her face. “She’s not really your sister, is she?”
Sibil hesitated a moment, then shook her head.
“So who is she?”
“An actress. Too old to be some rich man’s mistress and never good enough on the boards to succeed once her looks began to fade.”
“How did she end up here?”
Sibil twitched one shoulder in a casual shrug. “It was something to do.”
“Spying for the Bourbons, you mean?”
Her expression didn’t alter. “I never said that.”
“No, you didn’t. So what was her real name?”
“I’ve no idea. She used to call herself Astrid Burns, but I suspect that was only a stage name.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Earlier this evening.”
“You were open when she was killed?” Most shops were required to close on Sundays. But such things were rarely enforced in places like St. Giles.
“We were, yes.”
“But no one saw anything?”
“Business was slow; people were out in the streets, but all anyone seems to want to think about is either Napoléon or the bodies they keep pulling from the river. I don’t know why we even bothered to open.”
“Had Astrid quarreled with anyone recently?”
“No.”
“Noticed anyone following her?”
“No.”
“She didn’t say anything to you at all about being nervous or afraid?”
“No. I keep telling you, I have no idea who killed her or why.”
“You don’t seem overly saddened by her death.”
Sibil stared back at him, her eyes wide and dry. “I told you she wasn’t actually my sister.”
“Yet you knew her.” He let his gaze drift around the room with its richly paneled walls and ancient sandstone fire surround. “So tell me this: Did you know Hamilton Evans?”
“Who?”
“Hamilton Evans—the young man at the Foreign Office whose headless corpse was pulled from the Thames a few days ago. Did you know him?”
“No.”
“What about a Spaniard named Francisco de la Serna? Did you know him?”
“A Spaniard? No. What has he to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing.”
She cocked her head, the light from the branch of candles casting a golden glow over her fair skin and deepening the highlights in her rich dark hair. “You think what happened to Astrid has something to do with the murders of those men whose bodies were found in the river?”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t. People are killed all the time—particularly in St. Giles.”
“You told me once that the people around here leave you alone, that they’re afraid of you. But whoever killed Astrid wasn’t afraid.”
Again, that careless shrug.
He pressed his hands flat on the tabletop and leaned into them. “Tell me about Gabriel.”
She kept her face completely blank. “Who?”
“Gabriel. The assassin working for the Bourbons. His preferred weapons are the dagger and the garrote. Sedgewick was stabbed. Astrid was garroted.”
“I noticed,” she said dryly.
“Gabriel,” he said again. “Tell me about him.”
Her head fell back as she stared up at him. “I don’t know anyone named Gabriel, and to my knowledge, none of my acquaintances are also assassins.”
Sebastian shook his head. She was doing her best to hide her fear, but it was there, in the flaring of her nostrils and the tightness around her lips. “You may not be grieved by Astrid’s death, but you are frightened by it, aren’t you?”
Her slim white throat worked as she swallowed. “Of course I’m frightened. In case you hadn’t noticed, everyone in London is frightened. Who wouldn’t be frightened by murder?”
“The person—or people—responsible, one assumes.”
“Perhaps. Yet fear is sometimes a motive for murder, is it not?”
“Sometimes. So what is the person who killed Astrid afraid of?”
“I can’t imagine. Perhaps I’m wrong; perhaps it has nothing to do with fear. Not all killers are afraid. Some are simply angry or filled with lust. Or greed.”
“All the selfish motives.”
“Yes.” She stared back at him with hooded eyes, the scar on her face showing dark against her pale skin. “But then, what is more selfish than murder?”
Chapter 40
Monday, 19 June
It was nearly dawn by the time Sebastian made it back to Brook Street. He was standing at the library window, his gaze on a torn playbill blowing down the deserted street, when Hero came to lean against the doorjamb, her hair loose about the shoulders of her blue satin dressing gown, her arms crossed at the bodice against the morning chill.
“You could at least try to sleep,” she said.
He shook his head. “I keep thinking, why? Why would this killer go after Astrid Wilde?”
She pushed away from the doorway. “You don’t know her murder is linked to the others, or even to the murder of just Sedgewick. St. Giles is a dangerous place.”
“It’s linked,” said Sebastian, going to kneel before the dying fire. “And Sibil knows it.”
Hero watched him shovel coal onto the glowing embers. “You think the headless, handless corpse they pulled from the Thames really was Francisco de la Serna?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. It could be. I’ve asked Lovejoy to see if there’s any way to find out if the man actually sailed with whatever ship he was booked on. But there probably isn’t. Not at this point.”
“The Ambassador’s wife said Francisco was a former cavalry officer, roughly the same height as her husband, but he’d put on weight in recent years so that he is now something like two or three stone heavier.”
