Who cries for the lost, p.9
Who Cries for the Lost, page 9
Sebastian tilted back his head and closed his eyes. His leg really hurt like hell now. “No, this was just a warning. They won’t try to kill me until next time.”
“Well, that’s reassuring.”
He opened his eyes and looked over at her. But all she said was, “Your leg is hurting, isn’t it?”
“A bit.”
She muttered what sounded suspiciously like an oath, then said, “You think the Weird Sisters sent those men after you?”
“It’s possible. Except why would they?”
“Why would anyone?”
“I wish I knew. My friend with the knife was definitely French.”
“A Bonapartist, a monarchist, or a Republican?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And the giant?”
“Who knows? He didn’t actually say anything, although the Frenchman spoke to him in English, which rather suggests that he is not French. And the truth is, they could be working for anyone. One need not be English-born to hire oneself out as a thug to an Englishman.”
“True.”
He shifted his weight in a futile attempt to ease the pressure on his thigh, the movement sending the water sloshing against the copper sides of the tub. “Have you ever met Monty’s wife, Isabella McPherson?”
“I have, yes. And Sibil Wilde is right: She is quite beautiful.”
“She is indeed. Although I can’t help but wonder why Sibil so very deliberately set out to make me suspect Isabella’s husband.”
“Well, McPherson did say the sisters have excellent sources of information. And I can see a cuckolded husband murdering and castrating the man who seduced his wife.”
“Or a betrayed woman hiring a knife-wielding Frenchman and his large friend to kill and castrate her unfaithful lover?”
“That, too.”
“The problem is,” said Sebastian, “Sedgewick was involved with too damn many women, any one of whom could be holding a lethal grudge against him. If Sibil is telling the truth—which is unarguably an ‘if’—we now know of three: Eloisa, Isabella, and Alexi. And there may well be more. Who would know?”
“Well, Isabella and Eloisa might,” said Hero. “But no,” she added quickly when he raised his head to look at her, “I am not going to ask either of them if they know who else the man they loved was sleeping with. I seriously doubt they’d be honest with me anyway.”
“Probably not,” said Sebastian, wrapping his hands around the edge of the tub to stand up, streaming hot soapy water. “I suppose I could try asking Aunt Henrietta. If there’s been any gossip, she would know about it.”
Born Lady Henrietta St. Cyr, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne was Hendon’s elder sister and thus not technically Sebastian’s aunt. But she was definitely one of his favorite people. Bright, acerbic, and inquisitive, she knew everyone—and remembered every tidbit of gossip and rumor that had ever passed her way.
Hero reached for the towel that had been kept warming by the fire. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.”
“Huh. You just don’t want to have to ask Eloisa who else her husband was screwing,” said Sebastian, then laughed when she threw the towel at him.
Chapter 16
Thursday, 15 June
Agrande dame now in her seventy-fifth year, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne still lived in the sprawling Park Lane town house to which she had come as a bride many years before. Technically the house now belonged to her middle-aged son, the current Duke. But she had never surrendered it to him, and he knew better than to try to wrest it from her. He simply lived elsewhere.
The Duchess was famous for never leaving her bedchamber until twelve or one, for her regular attendance at the most fashionable of Society’s balls, routs, and card parties meant that she rarely made it to her bed before three or four in the morning. But when Sebastian arrived on her doorstep the next morning shortly after ten, it was to find her already dressed in an elegant gown of dark blue peau de soie and seated at her breakfast table. A slice of half-eaten toast lay abandoned on the plate before her, and her tea was going cold. She had a copy of the Morning Post spread out on the table and was studying it carefully through the quizzing glass she wore on a gold chain around her neck.
“Devlin,” she said, looking up when her butler ushered him into the room. “Have you seen the papers?”
“Not today, no,” said Sebastian, going to pour himself a cup of tea.
She leaned back in her chair, her lips pursed, her face pinched with an uncharacteristically worried frown. Like Hendon, she was stockily built, with a broad, slablike face enlivened by the brilliant blue St. Cyr eyes. She had never been pretty, even when young, but she’d always had a stately manner, a regal presence, and an unerring sense of style. Sebastian was convinced she’d been born to be a duchess.
“Why?” he asked, coming to pull out the chair beside her. “What is it?”
“Napoléon has left Paris and is headed for the frontier!”
“Yes, I know.”
She stared at him. “You knew? Since when?”
“Yesterday sometime.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
He took a quick sip of tea and scalded his tongue. “I’m sorry; it didn’t occur to me.”
She folded her paper, then folded it again into a neat square, her attention seemingly all for her task. “You must know that both Alexander—Claiborne’s middle son—and Peter—he’s Emily’s second . . . or is it her third? At any rate, they’re both with the Army in Belgium. Alexander is one of Wellington’s aides-de-camp. And it didn’t occur to you that I might be interested in the fact that virtually the entire French Army is now marching against two of my favorite grandsons?”
“I truly am sorry,” he said again.
She brought up a hand to rub her eyes with a spread thumb and forefinger. “Hendon tells me you’ve involved yourself in this ghastly murder of Miles Sedgewick.”
“I take it he’s displeased?” said Sebastian, wondering why the Earl—who must surely have known of Bonaparte’s move—hadn’t seen fit to notify his sister about that, rather than grumbling to her of his heir’s shortcomings.
“What do you think?”
Sebastian simply took another sip of his tea.
“Frankly, I’m not surprised Sedgewick met an unpleasant end,” she said. “He was a sordid man.”
“But from a good family.”
Henrietta sniffed. “The family is ancient enough, I’ll give you that, even if the title is of fairly recent origin. And they’ve managed to hold on to their wealth better than many. But they’ve always been a bit off, if you know what I mean?”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“It’s not surprising, I suppose, when you consider that they got their start as robber barons back in the Middle Ages, kidnapping travelers to hold for ransom and blinding those who refused to pay up. And while that might be ancient history, they don’t seem to have changed much on down through the ages. The current Marquis’s grandfather—that would have been Robert, the Second Marquis—killed a man in a duel before he was eighteen.”
“Well, that was rather more common in those days, was it not?”
“It was. Except there were rumors that, rather than besting his opponent in a fair fight, Robert actually ran his victim through with his sword when the man’s back was turned. Some tried to discredit the tale at the time, but it was given more credence when first his valet, then his wife’s mother, died violently under strange circumstances.”
“Sounds like quite the rum character.”
“He was, indeed. And his son, the Third Marquis, was no better. He kept a string of mistresses, but even that didn’t keep him from seducing his best friends’ wives and daughters. One of those friends finally caught him in flagrante and killed him.”
“He sounds rather like Miles.”
She nodded. “I’ve heard some try to dismiss Miles Sedgewick’s exploits as those of a young man sowing his wild oats. But when you make a habit of ruining the daughters of tradesmen and innkeepers, you’ve passed a line.”
“And he did?”
“It was as if it was a game with him.”
Her words echoed something the half-pay officer, Captain Martin Roche, had said to Sebastian. “Do you know the name of his current mistress?”
“I don’t believe I’ve heard. He had an opera dancer in keeping up until a few months ago, but I understand Lord Rockman has her now.”
“Good God, where do you learn all this stuff?”
She gave him a level look. “People talk. I simply listen and remember. Or at least, I usually do,” she added with a troubled frown. “There was a particularly sordid rumor making the rounds some years ago, shortly before Stamford bought Miles a pair of colors and he went off to the wars. But I wasn’t particularly convinced it was true, and now I can’t seem to recall the exact details.” She sighed. “I must be getting old. Let me think on it a bit, and it may come to me.”
“What do you know of his wife?”
“Eloisa Platt?” The Dowager sniffed again. “The father is a hopelessly pushing mushroom, of course. You’ve heard he’s managed to get his son betrothed to Haskett’s daughter? Of course, everyone knows that Haskett is all washed up, so I suppose he had no choice.”
“Is it true Eloisa was in the family way when she married Sedgewick?”
“Of course she was. Platt would never have agreed to the match otherwise. She’s much prettier than the sister who caught a baron, so he had set his sights even higher with her. Since then she’s managed to cultivate a reputation as a levelheaded, sternly religious young woman, although she can’t be too levelheaded if she allowed herself to be seduced by a younger son in search of a rich wife.”
“Well, she would have been quite young, and Sedgewick could be quite charming.”
“Oh, yes. His kind tend to make a study of it, wouldn’t you say?” She paused for a moment, her expression thoughtful.
“What?” he asked, watching her.
“I remember hearing several months ago that the family’s governess was let go rather hastily. Seems Eloisa dismissed her for allowing Sedgewick to seduce her.”
“When was this?”
“When you were in Paris, sometime around February or March. Eloisa turned her off without a character.”
“Do you recall the governess’s name?”
“Good heavens, no; I doubt I even heard it.” The Duchess fixed him with a level stare. “I understand that whoever killed Sedgewick also castrated him. Is that why you’re so interested in the women in his life?”
“Was that bit of information in the Morning Post?”
“No, I heard it at Lady Sefton’s ball last night.”
“Ah.” He drained his teacup and set it aside. “What do you know of Isabella McPherson?”
“Sir Montgomery’s wife? Beautiful woman. Are you saying she was another of Sedgewick’s conquests?”
“I honestly don’t know. All anyone ever says of her is that she’s very beautiful.”
“Well, she is, isn’t she? Not terribly bright, I’m afraid, but exquisite to look at, and sweet enough, I suppose, in that rather insipid way. If she’s played Sir Montgomery false, then she’s been very discreet, for I’ve heard nothing about it.”
Sebastian nodded and pushed to his feet, being careful to take his weight on his good leg. “I promise if I hear anything more from the Continent, I’ll let you know.”
“Your wound is still bothering you, isn’t it?” she said, watching him.
“It’s healing.”
“Hendon is worried about you. He says you’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“I’ll be all right.”
She gave him a look he had no difficulty interpreting, then said, “Will it be bad, do you think? This coming battle, I mean.”
He wasn’t going to lie to her. “I suspect so, yes. Both sides know how much is riding on it, so neither is going to hold anything back.”
“When is it likely to begin?”
“By the end of this week, perhaps; the beginning of next week at the latest.”
The Dowager pressed her lips together and nodded. “It’s so dreadful to think about. All those handsome, gay young men with virtually their entire lives ahead of them. And yet in a week’s time, so many of them will be dead.”
“At least then it will be over, once and for all. If he’s defeated, Bonaparte will never be able to come back again.”
“And if he wins?”
“Then Europe will simply need to learn to live with him—in peace, for a change.”
“Is that even possible?”
He met her troubled gaze. “I don’t know. Hopefully we won’t have to worry about finding out.”
* * *
A gust of wind blew a chill rain in Sebastian’s face as he descended the steps of his aunt’s house. Walking up to Tom, he said, “It doesn’t look like this bloody rain is likely to stop anytime soon. I want you to take the curricle back to Brook Street, then spend the rest of the day looking for a governess who was dismissed by Miles and Eloisa Sedgewick last February or March.”
“Aye, gov’nor!” said Tom, his eyes shining with anticipation. “What’s ’er name?”
“I have no idea. Sorry.”
But Tom only laughed.
Chapter 17
You’ve heard Napoléon is marching toward the frontier?” said Lovejoy as he and Sebastian sat at one of the round front tables of a small coffeehouse tucked away beneath the colonnade of the Italianate-style piazza that housed Covent Garden Market. A fire burned cheerfully on the nearby hearth and the sconces placed at intervals along the shop’s mellow old wainscotted walls were lit, for the day had continued cold and wet. Outside in the square, the market’s normally raucous activity was muted, the crowds of stall keepers and shawl-covered housewives, porters and ragged little pickpockets, all thinned by the rain and the cold wind that rippled the puddles of water collecting in the dips of the worn, sunken flagstones.
“I heard,” said Sebastian, wrapping both hands around his hot coffee.
Lovejoy sighed. “I fear it’s only a matter of time until we receive news of a terrible battle.”
Sebastian nodded. “Napoléon isn’t going to wait to launch his attack. The combined British and Prussian armies already outnumber his; he can’t afford to give the Russians and Austrians time to get in place, too.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Lovejoy stared out the paned front window at the gray, dismal scene, his expression that of a man who is forced by the realities of his age and circumstances to confront an unpleasant truth that fills him with regret. “It’s difficult to sit here, safe and comfortable, knowing what others are facing just across the Channel.”
“Yes,” said Sebastian, and left it at that.
Lovejoy cleared his throat, as if belatedly remembering his companion’s circumstances. “I fear that, so far, we haven’t had any luck locating Captain Sedgewick’s mistress.”
“I gather he let his latest one go before he left for the Continent and had probably been amusing himself with the wife of a friend.”
“Oh, dear,” said Lovejoy, frowning. “We’ve had constables talking to boatmen and dockworkers up and down the river, but they’ve yet to locate anyone willing to admit having seen anything Saturday night. At this point, it’s anyone’s guess as to where Sedgewick’s body was thrown into the river, and we’ve no idea at all where he was killed.”
“What about the headless man? Any luck identifying him?”
“Not yet. No one has been reported missing.” Lovejoy leaned back in his chair, both forearms resting on the table before him. “It’s strange, don’t you think? Although I suppose he could have come off a ship.”
“It’s possible. Although he looks far too soft, pale skinned, and pampered to have been a seaman or even a ship’s officer.”
“So a passenger, perhaps? Someone newly arrived in the city who was killed shortly after disembarking?”
“Or someone whose friends and family think he left town and don’t yet realize he never made it to his destination.”
“What a disturbing thought,” said Lovejoy.
Sebastian swallowed the last of his coffee and set the empty cup aside. “I’ve been trying to trace Sedgewick’s movements the day he was killed, but so far I’m not having a great deal of luck. Who did you say ran into him that night in Whitehall?”
“A gentleman of letters by name of Tiptoff—Dudley Tiptoff. I’ve met him several times at various lectures given at the Royal Scientific Society. He’s something of an eccentric—lives alone in Bloomsbury and spends most of his time in the British Museum.”
“I thought I’d try talking to him. He might be able to tell me something useful he doesn’t realize he knows. What does he study?”
Lovejoy stared out the window at the torrent of water shooting off a torn, windblown awning. “I believe his specialty is folklore.”
* * *
Dudley Tiptoff, Esq., lived in a narrow town house on Bury Street, conveniently located just around the corner from the British Museum. Sebastian’s knock at his door was answered by a housemaid rather than by a footman or butler, for housemaids were considerably cheaper to employ than manservants, and Dudley Tiptoff was obviously not the kind of man who felt the need to ape the ways of the aristocracy. The Tiptoffs were a good old family, but as he was often heard to say, they’d never aspired to anything grander than simple gentility. He had a comfortable income from money judiciously invested by his father in the Funds and saw no need to fritter away on servants’ wages what could be better spent on the books and artifacts that filled his modest Bloomsbury home. He had never married and had been known to confess that he tended to feel awkward around the fair sex, thanks to a birth deformity that had left him with a slight but unmistakable limp. But then wives, like manservants, were an expensive indulgence for a man with so many other interests.
