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 house 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.”
“Eventually.”
He searched her strained, tightly held face. “How is Lindley taking it?”
“To be honest, I’m worried about him. His doctor has been warning him about his heart for months and giving him all kinds of potions that don’t seem to do any good. I’m afraid Ashworth’s death is going to kill him. It must be unbearable, burying your own child—however horrid that child may be. And Lindley has already buried three.”
“I didn’t know he’d had other children.”
She nodded. “A younger son who died at fifteen, and two little girls he lost as infants.” Her face relaxed with a hint of a smile. “He worries about the twins constantly. He’s always climbing up to the nursery just to check on them. If anything is going to get him through the pain of losing his son, I suspect it’ll be the boys. I couldn’t take them away from him simply so that I could go hide in the country.”
“He could go with you. It might do him some good as well.”
She let out a soft sigh. “I can try. But I suspect he takes his responsibilities in Parliament far too seriously to leave while they’re still sitting.”
Sebastian watched a young nursemaid shepherd her charges across the street toward the park. What he had to ask his niece wasn’t just delicate; it was potentially insulting, and he wasn’t quite sure how to go about bringing it up.
He came at it sideways. “I didn’t realize Ashworth had an estate in Kent.”
“He does, yes. It’s small but pleasantly situated near Brighton. A maiden aunt left it to him.” She paused. “Why?”
“I’m told he was interested in redoing the facade.”
Sebastian saw the flare of raw panic in her vivid blue St. Cyr eyes before she half lowered her lashes and turned her face to stare out over the misty park. “I believe he was, yes.”
“Do you recall the name of the architect he was interested in engaging?”
Her breathing was rapid enough now to flutter the black ribbons of her bonnet where they lay against her throat. “You don’t seriously imagine that Ashworth would discuss such things with me, do you, Uncle? That’s not what women are for—at least, not in his mind.”
“I did warn you not to lie,” Sebastian said softly, “Not when you’re talking about murder.”
“Are we talking about murder? I thought we were discussing architecture.”
“Firth. The architect’s name is Russell Firth. And don’t try to pretend you don’t know him, because you’ve been seen together.”
She took a step back, her nostrils flaring, her eyes wide. “All right. Yes, I know him. He’s brilliant. But he had nothing to do with Ashworth’s death. To suggest otherwise is ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Ashworth was killed while tied naked to his bed with red silk cords, and his clothes were strewn all over the room. You know the kinds of games he liked to play. You should be looking for the woman he was ‘playing’ with that night rather than casting nasty aspersions on a fine architect.”
“Actually, I’m doing both.”
She started to turn away, but he laid a hand on her arm, stopping her. “One more question, Stephanie. Do you know anything about a young woman who is supposed to have committed suicide after Ashworth raped her?”
“I’m told there was some incident involving a card reader at Lady Egremont’s soiree a few weeks ago. I wasn’t there, but there’s not a tattletale in London who could resist making certain I’d heard of it.”
“You don’t know anything more about it?”
“No. Anthony and I didn’t discuss his latest rapes.” She glanced toward Lindley House and said calmly, “I really must go, Uncle.”
He took his hand from her arm but touched her cheek ever so gently before letting it fall. “I wish you’d trust me, Steph.”
“Trust is a dangerous luxury I learned to do without at the age of seven,” she said, then walked away, a tall, seemingly self-possessed woman whom he now knew to be far more fragile than he’d ever realized.