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.”