Chapter 31
T he Dowager Duchess of Claiborne was standing beside the counter of a fashionable Bond Street milliner when Sebastian pushed open the shop door with a jangle of bells.
Grandly dressed in an elegant gown of hyacinth-spotted silk with an intricately worked flounce, the Duchess had her eyes narrowed as she tried to decide between the rival merits of two caps: one with a fetching azure blue ribbon, the other ornamented with tasteful little tucks. At the sight of Sebastian, she drew her chin back against her chest and scowled. “Devlin. Good heavens. Whatever it is you want to know, I can’t talk to you about it here.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Am I so transparent?”
“In a word? Yes. Now, go away.”
He leaned one hip against a nearby display cabinet and crossed his arms. “I can wait until you’re finished.”
“I can’t decide which of these caps I want with you standing there.”
“So buy them both. They’re both lovely.”
“They are, aren’t they?” she agreed. She set them down and said to the clerk, “Both it is.”
Leaving her abigail to supervise the wrapping of her purchases, Aunt Henrietta tucked her hand through the crook of Sebastian’s arm as they left the shop and headed up Bond Street. “Right, then, what is it now?”
“I need you to tell me everything you know about Chantal de LaRivière.”
The Dowager gave him a speculative sideways glance. “What about her?”
“All I know is that she was young and beautiful, and she died. What was her background? Do you have any idea?”
“I believe she came from the lesser nobility or perhaps even the bourgeoisie. Her marriage to the Count de Compans was considered something of a coup. But then, she was very beautiful.”
“That’s all anyone ever says about her. ‘She was beautiful.’”
“Well, she was. Enchantingly so.”
“There must have been more to her than her looks.”
Aunt Henrietta was silent for a moment, her eyes focused on something in the distance in a way that made him wonder what she was thinking. “Our society doesn’t simply reward beauty in women,” she said after a moment. “People act as if a woman’s beauty is an outward manifestation of her inner goodness. As a result, there’s a tendency to credit a beautiful woman with any number of positive characteristics that she may not, in fact, actually possess. Have you noticed? A beautiful woman—particularly if she’s fair-haired—is automatically assumed to be sweet and gentle, loving and giving, innocent and good. At the same time, people tend to discount both her intelligence and her strength.” Henrietta paused, then added, “And her potential for cunning.”
“Somehow, I doubt you fall into the trap of that kind of thinking.”
“Not often, perhaps. But I suspect I do sometimes. It’s human nature, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.” He watched a pigeon flutter down to peck at some crumbs on the pavement. “So, what was Chantal like—really like—beneath her famous beauty?”
“It’s difficult to say. She cultivated an aura of helplessness mixed with good-natured sweetness and one of those breathy little-girl voices that somehow make a woman seem simultaneously childlike and yet highly attractive to men in that way Claiborne is shocked to hear his mother talk about.”
“But?” prompted Sebastian when she hesitated.
“I could be wrong, but I always suspected that beneath all the filmy white muslin and the wide, perfect smiles, she was shrewd, hard as granite, and utterly amoral.”
“She was?”
“There, you see?” said his aunt. “You’re shocked, aren’t you? You’ve been picturing her as this gentle, innocent, tragic little thing, haven’t you?”
“I suppose I have. What makes you think she wasn’t?”
“A woman’s intuition, mainly. But I also watched her work her wiles on several different men. She knew exactly what she was doing.”
“Which men? Can you remember?”
“Crispin Hayes, for one. But there were others.”
“Do you remember their names?”
Aunt Henrietta stared off down the street. “Hmmm. There was one young Scotsman in particular. I can’t recall his name, but I remember wondering why she bothered with him. He was attractive, but not excessively so. And his father was nothing more than a Marine officer.”
Sebastian drew up short. “You mean Hamish McHenry?”
“Ah, yes, that was his name. I don’t know what became of him.”
“He bought a pair of colors.”
“Then that explains why he disappeared.”
“Did you ever see the Countess ‘work her wiles’ on Nicholas Hayes?”
“No. Not that it would have done her any good. I told you, he had eyes only for Kate.”
“Even after she married?”
“By the time she was married, Nicholas had been banished by his father.”
Sebastian watched the pigeon take flight at the approach of a rumbling old landau. “I’m told Chantal de LaRivière left a child.”
“Yes, Compans’s heir.”
“So he’s still alive?”
“Last I heard. I believe he left for France with the Bourbons.”
“And the Count de Compans never remarried?”
“No.”
“Because he’s still desperately in love with his dead wife?”
Aunt Henrietta sniffed. “To be honest, I don’t know that he was ever in love with her. He was obviously proud of her beauty—saw her as reflecting well on him. And I believe he liked knowing that other men desired and coveted his wife. There’s no doubt he now plays the part of the bereaved husband, although from what I understand it hasn’t kept him from maintaining a string of mistresses over the years.”
“In other words, Gilbert-Christophe de LaRivière is as much of a playactor as Chantal was. She played at being sweet and innocent, while he has now assumed the role of a bereaved widower forever in love with his murdered wife. So where lies the truth? I wonder.”
The Dowager drew up at the corner and turned. “In my experience, the truth is generally the exact opposite of what such people would have you believe.”
After leaving Bond Street, Sebastian paid another visit to Lower Sloan Street.
He found Mrs. McHenry alone in her parlor, tatting. “Oh dear,” she said when a nervous young housemaid showed him in. “Hamish isn’t here again. But you did find him yesterday, didn’t you, my lord?”
“I’m afraid not.” Sebastian was beginning to suspect Hamish McHenry had regretted stepping forward and was now trying to avoid him.
“Oh dear,” she said again. “I think he’s gone off to watch the barges on the river. The Regent is taking the Allied Sovereigns to Woolwich today, you know, for the launching of the Enterprise. Now that should be a grand sight. Hamish has always loved the tall ships.”
“I’m surprised he bought a pair of colors rather than joining the Navy or the Marines like his father.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice as if imparting an embarrassing secret. “Well, to be honest, he gets frightfully seasick, you see. He’s dreading this coming voyage to America.” She settled back against the cushions. “Still enjoys seeing the ships, though. He was talking about going down to Woolwich for the launch, but I believe he decided simply to watch the barges from London Bridge.” She glanced down at the watch she wore pinned to her shelflike bosom. “I suspect you could catch him there, if you hurried.”
“Thank you,” said Sebastian, pushing to his feet. “I believe I shall.”