Chapter 41
Hiram Dobbs was coming out of a customer’s tall, stately house on Harley Street, his face and clothes thickly dusted with black soot, a bundle of long-handled brushes balanced on one shoulder. Two of his little apprentices, their faces drawn with exhaustion, stumbled behind him dragging filthy bags heavy with soot; another, even smaller child stood beside the barrow drawn up at the kerb. This third boy was completely naked, for when a chimney’s flues were particularly narrow, climbing boys were forced to strip bare in order to shinny up them. As he pulled on his ragged shirt, the child’s ribs showed painfully against his burned, bruised, and abraded skin, and Sebastian found he had to pause, so engulfed by a tide of mingling rage and shame that he didn’t trust himself to draw too near to the sweep.
With a clatter, Hiram tossed his brooms atop the bags of soot already in his barrow and turned to face Sebastian, blackened lips curling away from crooked yellow teeth in a snarl. “Wot ye want wit me now?” he demanded.
Sebastian drew a steadying breath and found his senses assaulted by a malodorous combination of soot, sweat, tobacco, and gin. “I heard an interesting tale about you today.”
“Oh?” Hiram dug a clay pipe from the pocket of his filthy, ragged coat and bit down on the end of the long stem with his back teeth. “That a fact?”
“You told me you didn’t go anywhere near Lady McInnis last Sunday. Except now I’m hearing that you accosted her as she and the children were about to leave for Richmond Park.”
Hiram reached down to seize one of the boys’ bags of soot and tossed it into his barrow. “Don’t know where ye got that. Keep the Lord’s Day, I do. Told ye that. Either somebody’s spinnin’ ye a tale or they seen somebody else. All I know is, it weren’t me. It says right there in Proverbs that lying lips are an abomination t’ the Lord.”
Sebastian watched him heave the second bag in with the others. “I might be inclined to believe you if the description of this individual didn’t fit quite so well. According to my source, the sweep’s rant had a decidedly biblical flavor—he called Lady McInnis an ungodly woman and false accuser who blasphemes the word of the Lord. Rather sounds like you, wouldn’t you say?”
Hiram’s nostrils flared wide as he sucked in a deep, angry breath. “I told ye, I never left the court that day ’cept t’ go to church. Told you, same as I told them Bow Street Runners who come at me the other mornin’.”
Sebastian glanced over at the handsome brick house beside them. A maid was already kneeling on the front steps with her bucket and brush, scrubbing at the traces of soot left by the sweep and his little boys. He had no doubt that the chimney sweep Percy had seen that fatal Sunday was Hiram Dobbs; he also had no doubt that a man who could abuse and kill one of the wretched, helpless orphans so cruelly consigned to his care would have no difficulty killing a woman he’d already threatened at least twice.
The problem was, if Dobbs did commit the murders out at Richmond Park, then how to explain the attacks on Percy and Arabella here in London? No one would ever describe Hiram Dobbs as a tall, well-dressed young man, and Sebastian seriously doubted the sweep had the means to hire someone else to do his killing for him.
Of course, it was always possible that they were dealing with two different killers—one who had murdered Laura McInnis and her daughter out at Richmond Park, and another who killed Gilly Harper and attacked Percy and Arabella Priestly for reasons Sebastian couldn’t begin to fathom. That struck him as an unbelievable stretch.
But that didn’t mean it was inconceivable.
That evening, Sebastian donned a double-breasted black coat with covered buttons, a black silk waistcoat and knee breeches, and a chapeau bras, while Hero wore an elegantly simple evening gown of shimmering silver satin with cupped sleeves and the late Countess of Hendon’s famous diamond necklace. There were two balls and several rout parties being held in Mayfair that evening, but Hero had decided they would be most likely to encounter the widowed Olivia Edmondson at Lady Farningham’s musical evening.
It had rained shortly before sunset, but by now the rain had stopped, leaving the evening unusually warm and humid. “How well do you know this Mrs. Edmondson?” asked Sebastian as their carriage dashed through the still-wet streets, the golden light from the linkboys and carriage lamps swaying over scattered puddles and shuttered shops.
“Not terribly well, but well enough to ply her with a few pointed questions if I can catch her alone. I understand she’s most anxious to reestablish herself as a respected member of the ton, so I doubt she will go so far as to snub me. She reminds me in some ways of Veronica Goodlakes, although the two are generally quite different.” Hero was silent for a moment, her gaze on two small, ragged children huddling in the doorway of a shuttered shop. “I think perhaps it’s because both were born gentlewomen but now, despite their wealth, they are seen as ‘not quite the thing’ by society’s high sticklers, and they resent it. Of course, Olivia isn’t as extraordinarily wealthy as Veronica, but at least in Olivia’s case her wealth comes from land rather than from anything so vulgar as trade. She was an only child, you know, and since her father’s Cornish estate was not entailed, she was his sole heir. The land is said to be honeycombed with tin mines.”
“So why the need to ‘reestablish’ herself?”
“Ah, that’s because Olivia’s marriage was quite scandalous. She ran off with a fortune-hunting ne’er-do-well when she was barely sixteen, and it was weeks before her father caught up with them. At that point there was nothing to be done but let the marriage stand. Fortunately for Olivia, her father did not disinherit her, and then the ne’er-do-well died while her father was on his deathbed, so the scoundrel never had a chance to run through her money.”
“Fortunate, indeed.”
“Mmm. The ne’er-do-well is said to have been quite healthy before he succumbed to a fatal bout of food poisoning, which naturally gave rise to whispers. But I understand those have pretty much died down since Olivia was wise enough to wait out her two years of prescribed mourning in relative seclusion. She launched her campaign to claw her way back into Society last autumn, and she’s been fairly successful. High sticklers such as the Duchess of Claiborne or Princess Lieven will probably never send the girl an invitation to one of their parties, but there are plenty of other hostesses who are more than happy to receive a slightly scandalous but very pretty, wealthy young widow who is guaranteed to lure a horde of male guests to their doors.”
“Good Lord,” said Sebastian, staring at her. “How on earth do you know all that?”
Hero leaned into him and laughed. “Because while you were off consorting with chimney sweeps, I went to see Aunt Henrietta.”
They found the Countess of Farningham’s Mount Street town house ablaze with candlelight and spilling genteel laughter and a buzz of well-bred voices out into the warm, wet night. Her ladyship’s “musical evenings” had become something of an institution amongst the fashionable set, but with Parliament having closed on July twelfth, this would probably be the last such event until after Christmas.
“A castrato, is it?” said Sebastian as they worked their way into the Countess’s crowded reception rooms and the full, sweet notes of a male soprano singing a piece by Bertoni washed over them.
“Mmm, Girolamo Rossini. I understand Lady Farningham is quite proud of having secured his performance, given that he returns to Rome in two days.”
Sebastian paused for a moment, listening to the exquisite splendor of that clear, ethereal voice rising and falling. He took a deep, painful breath. “Beautiful, and yet also haunting and sad, I always think.”
Hero nodded. “Whenever I hear one, I can’t help but wonder if it was his choice or something forced upon him.”
Sebastian let his gaze wander over the crowd. Some of the Countess’s guests were sitting in rapt attention in the rows of chairs gathered around the Italian singer, but many others were clustered here and there in groups of two or three, quietly talking. “Any sign of the fair Olivia?”
“No,” said Hero, her gaze scanning the rooms. “Although I do see Jarvis glowering at you. Try not to come to fisticuffs with him, will you, while I check the refreshment rooms?”
It didn’t take Hero long to locate the wealthy young widow, who had gone in search of a glass of lemonade and was now sipping it as she headed back toward the drawing room. “Mrs. Edmondson, how are you?” said Hero, stepping in front of her.
Olivia Edmondson blinked up at Hero in surprise. Still in her early twenties, the widow was a small, dainty thing some ten or twelve inches shorter than Hero. She might not be as wealthy as Veronica Goodlakes, but she was both younger and prettier, with thick black hair, large dark eyes, and a winsome dimple that could peek seductively when she smiled.
“A pretty little thing, undeniably,” had been the Duchess of Claiborne’s caustic assessment when Hero consulted her. “But she’s no better than she should be, I’m afraid. And while I’ll acknowledge that sixteen-year-old girls can all too easily be led into folly by a handsome face, Olivia is one of those females who, if she hadn’t been born an heiress, would doubtless have had a successful career as a courtesan. There’s something about her that seems to render those of the male sex incapable of thinking of anything when they look at her except bed. And I don’t exclude Claiborne from that statement. Which is rather telling, for if ever there was a dull dog, it’s my son.”
Hero watched now as the widow’s famous dimple flashed, her full lips curving up into a smile, and thought she understood what the Duchess had been talking about. There was an inescapably sensual aura about the woman, and Hero had a feeling Olivia was very well aware of it.
“Oh, I’m quite well, thank you—although more than a trifle warm, to be honest,” said the widow with a laugh as she fanned her face with the delicate confection of ivory and lace she held in her other hand. “And how are you, Lady Devlin?”
“Also quite warm. Between the sultry night, the crush of people, and the heat from the candles, it’s too much to be borne. Do let’s step out onto the terrace for a breath of fresh air, shall we?”
Olivia looked vaguely surprised, but was more than willing to be seen stepping out to take some air with Lord Jarvis’s daughter. “Ah, that is better,” said the widow, sucking in a deep breath as they passed through one of the French doors that opened onto Lady Farningham’s wide bluestone terrace. “What a brilliant idea, Lady Devlin.”
Hero watched Olivia go to stand beside the stone balustrade at the edge of the terrace, her pretty face lifted to the breeze as she looked out over the wet gardens. “Do you come to Lady Farningham’s musical evenings often?”
“Not often, no,” said the widow, smiling as she turned to face her. “I fear I am not particularly musical. But London is so thin of company these days that one must find amusement where one can, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed. We ourselves had hoped to leave for Hampshire next week, but I doubt now that we’ll be able to get away so soon.” The delay was on account of the murders, of course, but Hero was careful to leave that part out. “Will you be retiring to your estate in . . . Cornwall, isn’t it?”
Olivia pulled a face. “It is, yes; nearly to Penzance. But, to be honest, I’m more than half tempted to retreat to someplace both less distant and less rustic, if you know what I mean? I hear Leicestershire is lovely this time of year.”
“Oh? Have you a hunting box there?”
The widow flushed faintly. “Not personally, no. But a dear friend keeps a lovely little place near Melton Mowbray.”
“I take it you mean Sir Ivo?”
Olivia was no fool. Her pretty brown eyes narrowed and took on a steely look that reminded Hero of Veronica. “So that’s why you’ve sought me out, is it? You’ve heard that Ivo and I are friends, and you thought to ascertain if there is any truth to the rumors?”
“So is there?” said Hero bluntly.
Olivia lifted her dainty little chin, her smile turning into something saucy and provocative, although the glint of steel was still in her eyes. “And if there were? You see something wrong with friendship between a man and a woman?”
“Not at all,” said Hero. “So tell me this: Who do you think killed Lady McInnis?”
“Frankly, I neither know nor care.” The expression on the woman’s face hardened, became something considerably less winsome. “If you ask me, the woman got what she deserved.”
Hero stared at her. “And why is that?”
Olivia twitched one dainty little shoulder. “It’s different for men, isn’t it? I mean, when they amuse themselves outside of marriage, what’s the harm? But when a woman betrays her vows, she risks presenting her lord with a child not of his own begetting. And that is an abominable thing to do, wouldn’t you say?”
“Are you suggesting Laura McInnis was having an affair?”
“Didn’t you know?” Olivia wrinkled her dainty little nose in disgust. “What kind of woman could be so lucky as to be wed to someone like Sir Ivo and then cheat on him with a nobody in a red coat?”
“And do you think Sir Ivo’s daughter Emma likewise ‘got what she deserved’?” said Hero, her voice coming out husky.
The widow had the grace to look vaguely discomfited. “No, although she wasn’t actually his daughter. Laura’s attachment to her soldier stretched back for years—he escaped from that French prison and returned to London the very summer before Emma was born, you know. Yet even though the girl wasn’t really Sir Ivo’s daughter, under the terms of Laura’s marriage settlement he still would have had to provide the girl with a portion of ten thousand pounds!”
“Indeed,” said Hero. Olivia Edmondson might be beautiful and seductive, but she obviously wasn’t as bright as Hero had at first given her credit for. The woman didn’t even seem to realize she’d provided them with an excellent reason why Sir Ivo would murder both his wife and his daughter. “I take it Sir Ivo told you this?”
The warm, damp breeze feathered a stray curl against Olivia’s cheek, and she brought up a hand to tuck it back behind her ear. “It’s not exactly a secret, is it? I mean, how hard is it to count back nine months from the girl’s birthday?”
Sebastian was leaning against a convenient pilaster, his arms crossed at his chest as he listened to Signor Rossini, when he noticed Jarvis working his way toward him through the milling audience.
“I take it you didn’t think I was serious about Rhodes,” said the King’s powerful cousin, walking right up to him.
Sebastian shifted his stance to confront his father-in-law. “Has Basil been whining to Papa again?”
“Did you think he would not?”
Sebastian let his gaze wander over the glittering, wellborn crowd. “And you think I should have let that stop me?”
“You would if you were wise.”
“Basil Rhodes is a damned loose screw and you know it. The Palace would be wise to cut their losses now, before the man does something that can’t be denied.”
Jarvis drew a pearl-studded snuffbox from his pocket, flipped it open, and raised a pinch of snuff to one nostril. “Don’t attempt to force my hand. I already warned you.”
“So you did.” Sebastian saw Hero returning from the refreshment room, her color tellingly high. He nodded to his father-in-law, said, “Excuse me,” and walked away.
“You don’t think Jarvis will actually try to kill you, do you?” Hero asked later as their carriage wound its way homeward through London’s lamplit streets.
Sebastian reached out to take her hand. “Honestly? I don’t know. If we’re lucky, maybe he’ll decide to kill Rhodes instead.”