Chapter 10
By the time Sebastian made it back to Brook Street, night had long since fallen, bringing with it a haze that wreathed the rows of streetlamps with pale, misty haloes.
He sent Tom off to the stables with the horses, then paused for a moment, his gaze on the wind-tossed trees in the distant square, his thoughts far, far in the past. He was remembering a sunny day long ago when he’d been a young man about to go off to war and Stephanie a child of perhaps eight. He’d taken her out for an afternoon of simple pleasures—a regatta at Chelsea, ices at Gunter’s, a walk in the park. She’d been so absurdly delighted, so obviously grateful for his attention, that it cut him to the quick to realize how lonely her life must be. And it grieved him too to realize how oblivious he had been to the pain and want of a niece he professed to love.
At one point, while they watched the regatta, she had frightened him by teetering on the edge of the quay with the deadly rush of the river beneath her, the wind blowing her hair and her face alive with the heady delight of it all. He’d been shaking when he pulled her back to safety, but she’d only laughed. And he’d known then that there was more than a wildness to her. She possessed deep within her an urge to push boundaries and walk on the thin, ragged edge of destruction, as if compelled to tempt fate or even welcome it.
“I wish I could go with you,” she’d said later that afternoon, when he was driving her home.
He’d laughed. “To war?”
“Yes.”
“Unfortunately, there’s more to war than handsome uniforms, magnificent horses, and the glory of homecoming.”
She’d turned her head to look at him, her eyes solemn with a wisdom that didn’t belong in a child. “You think that’s what appeals to me, Uncle? The uniforms and horses and chance for glory?”
“Evidently not,” he’d answered, suddenly serious. “My apologies for underestimating you. So, what does?”
“They say it’s the ultimate test of one’s mettle, don’t they? A chance to experience life at its most raw, when it’s most . . . real. And then . . . die.”
He’d felt a chill wash over him. “You want to die, Steph?”
A strange smile played about her lips. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Actually, no.”
She’d stared at him a moment before turning her face away. “Then they’re luckier than they realize.”
It was a conversation that had haunted him ever since. And he felt again, now, that sense of having failed her, of never quite grasping the elusive pain that drove her hurtling through a troubled life. He was missing something, he thought as he turned to mount his front steps. He’d always missed something.
But what?
“Ah, there you are, my lord,” said Morey as he opened the door.
Sebastian’s gaze fell on a familiar hat and cane resting on the hall table. “Hendon?”
“Yes, my lord. He’s with her ladyship and young master Simon in the drawing room.”
Sebastian swung off his driving coat and handed it with his own hat and gloves to the majordomo. Then he mounted the stairs to find the man known to the world as his father sitting beside a cheerful fire and dangling fourteen-month-old Simon on one knee.
Alistair St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon, was nearing seventy now, his thinning hair long since gone white, his heavyset, once-tall frame beginning to stoop. He was laughing when Sebastian entered the room, the little boy’s hands clinging to Hendon’s thick, blunt fingers as he bounced his knee up and down. For a moment, Sebastian paused, conscious of a warm tightening in his chest as he watched them. Technically the child was only distantly related to Hendon through his grandmother. But that didn’t stop the Earl from loving Simon with a fierceness that was impossible to miss.
Then Hendon looked up and saw Sebastian, and the laughter faded from his blunt-featured face. “I came back to town as soon as I heard,” he said, grasping the little boy around his sturdy waist and setting him down on his feet.
Simon’s face crumpled, and Hero, who had been standing nearby, stepped forward to swing the little boy up into her arms as he began to cry. “I think someone’s ready for bed. Say good night, then.”
Hendon made a big show of wishing the child pleasant dreams. But as soon as Hero left the room, he turned to Sebastian and said, “Is it true, what they’re saying in the papers? That Ashworth was found tied naked to his bed?”
“Yes. With red silk bonds.”
“Bloody hell.” Hendon watched Sebastian walk over to pour two glasses of burgundy. “Any idea yet who did it?”
“None whatsoever, although there was a black leather whip mixed up in the bedclothes.”
“Bloody hell,” said Hendon again, taking the drink Sebastian held out to him. Hendon rolled the wine in its glass, his gaze on the swirling ruby liquid, his lips pursed. “You’ve spoken to Steph?”
“I have, yes.”
He looked up. “And?”
“She says she didn’t do it.”
Sebastian expected Hendon to explode at him, to insist that of course she hadn’t done it; that only a fool could think even for a moment that his granddaughter might have committed murder. Instead, he took a deep swallow of his wine and said, “You believe her?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Hendon nodded, his face strained. “I wouldn’t blame her if she did.”
Sebastian went to stand beside the hearth, his gaze on the small blaze. “Neither would I.”
“Is she in danger of being accused?”
“Not yet.”
“Please tell me you’ve at least found other suspects.”
Sebastian looked up. “There’s a shopkeeper who had good reason to kill the bastard, and I might even be inclined to think him guilty if Ashworth had been found in an alley with his head bashed in. But under the circumstances, I’m afraid we’re looking for a woman—probably someone who took fright at what Ashworth was doing to her. I suppose it’s technically possible that someone just happened to find him passed out and tied to his bed and took advantage of the situation to murder him. But it seems rather doubtful.”
“There’s no one else besides this shopkeeper?”
“I’m looking into a woman he was involved with. And his valet is missing. If we’re lucky, he’ll be found and confess to the murder before anyone has enough time to start thinking that Stephanie might have done it.”
Hendon pushed to his feet and went to stand at one of the windows overlooking the darkened, misty street. “I saw Ashworth myself just a few days before I left for Oxford.”
“Oh? Why?”
Hendon stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his jaw working silently in that way he had when he was thoughtful or troubled. He was the kind of man who never allowed himself to be hurried into speech, who chose his words carefully and deliberately. And so Sebastian swallowed his impatience and waited.
After a moment, the Earl said, “It was utterly by chance. I was in Swallow Street, looking at the demolitions they’ve started for Nash’s New Street.”
“It’s really going to happen, then?”
“Oh, yes. There’s talk of calling it ‘Regent Street,’ although I suspect the Prince is optimistic that by the time it’s actually under construction, it’ll be called ‘George the Fourth Street.’”
“Nothing like hopefully anticipating your own sire’s death.” Sebastian took a sip of his wine. “So, what was Ashworth doing in Swallow Street?”
“I don’t know. I actually didn’t speak with him myself. I’m not certain he even saw me. John Nash has a young associate, a Welshman named Russell Firth. He’s a bright, personable fellow—I knew who he was because I’d met him before, when he and Nash were making their presentations before the Commissioners of Woods and Forests. That’s who Ashworth was talking to—arguing with, in fact.”
“Firth?” Sebastian had met the young architect himself through Hero. “What were they arguing about?”
“I couldn’t hear. But there’s no doubt their words were heated. I wouldn’t have thought much about it, except . . .”
“Yes?”
Hendon swiped one thick, blunt-fingered hand across his lower face. “I’d just seen the fellow—Firth—a few days before, with Stephanie. They were standing by the Serpentine in Hyde Park.”
“Doing what?”
“Simply standing together by the water. Talking. Laughing.”
Sebastian studied Hendon’s troubled face. “Stephanie might not be the insufferable snob her mother is, but somehow I find it difficult to believe she’s suddenly taken to consorting with some random architect-builder. There’s probably a simple explanation.”
“There could be.” Hendon shook his head. “Except . . .”
“Yes?”
Hendon let out his breath in a heavy sigh. “It was the way she was looking at him that caught my attention.” He hesitated, then pushed on. “I may be an old man, but I recognize that expression. She was looking at him the way a woman looks at a man who interests her. And he was looking right back.”
“Hendon thinks Stephanie is having an affair with Russell Firth?” said Hero later that night when Sebastian finally had an opportunity alone to tell her about it. “An architect? Stephanie?”
She was curled up in a chair beside their bedroom fire with Sebastian seated at her feet. He tipped back his head to look up at her. “I agree it sounds improbable, but Hendon isn’t given to flights of fancy. Even if Steph isn’t actually having an affair with the fellow, there must be something there for Hendon to have been struck by it.”
“You think that’s why Ashworth was having words with Firth? Because he suspected the man was sleeping with his wife?”
“Possibly.”
Her lips parted as she drew in a troubled breath. “If Hendon saw them and leapt to such a troubling conclusion, other people must have as well. This isn’t good.”
“No,” said Sebastian. “No, it isn’t.”