Chapter 19
Hendon was looking over The Quarterly Review in the reading room of White’s, a glass of brandy on the table at his elbow, when Sebastian came upon him.
“Take a walk with me?” he asked.
The Earl looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What happened to your chin?”
“It ran into a fist.”
Hendon set aside his paper with a noncommittal grunt and rose to his feet.
Outside, a wind was kicking up, the air growing colder, the night alive with voices and laughter and snatches of music. This part of London was considered the gentlemen’s pleasure haunt, a land of exclusive men’s clubs, ruinous gaming hells, fashionable supper rooms, and the kind of women a man of birth and breeding was not supposed to take to wife.
“I hear Ashworth’s missing valet was found dead this morning,” said Hendon as they pushed their way through the well-dressed crowds thronging St. James’s Street.
“Gibson thinks he was killed the same night as Ashworth. Perhaps even by the same knife.”
“Pity. I was hoping he’d be found to be the killer and put an end to this nightmare.” Hendon brought up a splayed hand to rub his eyes. “Why kill the valet? It makes no sense.”
“It does if Digby—that’s the valet—could have identified the murderer.”
“Yes, I suppose; I didn’t think of that.”
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t explain some of the more bizarre circumstances surrounding the body’s discovery.”
Hendon looked over at him. “Such as?”
“He was stripped naked and the body moved after he was killed.”
“Dear God.”
Sebastian said, “I’ve heard it suggested that the Grand Duchess arrived in London so far in advance of the Allied Sovereigns because she had hopes of contracting a marriage alliance with the Regent. Do you think that’s true?”
Hendon stared out over the somber redbrick walls of the Tudor palace that seemed to squat at the bottom of the street. Beyond it the trees in the park were no more than dark, shifting shadows. “I suppose it wouldn’t be surprising if she did have such aspirations. After all, it’s no secret that Prinny has spent the last ten years trying to divorce his wife. But if that was her ambition, nothing will come of it now. She took an instant dislike to him, and the feeling is quite mutual.”
“So why is she staying in town? Her brother isn’t expected for another two months or more. Why not go on an extended tour of the Lake District or Scotland and come back to London when the Tsar arrives?”
Hendon started to say something, then hesitated.
“What?” asked Sebastian, watching him.
“It’s not going to be easy, putting Europe back together after more than twenty years of war and revolution and republican fervor. We’re looking at months and months of tricky negotiations before it’s all sorted out. Grievances will need to be forgotten or at least buried and old alliances reaffirmed—and new ones forged.”
Sebastian studied the Earl’s troubled face. “What exactly are you saying?”
Hendon cast a quick look around and noticeably lowered his voice. “Word is, Russia is unhappy with the prospect of a strong British-Dutch alliance—especially one cemented by the marriage of Princess Charlotte to William of Orange.”
“Hence the Russians’ interest in a possible marital alliance between the Regent and the Tsar’s sister?”
Hendon nodded. “But with that now out of the question, they might be looking for some other way to interfere with the British-Dutch alliance.”
“Such as?”
“I wish I knew.”
They walked on in silence for a time. The night air was dense with the smell of hot lamp oil and coal smoke and horses, the pavements of Pall Mall splashed with light from the tall, classically fronted buildings that rose up on either side. The crowds of half-inebriated men were nearly as thick here as on St. James’s, and as he looked out at that sea of gay, laughing faces, Sebastian felt himself for one suspended moment to be oddly apart from it all, as if he were a witness rather than a participant. But then, perhaps he was. These men were here on a quest for life’s pleasures, or at least a semblance of such, whereas his thoughts were on the dead and the hidden darkness of those who had made them so.
Hendon said, “Why this sudden interest in the Russians?”
“It seems Ashworth was playing his erotic games with one of the Grand Duchess’s ladies.”
“Good heavens. What could it mean?”
“I don’t know. To my knowledge, the only thing Ashworth cared about was his own pleasure, not foreign alliances and diplomatic maneuverings. But I think I may have just changed my mind about not attending the Russian ambassador’s ball tonight.”
“We already sent Countess Lieven our regrets,” said Hero, who was dressing for dinner when he told her of his plan.
“I know.”
She looked over at him and laughed.
Invitations to Countess Lieven’s balls were always amongst the most coveted prizes of the London Season. Technically it was her husband, Count Lieven, who represented the Tsar at the Court of St. James. But people in diplomatic circles liked to joke that Russia actually had two ambassadors in London, and that by far the shrewder and more capable one was Lieven’s wife, Dorothea. Born into a noble Baltic family, she’d married at the age of fourteen and was now just twenty-eight years old. Despite having been in London only a year, she’d somehow managed to conquer the heights of society and reigned as one of the powerful patronesses of Almack’s.
Arriving shortly after eleven, Sebastian and Hero found the ambassador’s residence ablaze with light and throbbing with music and laughter. A red carpet stretched from the front door to the street, with constables holding back the crowds of gawkers who typically gathered to enjoy such spectacles, their necks craning as they jostled for glimpses of the Quality in all their finery.
“Cousin Victoria says Countess Lieven is not a fan of the Grand Duchess,” said Hero quietly as they waited their turn to be announced. It was late enough that the worst of the crush of arrivals had already passed, but it still took some time to wind their way up the stairs.
“Not surprising,” said Sebastian, leaning in so that his lips were close to her ear. “Two highborn Russian women famous for their allure, wit, and enormous self-regard in one foreign capital? The mind reels.”
Hero smothered a soft laugh. “It’s a good thing Her Imperial Highness will be gone in a few months.”
“Hopefully.”
Countess Lieven’s husband stood at her side, receiving guests. But all eyes were on her, not the ambassador. She was an attractive woman, striking rather than beautiful, with an unusually long neck, dark, fashionably cropped hair, a firm chin, and a saucy mouth. Graceful and elegant despite her rather bony figure, she had a haughty manner that effectively conveyed her contempt for anyone she considered her inferior—which was virtually everyone. Even those who called themselves her friends admitted there was nothing amiable about her. She was neither intellectual nor bookish, but she was extraordinarily clever and calculating, and utterly ruthless.
“Lord Devlin,” she said with a glittering smile as Sebastian bowed over her hand. “What a nice surprise. For some reason I had the idea you and your wife sent your regrets.”
“Fortunately, we had an unexpected change in plans,” said Hero with a smile every bit as false as that of their hostess. “We knew you’d be thrilled.”
The Countess’s eyes narrowed, but her smile never changed. “Just so.”
“Point, counterpoint,” said Sebastian softly as they eased their way into a ballroom ablaze with the light of hundreds of candles shimmering over polished crystal and reflected by vast, flower-banked mirrors. The air was heavy with the smell of hot wax and hot, tightly pressed bodies.
“It truly is an abominable thing to do,” said Hero. “To refuse an invitation and then come anyway. But she’s such a detestable person, I can’t seem to dredge up the least shred of compunction. I’ll never understand why she is so successful in society. No one actually likes her.”
“It’s because she’s the female version of a bully. No one might like her, but an amazing number are willing to accept her inflated sense of her own self-worth.”
“Yes. But why?”
He scanned the crowd of bejeweled, silk-clad women and sweating men. “That I don’t know.”
Hero unfurled her fan in a feeble attempt to stir up some breathable air. “Why exactly are we here?”
“To watch. And listen. And leap to wild and probably faulty assumptions.”
“I don’t see Her Imperial Highness,” said Hero, scanning the dancers.
“No, but there’s Princess Ivanna Gagarin.” He cast a seemingly casual glance toward a square of couples near the musicians, then looked pointedly away. “The striking young woman in white crepe over pale pink satin.”
“Pale pink satin and nothing else, from the looks of it,” said Hero, watching the Russian noblewoman move through the figures of the cotillion. “I think she’s even dispensed with the scandalous option of dampened petticoats.”
“Interesting choice of partners,” said Sebastian as the dancers promenaded.
Hero shifted her attention to the young gentleman opposite the Grand Duchess’s lady-in-waiting. “Who is he?”
“An up-and-coming relative of the Foreign Secretary.”
“Interesting, indeed. Didn’t she tell you she met Ashworth at one of Countess Lieven’s loo-parties?”
“She did, yes. Suggestive, isn’t it?”
Sebastian waited until the dance ended and Ivanna Gagarin retired with her partner to a nearby refreshment room.
“Excuse us for a moment,” said Sebastian, walking up to her escort with a hard stare that had the young buck backing away fast.
“That was clumsy,” said Ivanna, taking a sip of her champagne.
“But effective.”
“Are you so very anxious to speak with me again, my lord?”
“I am, actually. I’m hearing that the real reason the Grand Duchess came to London so far in advance of her brother was in hopes of securing a new husband—the Prince Regent, to be specific.”
He expected her to deny it. Instead, she gave a laugh of what sounded like genuine amusement and said, “Ironic, is it not? Obviously, nothing will come of that now.”
“You do realize, of course, that the Regent already has a wife.”
“Wives are easily dispensed with.”
“You mean by poison?”
She kept her smile in place, but it definitely tightened. “That is one method, I suppose. Although a simple divorce is generally sufficient.”
“The Prince has tried that approach—several times. Without success.”
“Perhaps. Although I suspect that with the coming of peace on the Continent, Princess Caroline will find continued residence in England much less attractive.”
It was common knowledge in certain circles that the Princess of Wales was growing restless. Her daughter, Charlotte, was terrified her mother would be tempted to leave England once peace was declared—an unwise move that would make Prinny’s dream of a divorce considerably easier to obtain.
Sebastian said, “None of this explains why Her Imperial Highness has decided to remain in London for the next two months while awaiting her brother’s arrival.”
Ivanna gave a negligent shrug. “She finds the London Season . . . amusing.”
Sebastian looked out over the ballroom, where couples were still assembling for the next dance. “Yet she chooses not to dance?”
“The Grand Duchess is not fond of music.”
“That must make it difficult to enjoy the Season.”
“There is more to the Season than music and dance.” Ivanna took another sip of her champagne. There was an air of coiled alertness about her that reminded Sebastian of a serpent preparing to strike. “I seem to recall Ashworth mentioning that his young bride is quite fond of dancing. How unfortunate that he should die at the beginning of the Season, thus depriving her of her fun.”
Sebastian found it profoundly disturbing, the thought of Ashworth discussing Stephanie with this woman. “He spoke to you of his wife?”
“Not a great deal. Although I assume you are aware of her affair with that young Welsh architect. What’s his name again? Ah, yes, Russell Firth.”
She started to turn away, but Sebastian put out a hand, stopping her. “Did you get this from Ashworth as well?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what? ‘Exactly.’”
“He’s not the one who told me.” Her lips quirked up into a taunting smile. “Now you must decide whether you believe me.”
Sebastian searched her beautiful, quietly triumphant face. “Why were you involved with him? Truly.”
“I told you: He intrigued me. I’d never met anyone quite like him.”
“There are more than a dozen dead street children buried up at Clerkenwell who would agree with that last part, at least.”
She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Street children?”
“You would have me think you didn’t know?”
“I’ve not the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Torture. Rape. Murder.”
“I think you exaggerate.”
“The dead don’t exaggerate.”
“Then perhaps their translators do. All I know is that I’m sorry I never had the chance to get to know Ashworth better.”
“Most people would consider that a blessing.”
“Perhaps. But then, I’m not like most people.”
And with that she glided away, a sensuous slip of a woman in pink silk that clung to her exquisite form like a shimmering second skin.
Sebastian was pushing through the tightly packed mass of Countess Lieven’s perspiring guests, looking for Hero, when Colonel Nikolai Demidov, his dress uniform dripping with gold braid, cut him off.
“Vhy are you here?” demanded the colonel in a fierce growl. Unlike the Grand Duchess and her noble lady-in-waiting, Demidov spoke English with a heavy Russian accent.
“Ah, he speaks,” said Sebastian. “I was beginning to wonder.”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed. He looked to be in his late thirties, with dark hair, heavy dark brows, and the traditional thick, military-style mustache of the Imperial Guard. “You vill leave the Princess Ivanna alone.”
“Or you’ll—what? Hack me to bits in my sleep? Stab me in the back and leave me as food for foraging pigs in some noisome alley?”
“You laugh.” The colonel leaned in closer, his breath washing over Sebastian’s face as he made a heavy tssk-tssk sound with his tongue and teeth. Then he turned and walked away.
Sebastian was still staring after him when Amanda came to stand beside him and demand in a low, harsh voice, “What are you doing here?”
Sebastian brought his gaze to his sister’s face. He was really in no mood for this. “Dear Amanda. You’re the second person in as many minutes to ask me that. What do you think? That I’m here for some nefarious purpose?”
“Of course you are.” She was wearing an elegant V-necked gown of silver silk edged with dainty white lace, a silk dowager’s turban crowned with a towering white ostrich plume, and the famous Wilcox diamonds. The effect was awe-inspiring.
He said, “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be in mourning for your daughter’s dead husband? True, he’s only a son-in-law; but surely he should get at least two weeks?”
She ignored the question, as he’d known she would. “Your presence here is making people talk.”
“If the subject is Ashworth, then they’d be talking whether I was here or not. There’s something about being found dead tied naked to your bed that tends to provide fodder for gossip.”
“Will you keep your voice down?” she hissed. “I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were actually enjoying this.”
“I’m not the least bit sorry he’s dead, if that’s what you’re suggesting. But I never ‘enjoy’ investigating murders. It isn’t about the hunt, or the winning, or in fact anything about me. It’s about stopping someone who is dangerous. And in this instance, it’s also about protecting someone I love.”
“I told you, you’re being ridiculous. No one with any sense would ever think to blame Stephanie for this.”
Her words did not match the tight, worried anger in her face. He kept his voice low. “Was Steph having an affair with someone, Amanda? Do you know?”
“Now you are going beyond ridiculous,” she snapped, and turned away.
He was still gazing after her when Hero walked up to him. She said, “Amanda is not pleased, I take it.”
“Not hardly. She thinks my presence here is making people talk.”
“It is. And by confronting you like that, she just gave them more fodder for gossip.”
On the carriage ride home, he told Hero of his conversation with the Grand Duchess’s lady-in-waiting.
“You think Ivanna Gagarin is telling the truth?” said Hero. “That Stephanie is having an affair?”
“Ironically, it’s one of the few things she’s told me that I’m inclined to believe.”
“Because it reinforces what Hendon chanced to witness in Hyde Park?”
“Partially. But also because Princess Ivanna claimed Ashworth wasn’t the one who told her about it. If her intent was to deflect my suspicions away from his strange Russian connection and toward some tawdry romantic triangle, then it would make more sense for her to say she’d had it from him.”
“But you probably wouldn’t have believed her, then.”
“Perhaps not.”
Hero was silent for a moment, her gaze on the darkened, quiet shops and rows of softly glowing streetlamps sliding by in the night. Then she said, “People are already whispering about Stephanie. If she was having an affair and word of it gets out, it won’t look good.”
He took Hero’s hand in his and laced his fingers with hers. “You know Firth better than I. Could he have done this, do you think? Hacked two men to death?”
“I don’t know him that well. Have you asked Stephanie herself about him?”
“Yes, and she pretended she hardly knew him. But then, she would, wouldn’t she?”