by C. S. Harris
Sebastian held himself utterly still as the young housebreaker passed in front of him, the light from the lantern playing over the walls and jumbled treasures of the corridor. If the man had simply glanced around, he would have seen Sebastian quite easily. But the lad’s attention was fixed on the open door and the windswept terrace beyond. He was so nervous, Sebastian could see the barrel of his gun shaking; the lantern light danced and quivered.
“Well?” demanded the older man, reaching the top step. He was slightly shorter than his companion but considerably bulkier, with a thick neck, a powerful chest, and heavily muscled arms and legs. His features were blunt, his nose large and crooked, his beetle-browed gaze fixed, like the younger man’s, on the door to the terrace.
Then he turned his head and saw Sebastian standing no more than five feet away from him.
Chapter 20
“What the ’ell!”
Jerking a large, curving knife loose from the sheath at his side, the ruffian rushed at Sebastian, the blade held over his head in a backhanded grip.
Seizing a heavy brass walking stick from the clutter atop the bureau beside him, Sebastian swung it up to block the blade’s vicious downward slash. Metal clanged against metal. But the power behind the blow was so intense that the impact reverberated down Sebastian’s left arm, and he staggered.
The housebreaker recovered instantly, his lips curling away from his teeth in a fierce rictus, his grip on the knife shifting. “Shoot ’im!” he yelled to the younger man by the door.
“I can’t! Yer in the way,” he screeched, the gun held straight out in front of him in a trembling grip, his voice rising an octave as he fumbled to set down the lantern.
“Bloody bastard,” growled the thick-necked man. He lunged again, driving the knife straight toward Sebastian’s heart.
Dancing sideways an instant too late, Sebastian felt the blade slice through the flesh of his ribs as he pivoted and drove his own dagger deep into the ruffian’s chest.
“Morgan!” cried the man from the doorway.
For one suspended moment, the ruffian froze, his heavy features a study in astonishment. Then he crumpled.
Sebastian tried to wrench his dagger free and felt it catch on the man’s ribs as he fell.
“You killed my brother!” screamed the young man at the door, the pistol held before him, his left hand coming up to steady his grip. His finger was just tightening on the trigger when the black cat stretched up and sank the claws of both front paws into his leg.
The man let out a sharp yelp. Belching flame, the pistol exploded in a deafening roar that filled the corridor with pungent smoke and a shower of pulverized plaster as the shot buried itself in the ceiling.
His jaw sagging in fear and fresh horror, the younger man threw away the now useless pistol and bolted out the door.
Sebastian wrenched his dagger free from the dead man’s chest with a violent shove that sent the body tumbling and thumping down the stairs. He could hear the younger man crashing through the overgrown wreck of a garden, frantic, stumbling blindly. By the time Sebastian erupted out the door into the wet, windblown night, the housebreaker was nearly to the ruined stables.
Gripping the gory dagger in his fist, Sebastian dashed across the terrace and leapt down the steps. A sharp branch snagged his coat; he jerked and heard the cloth rip as he pushed on. He could see the young housebreaker’s slim frame silhouetted against the night sky as he scrambled up the pile of fallen bricks that marked the crumbling wall at the base of the garden.
“What do ye want from me?” he screamed, pausing to grab one of the loose bricks and chuck it at Sebastian’s head.
Sebastian ducked. “I want to know who sent you.”
“Go to ’ell.”
Collecting his feet beneath him, the lad jumped. Sebastian heard his body hit the other side with a splat, then the plopping squish of running feet flailing through mud.
Sebastian climbed after him, the half-collapsed wall shifting ominously beneath him as he dropped lightly onto the far side.
He found himself in a muddy, rubbish-strewn alley hemmed in by high walls on either side. He could see the lad dashing frantically for the distant street, his feet slipping and sliding in the muck as he ran.
Sebastian pelted after him, then drew up sharply as the dark outline of a carriage loomed at the end of the alley. The near door flew open, the long, dark barrel of a rifle poking out into the night.
“Shit,” he swore, instinctively ducking his head as he dove into the shadows of the wall beside him. He hit the cold mud and said, “Shit,” again as he slid face-first through what smelled like a heap of rotting cabbage leaves mingled with a pile of fresh horse dung. Looking up, he saw a spurt of flame, heard the crack of a rifle shot cut through the night.
But the unseen man in the carriage was not shooting at Sebastian.
Some twenty feet from the end of the alley, the young housebreaker stumbled, his body jerking, his torso twisting, his knees buckling beneath him. The carriage’s driver whipped up his horses; the vehicle lurched into the night, trace chains jangling, wheels clattering over the cobbles.
Swiping at the mud and muck on his face, Sebastian went to hunker down beside the boy and draw his trembling, bloody body into his arms. “Who hired you?” Sebastian asked, lifting him.
The lad shook his head and coughed, his eyes scared, one clawlike hand digging into Sebastian’s arm.
“Tell me, damn it! Don’t you understand? Whoever they are, they just killed you.”
But the light was already fading from the boy’s eyes, the tension in his body easing, the fierce grip on Sebastian’s arm loosening, falling.
“Son of a bitch,” swore Sebastian. Heedless of the mud, he sank back on his haunches, the dead boy still gripped in his arms. “Son of a bitch,” he said again.
And then he said it a third time. “Son of a bitch.”
Hero was dressed and seated beside the fire in her bedchamber, the ancient Hebrew manuscript open on her lap, when Devlin walked in, bringing with him a pungent odor of rotten cabbage, horse manure, and mud. He’d already stripped off his coat and boots, but his face, waistcoat, and breeches were liberally smeared with muck, and he held a longhaired black cat tucked up under one arm.
The manuscript slid to the floor, forgotten, as she started at him. “Devlin. Good God. Are you all right?”
“What are you doing up?” he asked as the cat gave a disgruntled howl and leapt from his arms.
“I couldn’t sleep. What happened? And what are you doing with that cat?”
“He claims I owe him since he saved my life, although I maintain he was only returning the favor.”
She started to laugh. Then she noticed the dark red sheen mingled with the muck on his waistcoat and the laughter died on her lips. “Is that your blood?”
“Only some of it.” He headed for his dressing room, stripping off clothes as he went.
She followed him. “How much of it?”
He yanked off his ruined waistcoat, his nose wrinkling as he tossed it aside. “My apologies for the aroma. I fear I slid through someone’s garbage pile. Calhoun isn’t going to be happy. I think that waistcoat was his favorite.”
“How much of it?” she demanded again, helping him ease his ripped shirt over his head. He tried to turn away, but she saw the long purple slit that cut across his ribs and caught his arm. “Devlin-”
He squinted down at it. “It’s not deep.”
“Why didn’t you go to Gibson and get it sewn up?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You could get lockjaw from it!”
“Sewing it up wouldn’t prevent that, now, would it?”
She gave him a look that needed no accompanying words and turned toward the bellpull. “If nothing else, you need to wash it well with hot water. I’m ringing for Calhoun.”
“Good God, no; it’s nearly four in the morning.”
She let her hand fall to her side and turned toward the
door. “Very well. I’ll go down into the kitchen and heat some water myself.”
He let her ring for Calhoun.
Afterward, she curled up on the rug beside his chair while he sat before the fire, a glass of brandy in his hand, and told her what had happened.
“What do you think those men were looking for?” she asked when he had finished. “The blue diamond Collot told you about?”
He took a long, slow sip of his brandy. “I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. I think whatever is going on here is far more serious than some diamond-however big it might be.”
“Are you certain the rifleman in that carriage was shooting at the young housebreaker and not you?”
“If he was aiming at me, he’s an appalling shot.”
“Most people are.”
“Not this one. He hit the lad square in the chest, killing him almost instantly.”
She kept her gaze on the cat, who was giving himself a long, fastidious bath beside the hearth. “You think he was killed to keep him from revealing who hired him?”
“I think it likely, yes.”
“But. . why? Why not simply haul the lad into the carriage and whisk him safely away?”
“He said the man I killed in the house was his brother. I suppose that once we learned the identity of the dead man, it wouldn’t have been hard to track down the lad and find whoever was behind the attempted burglary.”
“But the man in the carriage had no way of knowing the older man was dead.”
“They could have heard the shot. And they knew that only one of their men came out of that house, chased by me.”
“True,” she conceded. “You didn’t see anyone around before you went inside?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”
“Do you think they recognized you?”
“Well enough to know that I wasn’t their hireling, obviously. But probably not so well as to know who I was. Most people don’t see well in the dark.”
“Some do.”
He met her gaze, and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. He said, “The lad was no more than twenty feet away from the rifleman when he was hit. It wasn’t a difficult shot.”
“True.” She watched the cat curl itself into a ball, sigh, and close its eyes. The milk bowl and plate of minced beef beside it-provided by Calhoun-were now empty. She said, “Did you go to the authorities?”
“I did not. I took to my heels and fled.”
“With the cat.”
“He was insistent.”
“Is it a he?”
“It is. I checked.” Bending forward, he picked up the manuscript from beside her. “If you were looking at this, no wonder you couldn’t sleep.”
“It is. . bizarre. I’m anxious to hear what Abigail McBean can tell me about it in the morning.” She leaned back against his chair, felt his fingers brush her flesh as he played with the curls at the nape of her neck.
He said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Her gaze met his, her expression solemn. “So do I.”
Chapter 21
Tuesday, 22 September
In the fashionable world, where balls lasted until nearly dawn and breakfasts were held at midday, morning calls began at three in the afternoon. Fortunately, Hero knew that Miss Abigail McBean had long ago resigned herself to being hopelessly outre and did not keep fashionable hours.
A confirmed spinster well into her thirties, Miss McBean now shared her small but comfortable Camden Town house with a young niece and nephew orphaned some six months before by the sudden, tragic death of their parents. Hero could hear the children’s laughter coming from the rear garden when, carrying the battered old manuscript, she arrived at her friend’s house the next morning.
She was met at the door by a young, flaxen-haired housemaid who was so flustered to find a real viscountess ringing the bell that she escorted Hero immediately to her mistress, who was, as the girl cryptically announced, “Upstairs.”
Upstairs proved to be in the attic. As they neared the top of the narrow attic steps, Hero could hear her friend’s voice coming from behind a half-open door at the end of the corridor, chanting, “Angeli supradicti.”
The housemaid, a slim slip of a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, hesitated on the last stair, her eyes growing wide as she swallowed, hard. “Miss McBean is in there, m’lady,” she whispered, her chest jerking with her suddenly agitated breathing as she pointed one shaky hand toward the far door. “I kin knock for you if you want, but. .” She sucked in an audible gasp of air, her voice trailing off into nothing.
“I’ll announce myself,” Hero told the girl, who dropped a quick, relieved curtsy and bolted back down the stairs.
“Agla, On, Tetragrammaton,” exclaimed the voice at the end of the hall.
Biting her lip to keep from laughing, Hero pushed the door open wider.
A short, plump figure shrouded in a white linen robe, her face hidden by a deep, monklike cowl, circled the room in slow, measured steps. She held an open book in one hand, in the other a flask of holy water such as a Catholic priest might use. “Per sedem Adonay, per Hagius, o Theos,” she intoned, punctuating each phrase with a flick of the holy water. On the room’s scrubbed wooden floor was drawn a circle upon which were positioned a strange assortment of objects: an earthenware vessel filled with glowing coals; a naked sword blade; flasks of perfume. The pungent scents of myrtle and musk permeated the room. The robed figure was so focused on reading the incantations from her book and stepping precisely around the circle that she didn’t notice Hero until she was nearly upon her. Then she looked up, her step faltering, her jaw sagging, before she clamped it shut and went off into a peal of laughter.
“Losh!” she exclaimed in a pronounced Scottish brogue. “Frightened the sense out of me, you did. For one hen-witted moment, I actually feared all the laws of the universe had reversed themselves and the silly spell worked.”
“What? You were trying to conjure me, were you?”
Miss Abigail McBean pushed back her cowl and set aside her holy water. “Not you, exactly.” She pointed to a woodcut illustration in her book. “The angel Anael, who rules the tenth hour of Tuesday-or at least, he does according to Peter de Abano, who wrote this thing back in 1496.”
Hero studied the illustration. “You think I look like that, do you?”
In mock seriousness, the Scotswoman held up the open book with its illustration beside Hero, as if comparing the two. “Hmm. Well, you’re female, of course. And you don’t have black hair or six-foot gray wings. Not to mention a wand tipped with a pine cone and decorated with ribbons.”
Hero tweaked the book from her friend’s grasp and studied the title. “Heptameron,” she read aloud. “I take it this is one of your grimoires?”
“It is.” Miss McBean pulled the linen robe off over her head, transforming herself from an exotic, vaguely menacing figure into a plump woman in a simple sprigged muslin gown. She had a pretty round face with a small nose, full, rosy cheeks, and a head of riotously curling rust-colored hair that she’d tried rather unsuccessfully to contain in a bun. “Its English title is Magical Elements. I’ve been wanting to try this incantation for weeks, only I just got the hyssop.”
Hero studied her friend’s unlined, pleasant face. “If you don’t believe in these spells, why do them?”
“Because I know of no better way to understand what these men were trying to do and how they felt when they did it.” She nodded to the calfskin-bound manuscript Hero had tucked beneath her arm. “What’s that?”
Hero held it out to her. “I’m told it’s called The Key of Solomon. Ever hear of it?
Miss McBean took the manuscript with a hand that was suddenly not quite steady. “I’ve heard of it.”
Chapter 22
Sebastian was careful to wait until after twelve o’clock to pay a call on the Park Street home of his aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne. The house was not, tec
hnically, the property of the Dowager but belonged to her son, the present Duke of Claiborne. But the Duke, a stout, mild-mannered man well into his middle years, knew himself to be no match for his formidable mother. Rather than assert his rights of ownership, he simply lived with his growing family in a much smaller house in Half Moon Street, leaving Henrietta in possession of the grand pile over which she had reigned as mistress for more than half a century.
Born Lady Henrietta St. Cyr, the elder sister of the current Earl of Hendon, she was one of the few people who knew that she was not actually Sebastian’s aunt, although the world believed her to be. But neither Sebastian nor Henrietta was the type to allow technicalities to interfere in their affections.
He found her seated at her breakfast table, a half-eaten piece of toast and a cup of tea before her. Like her brother, she was big boned and fleshy, with a broad, plain face and the piercing blue eyes that were the hallmark of the St. Cyr family. She had never been a pretty woman, even when young. But she was every inch the earl’s daughter and made a splendid duchess. Always exquisitely groomed and imperious in manner, she was one of the grandes dames of society. And if at all possible she never left her dressing room before one o’clock.
“Good heavens, Aunt,” said Sebastian, bending to kiss her rouged cheek. “The clocks have barely struck twelve and I find you already on the verge of setting forth into the world. How. . dreadfully unfashionable.”
She rapped him affectionately on the ear, chuckling as she straightened the towering purple turban he’d knocked slightly askew. “Impertinent jackanapes. As it happens, I did not sleep well last night. All that banging and booming; I swear it was enough to wake the dead. Now, stop looming over me and sit down and tell me why you are here. No, don’t bring him a cup of tea, you foolish man,” she told the hapless footman who was about to do just that. “Get him some ale.”
Sebastian drew out the seat beside her. “What makes you so certain I’m not here simply for the pleasure of your company?”
