Why Mermaids Sing

by Harris, C. S.

  Yet the deliberate ordering of the killings struck Sebastian as less logical. It made sense that Barclay Carmichael had died before Dominic Stanton, since Sir Humphrey Carmichael had personally slit Gideon’s throat while Lord Stanton had held the boy down. But Reverend Thornton had simply given the boy last rites. Why had his child been the first to die? And why had Captain Bellamy’s son been slated as second on the list? Whatever his reasoning, the killer had considered his ranking of the victims so important that he had reserved the mandrake root for Adrian Bellamy even when the naval lieutenant’s absence had forced the killer to move on to the next victim on his list.

  But what struck Sebastian as the most vexing question of all was, How had the killer known in such excruciating detail the events that had transpired aboard that ship? The only logical explanation that presented itself was that the killer had been there on the ship himself.

  Was that possible? What if one of the crew members had been left behind when the others mutinied and abandoned ship? Bellamy’s log entries had been brief and sporadic; would he have bothered to name one or two crewmen who’d been abandoned by their shipmates? Sebastian was just flipping back to Bellamy’s listing of the Harmony’s original twenty-one crew members when the sound of the knocker followed by his father’s voice in the hall brought his head up.

  “I thought you’d sworn never to darken my doorway again,” said Sebastian when the Earl appeared at the entrance to the library.

  Hendon jerked off his gloves and tossed them along with his hat and walking stick onto a nearby table. “Something has come up.”

  He went to stand before the empty hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, his weight rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet. “I’ve never claimed to be a saint. You know that,” he said gruffly.

  Sebastian leaned back in his chair, his gaze on the Earl’s heavily jowled face. He had no doubt as to why his father was here. A man who had once offered a young actress twenty thousand pounds to leave his son alone was not likely to sit idle and let their marriage take place now without doing everything in his power to stop it—and then some. Sebastian gave his father a cold smile. “I know you’re no saint.”

  “I’ve kept mistresses over the years. After your mother left, and before.”

  “I’ve made Kat my mistress. Now I intend to take her as my wife.”

  “For God’s sake, Sebastian! Just hear me out, please. This isn’t easy. One of the women I had in my keeping was a young Irish-woman by the name of Arabella. Arabella Noland. Her father was a clergyman from a small market town to the northwest of Waterford, a place called Carrick-on-Suir. Ever hear of it?”

  “No.”

  “It was the birthplace of Anne Boleyn.”

  Sebastian knew a deep sense of uneasiness, although he had no idea where his father could possibly be going with all this. “And?”

  “She came to London with her sister, Emma. Emma married a barrister by the name of Stone. She’s made something of a name for herself over the years as a moralistic writer, much in the vein of Hannah More. Perhaps you’ve heard of her.”

  “I’ve heard of her.”

  “Yes. Well, the younger sister, Arabella, was by far the prettier and the more lively. There was no dowry to speak of, and the family was from the meanest gentry—and Irish to boot. Arabella—”

  “Became your mistress? Is that what you’re saying? When was this?”

  “Twenty-some-odd years ago. You were still in leading strings.”

  Sebastian pushed up from his chair. “If you think by means of this tale to dissuade me from my marriage to Kat—”

  “Let me finish. We were together for more than three years. Then she learned she was with child.”

  Sebastian watched as his father swung away to brace his outstretched arms against the marble mantelpiece. It was a moment before he could go on. “You know how such things are often handled. A servant delivers the infant to the parish along with a small sum of money, or the child is farmed out to a nursemaid in some mean hovel. They never survive. Perhaps that’s the whole point. I don’t know. But it’s not what I was suggesting. I found a good home for the child—a family of respectable yeoman farmers whom I had every intention of supervising carefully.”

  “But she didn’t want to give up the child, I take it?”

  Dark color stained the Earl’s cheeks. “No. She begged me to abandon the scheme. I tried to make her understand that anything else was impossible. I even thought I’d succeeded. But then, several months before the child was to be born, she disappeared. I searched for her, but to no avail. Sometime later I received a note from Ireland. It said simply, ‘You have a daughter. She is well. Do not attempt to find us.’”

  Hendon pushed away from the mantel and swung to face Sebastian. “This morning, Emma Stone paid a visit to Kat Boleyn. It seems the woman is Kat’s aunt. She brought her these.” Reaching into his pocket, he drew forth two miniatures that he laid on the desk beside Sebastian. “They’re portraits of her parents.”

  The woman in the first painting was a stranger, although it was easy enough to trace the likeness to Kat in the beguiling juxtaposition of that childish nose and the full, sensuous lips. The second portrait was of the Earl of Hendon as he had been twenty-five years ago. Sebastian stared down at the twin porcelain ovals framed in filigree and felt an explosive welling of denial and fury and fear. “No.”

  He slammed away from the desk. “Mother of God. Is there nothing to which you will not stoop in your effort to prevent this marriage?”

  “No,” said Hendon in rare honesty. “But even I could not have invented this.”

  “I don’t believe any of it. Do you hear me? I don’t believe it.”

  Hendon’s jaw worked back and forth. “Talk to Miss Boleyn. Talk to Mrs. Emma Stone—”

  “Have no fear that I shall!”

  “They’ll tell you the same tale.”

  Sebastian swept his arm across the desktop, sending the miniatures flying. “Goddamn you. Goddamn you all to hell.”

  Hendon’s eyes—those vivid blue St. Cyr eyes that were so inescapably like Kat’s—twitched with pain. “You can’t blame me for the fact that you fell in love with that woman.”

  “Then who the hell do I blame?” raged Sebastian.

  “God.”

  “I don’t believe in God,” said Sebastian, and he slammed out of the house.

  Chapter 55

  Sebastian went first to Harwich Street.

  “Where is she?” he said when the maid Elspeth opened the door.

  Elspeth stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. “Miss Boleyn isn’t here.”

  Sebastian pushed past her. “Kat?” he called, and heard his voice echo through the empty house.

  He ran up the stairs to the drawing room, then took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. “Kat!”

  A minute later, he was back downstairs. “Where is she, damn it?” he demanded, coming upon Elspeth in the entrance hall.

  The maid looked up from the oil lamp she’d been trimming. “I don’t know. She went out.”

  “You know something you’re not telling. What is it?”

  “I don’t know anything! Something strange is going on, but I don’t know what it is. I swear I don’t.”

  “Did she say when she’d be back?”

  “Tomorrow. She said she probably wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “Probably?”

  “All I know is what she said.”

  Sebastian slammed his open palm against the paneled wall and left.

  He went next to Emma Stone’s small house in Camden.

  The woman was famous for writing wildly popular ‘’improving” tracts with titles such as “Christian Piety” and “Moral Sketches for the Next Generation.” Had Hendon named anyone else, Sebastian could have dismissed his wild claims without hesitation. But Sebastian found it impossible to imagine Mrs. Emma Stone lending herself to one of the Earl’s schemes.

  P
ausing on the footpath, Sebastian stared up at the proper brick facade before him. He knew only the faintest outlines of Kat’s earlier history, but what he knew fit uncomfortably well with Hendon’s tale. She’d told him once that her father was an English lord, but her mother had left London before Kat was born to take refuge in her native Ireland. Sebastian knew what the soldiers had done to Kat’s mother and stepfather. He knew too that after their deaths Kat had been taken in by her mother’s sister. Sebastian had formed a hazy image of a self-righteous, ostentatiously religious woman who’d punished her niece’s accusations of her husband’s misconduct with the whip.

  Sebastian studied the silent rows of neatly curtained windows. Had it been from this house that Kat had fled as a child into a life on the streets? She had never named her aunt as Mrs. Emma Stone. But then, there was much that Kat had never told him.

  He became aware of the sensation of being watched. As he climbed the short flight of steps to the front door, he saw the lace curtain at one of the upstairs windows shift slightly, then settle back into place.

  He half expected his knock to go unanswered. Instead, the door was opened almost immediately by a thin slip of a maid with jade green eyes and a scattering of freckles across her nose who looked at him with undisguised curiosity and asked breathlessly, “Are you Lord Devlin?”

  “Yes,” said Sebastian in surprise.

  The girl stepped back and opened the door wide. “Mrs. Stone said to bring you straight up.”

  Sometimes our worst dreams don’t come when we’re asleep.

  The nightmares that came to Sebastian in the bowels of the night were familiar things, disjointed memories of slashing sabers and exploding ordnance punctuated by the screams of dying men and maimed horses. He’d learned to live with those dreams, with those memories. But he wasn’t sure how he was going to learn to live with this.

  He wandered the darkened streets of London, down narrow lanes of shuttered shops and quiet houses. A mist had settled over the city, painting the pavement with a wet sheen that reflected the light from the streetlamps and an occasional passing carriage. He kept trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, how a love once so beautiful and life-sustaining could have suddenly been transformed into something unclean and vile. Of all the taboos with which Englishmen and women fortified themselves against the horrors of savagery and bestiality, only two were so unforgivably loathsome as to be spoken of in frightened whispers: the prohibition against the eating of human flesh, and the sexual union of those bound by the closest of family ties. Father and daughter. Sister and brother.

  He knew he should recoil in horror. A part of him did recoil in horror. But a part of him still ached for the future that had been snatched from him, for the woman he would have made his wife.

  He wanted to get on his horse and gallop out beyond the last straggling hamlets. He wanted to ride through woods lashed by a wild wind, with none but the cold and distant stars for companions. He wanted to ride until he reached the crashing waves of the sea and felt the salty spray rise up to meet him as he spurred ever on, to oblivion.

  A burst of laughter from an open door brought his head around. He paused for a moment, shuddering, recognizing the danger of being alone and far too sober.

  Wiping a hand across his face, he turned his steps toward Pickering Place, unaware of the slight figure watching him anxiously from the shadows.

  Paul Gibson pushed past the billiard tables toward the more select rooms filled with scattered faro and whist tables that lay beyond. The air he breathed smelled strongly of brandy and tobacco and the unmistakable sweet tang of hashish.

  He was in one of the most expensive—and decadent—of the gaming hells off Pickering Place, and he had to keep reminding himself to clench his jaw shut for fear of staring around like some gape-mouthed lout just up from the country. Gibson had been in his share of hells and brothels before—and opium dens, too, for that matter. But he’d never been in a place quite like this one. The walls were hung with watered silk, the mirrors large and framed in ornate gilt wood, the cloths on the supper tables of starched linen. From somewhere in the distance came the lilting strains of a string quartet, the music forming an odd counterpoint to the high-pitched laughter of women and the ceaseless rattle of the dice box.

  Gibson lifted a glass from one of the waiters who circled the rooms bearing trays of claret and brandy. A woman wearing a scarlet gown with a shockingly low décolletage cast him a speculative glance, then brushed past him. Gibson thought the diamonds in her ears looked real, but then, what did a poor Irish doctor know? He fortified himself with a sip of brandy and pushed on.

  Scanning the gaming tables and the crowd around the whirling roulette wheel, he followed the gently curving staircase up to the next floor. The lights here were dimmer, but not dim enough to hide the bare flesh and unmistakable postures of the men and women who cavorted in groups of two, three, or more on low sofas and scattered cushions. Gibson felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment, and looked pointedly away.

  He found Viscount Devlin sprawled on the velvet cushion of an embrasure overlooking the darkened street below, one fist wrapped around the neck of a bottle of good French brandy. As Gibson watched, a half-naked woman stroked one hand over his chest and down his stomach, but Devlin shook his head and brought his hand down on hers to stop its slow descent. The woman mewed softly in disappointment, then moved away. The Viscount raised the brandy to his lips and drank deep. Gibson had been afraid he might find his friend in one of those knots of groping, naked flesh. But Devlin seemed more interested in drinking himself to death than in drowning his pain in sex.

  “There you are, me lad,” said Gibson heartily, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “Sorry I took so long. You haven’t forgotten you promised to meet my sister tonight, have you?”

  Devlin swung his head to stare directly at him. The feral yellow eyes were glittering and dangerous. “Your sister?”

  “Ah. See, you have forgotten. I’ve a hackney waiting outside. I know the Beau has dictated that no gentleman should condescend to ride in a hackney, but my carriage is being repaired, so I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about it.”

  “You don’t own a carriage,” said Sebastian. “Nor do you have a sister.”

  “Now that’s where you’re out, my friend. I do indeed have a sister. But seeing as how she’s taken the veil in a nunnery near Killarney, I don’t think you’d want to meet her. Especially not in your present condition.”

  Devlin laughed and pushed to his feet. His cravat was rumpled and his hair more disheveled than normal, but his gait was steady enough as they walked down the stairs. It was only when they reached the narrow lane outside the gaming hell’s discreet door that the Viscount paused to lean against the rough brick wall and squeeze his eyes shut.

  “Bloody hell,” he said after a moment.

  Gibson studied his friend’s pale face and tightly clenched jaw. “I haven’t seen you this foxed since that night in San Domingo.”

  “I haven’t been this foxed since that night in San Domingo. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been this foxed.” Devlin opened his eyes and stared at him. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Tom was worried about you.”

  The dangerous glitter was back in the Viscount’s eyes. “The devil you say.”

  “That’s right.” Gibson clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder, then laughed softly when Devlin winced. “And tomorrow, when you sober up, you can thank him.”

  The doctor waited until they were in the hackney headed toward Tower Hill before saying, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard the news.”

  Devlin had been gazing silently out the window, but at that he swung his head to stare at Gibson. “What news?”

  “They’ve arrested the Butcher of the West End. A country gentleman from Hertfordshire.”

  Devlin was suddenly, almost frighteningly sober. “Brandon Forbes?”

  “That’s it.”

 
“But he didn’t do it.”

  Gibson raised one eyebrow. “Can you prove it?”

  “No.”

  “Then he’ll hang for it, for sure. Either that, or some mob will pull him out of his cell and tear him to pieces. People are afraid. They want someone’s blood, and quick.”

  “Stop the carriage,” said Devlin.

  Gibson sprang to signal the driver. “Why? What is it?”

  Devlin shoved open the door. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Chapter 56

  SUNDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER 1811

  Charles, Lord Jarvis spent as little time as possible in his house in Berkeley Square. But he always attended Sunday-morning services at St. James’s chapel with his harridan of a mother, his half-mad wife, and his determinedly unwed daughter, Hero. After church, it was his practice to pass several hours in his library dealing with affairs of state before sitting down to Sunday dinner with his family. He was very conscious of the need for the better classes to set a proper example for the lower orders, and church attendance and devotion to family were an important part of that example. It was a duty he had sought to impress upon his daughter, although with indifferent success.

  On this particular Sunday, he returned from chapel to find the reports of several of his agents awaiting his attention on his desk. Devlin’s interference with his plans to use the actress Kat Boleyn to ferret out the identity of Napoleon’s new spymaster had forced Jarvis to fall back on more traditional means, but so far his agents had proved unsuccessful. He was glancing through their reports when he was interrupted by a cautious knock.