by C. S. Harris
She held herself painfully straight. “How did you find out?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.” She gave a small, peculiar shrug. “I recognized your voice that first night. I didn’t tell you any more than I had to because I don’t trust you.”
“Because of Portugal?”
“Of course; does that seem so difficult to believe?”
He studied the signs of strain around her nostrils, the dark shadows in her eyes. But whether they were because of her recent illness or because of the bitter memories his presence aroused, he could not have said. “Have you remembered anything more about what happened in Cat’s Hole?”
“Some—but not all.” She swallowed. “I remember leaving Madame Bisette’s room and walking back up the lane, toward the Tower; we were hoping to find a hackney there. It was so cold and dark, and Damion was . . . nervous.”
“Nervous? Why?”
“From the time he was a little boy, Damion always hated the dark.”
“So what happened?”
“I thought I heard footsteps behind us. At first they were some distance away, but they kept getting closer. I turned to see who it was and—” She broke off and shook her head. “That’s the last thing I remember.”
He said, “Tell me about Sampson Bullock.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. “How do you know of him?”
“I know he threatened to kill you. Why the hell didn’t you think to mention him?”
“But I did—at least to Gibson. Bullock threatened me, not Damion. How could he possibly have anything to do with what happened?”
“He holds you responsible for the death of his brother. And now I discover that Damion was your brother. We’re talking about a man who grew up in the kind of family that names its children Sampson and Abel. I can see him harboring some rather nasty, biblical attitudes toward revenge.”
“An eye for an eye and a brother for a brother? Is that what you’re suggesting?” She tipped her head to one side as if considering it. “But . . . Bullock had no way of knowing that Damion was my brother. No one knows.”
“I know. So does the person who told me. Bullock could have found out.”
She shook her head. “No. Damion was killed because of his association with the delegation from Paris.”
“The number of people who knew about the peace negotiations is small.”
“Then that should make it easier to find those responsible.”
He searched her thin, pale face. He could see the lines left there by the harsh life she’d lived, by her recent injury and the lingering fever she was still fighting. They had not moved from the passageway, but simply stood beside the door, old adversaries facing each other in the narrow, confined space. She leaned back against the wall. And though she would never admit it, he knew that simply being on her feet this long had tired her.
She said, “Damion told me he was approached by a man who tried to bribe him.”
“Bribe him? To what end?”
“Something to do with the delegation. He was frightened by the encounter—he feared both what the man might do to him for refusing, as well as what might happen if the others found out he’d been approached.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
When she simply stared back at him, he said, “Your brother refused to cooperate?”
A fierce light flared in the dark depths of her eyes. “Mon Dieu; of course he refused! What sort of man do you think he was?”
“Who tried to bribe him?”
She frowned. “I can’t recall his name precisely. I believe he was Scottish. Something like Kilmer, or Kilminster, or—”
“Kilmartin?”
“Yes, that was it,” said Damion Pelletan’s sister. “Kilmartin.”
Chapter 31
No man was a more reliable presence at the various soirees, balls, and breakfasts given by London’s fashionable hostesses than Angus Kilmartin. Sebastian suspected Kilmartin worked such gatherings in much the same spirit as a pickpocket worked the crowds at a hanging, ever on the lookout for a new connection or a stray tidbit of information he could use to increase his personal wealth. Or perhaps he was simply driven by the need to show the world that a humble Glaswegian merchant’s son was now wealthy and powerful enough to be invited almost anywhere.
That afternoon’s most fashionable, must-attend event was a lavish winter wonderland–themed breakfast given by the Countess of Morley at her vast Grosvenor Square town house. Society “breakfasts,” like “morning visits,” were actually afternoon affairs, due to the fact that very few residents of Mayfair rolled out of bed before noon.
When Sebastian walked up to him, Angus Kilmartin was contemplating the exquisite ice sculptures decorating Lady Morley’s long buffet table. The Scotsman threw Sebastian a brief glance, then turned his attention to the array of delicacies spread out before him.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” said Kilmartin, helping himself to foie gras and toast.
Sebastian lifted a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“You aren’t exactly known for your fondness for social gatherings.”
“I do occasionally put in an appearance.”
“But not, I suspect, without an ulterior motive. Am I to infer that I am your purpose?”
Sebastian took a slow sip of his champagne. “As a matter of fact, you are. You lied to me.”
To call a gentleman a liar was the supreme affront to his honor, an insult that was traditionally met with a challenge to a duel. But Kilmartin merely let his gaze drift over the assembled throng, a bland smile on his comical, freckled face. “I lie all the time. I’ve never subscribed to the pathetic belief that we owe our fellow men the truth.”
“An interesting philosophy.”
“At least I’m honest about it.”
Sebastian gave a soft laugh. “True. I’m curious: What was Damion Pelletan’s reaction when you tried to bribe him?”
Kilmartin brought his gaze back to Sebastian’s face. His smile never slipped. “Heard about that, did you? Well, if you must know, he leapt at my offer. What did you think? That he became righteously indignant and threatened to expose me, so that I saw no option but to creep up behind him in a darkened alley and cut out his heart? Not his tongue, mind you—surely a more fitting punishment for one with a tendency to talk too much—but his heart? Please; spare me this drivel.”
Sebastian took another sip of his champagne and somehow resisted the impulse to dash the contents of his glass into the man’s self-satisfied face. “What, precisely, did you want Pelletan to do for you? He wasn’t formally a part of the delegation; he was simply a physician.”
Kilmartin rolled his eyes. “You don’t have much of an imagination, do you?”
Sebastian studied the Scotsman’s bland smile. He could think of two services Pelletan might have provided Kilmartin, one considerably nastier than the other. Kilmartin could have paid the physician to eavesdrop on the various members of the delegation and report their conversations back to him.
Or he could have pressured Pelletan to poison his own patient.
“And did he perform as well as you anticipated?” Sebastian asked.
Kilmartin heaved a heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, no. Someone else obviously got to him first.”
“A statement meant to implicate—whom? Harmond Vaundreuil himself?”
Kilmartin’s smile spread into something wide and toothy. “Far be it for me to encroach on your self-appointed avocation as a crusader for justice, but you do seem to require a helpful nudge in the right direction.”
“Your generosity overwhelms me.”
Kilmartin splayed one hand over his chest and gave a mocking bow. “I must confess, that’s not something I hear every day.”
“Philanthropy, like honesty, not being a belief to which you subscribe?”
“Exactly.” Kilmartin’s pale eyes glinted with malice
masquerading as amusement. “But I seem to be feeling unusually generous today, so I’ll give you another little hint to the wise: Don’t make the mistake of giving too much credence to Pelletan’s sister; she has her own secrets she’s most anxious to hide.”
“How do you know Damion Pelletan had a sister?”
Kilmartin laughed. “Information is a valuable commodity. And I like to trade in valuable commodities.”
“Information can also be quite dangerous.”
For one intense moment, the Scotsman’s smile slipped. Then he pressed his lips together, the ends of his mouth curling up, his chin dimpling as he pulled it back in a grimace. “Only to those without the resources to use it correctly.” He gave a low, mocking bow and said, “My lord.”
Sebastian was watching Kilmartin weave his way through the crowd when he became aware of a stout, gray-haired, fierce-eyed dowager bearing down upon him.
She was the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne, born Lady Henrietta St. Cyr, sister to the current Earl of Hendon and, as far as the world knew, Sebastian’s aunt. Now older than seventy, Henrietta had never been a beauty. But she had a regal presence, a brutal will, and a tenacious memory that made her a force to be reckoned with in Society. By far her most attractive feature was the startlingly vivid eyes that were the hallmark of her family—the blue St. Cyr eyes so noticeably lacking in Sebastian.
“Aunt,” said Sebastian, stooping to brush her cheek with a kiss. She was wearing a puce satin gown trimmed in pale pink, with an extraordinarily hideous headpiece of towering striped satin ornamented with a bouquet of pink and puce-colored feathers. He stepped back, eyes widening as if in rapt admiration. “What a particularly fetching turban. You’re one of the few women I know who can carry off the color puce. And with pink, no less.”
She swatted at him. “Huh. Think to turn me up sweet, do you? Well, let me tell you right now, it won’t work. I know why you’re here.”
“You do?”
“I do. Hendon told me you’ve involved yourself in this dreadful new murder.”
Sebastian held himself very still. “What does Hendon know of it?”
“More than you might think,” she said vaguely.
“What does that mean?”
She worked her lips back and forth in a way that reminded him of her brother. “He’s worried about you, Devlin.”
“I see no reason why he should be.”
“He heard about the attack near Stoke Mandeville.”
“Oh? And then he saw fit to edify you with the tale?”
“No; that was Claiborne.” Claiborne was Henrietta’s long-suffering son and the current Duke of Claiborne.
“How very busy of him.”
“Claiborne has always been very busy. It’s a tendency he inherited from his father.”
Sebastian laughed out loud, for he’d known few men more taciturn than Henrietta’s late husband, the Third Duke of Claiborne. Henrietta, on the other hand, rivaled Jarvis in her ability to ferret out the secrets and scandals of the various members of the haut ton—although unlike Jarvis, she was driven solely by a boundless curiosity about her fellow beings.
She fixed him with a level stare. “I take it you’re not coming to my soiree on Tuesday night. As usual.”
“No.”
She sniffed. “How does your wife?”
“She is well, thank you. Quite well.”
“I chanced to see her in Berkeley Square a few days ago. Any possibility she might be carrying twins?”
Sebastian gave a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. “No; no chance of that.”
“No? That explains a few things,” she said cryptically, then deliberately moved away before he could challenge her on the statement.
Chapter 32
Paul Gibson trudged up the hill toward home, his gaze on the somber bulk of the Tower looming before him. The light was fading rapidly from the sky, leaving the ancient battlements silhouetted against the darkening clouds. He could feel the temperature dropping with each step, the icy wind chafing his cheeks and freezing his nostrils as he sucked in air. But that didn’t stop a thin layer of sweat from forming on his forehead. The sense of unease that had dogged him for blocks was growing ever-more oppressive with each step. It was as if he could feel someone behind him, their eyes boring into his back.
Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he whipped around. “Who’s there?” he cried to the nearly empty street, only to feel more than a wee bit foolish as he looked into the beady eyes of a dirty white hen that stopped midpeck to raise her head and stare at him.
Straightening his shoulders, he self-consciously adjusted the set of his coat and continued up the hill, his peg leg tap-tapping hollowly with each step. He tried to tell himself he was tired, worn down by the events of the last several days, and bedeviled by the wispy remnants of last night’s laudanum.
Yet the feeling of being watched remained.
It was with a sigh of relief that he saw the golden glow of candlelight shining through the front windows of his house. He pushed open his front door and breathed in the rich aroma of a hearty stew. Leaning back against the closed door, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to still the heavy pounding of his heart. Alexi Sauvage was right, he thought; those damned poppies were going to kill him at the rate he was going. Kill him, or steal what was left of his mind.
The sound of a soft step on the worn flagging of the passage made him open his eyes. She stood before him, a slim, fiery-haired woman dressed in a gown of mossy green he’d never seen before.
“You should be resting,” he said.
She shook her head. “I am tired of resting. I’m better. Truly, I am. Besides, someone needed to fix your supper.”
“My supper?” He frowned. “Where the d—” He started to say “devil” but caught himself just in time. “—dickens is Mrs. Federico?”
“I am afraid your housekeeper has a rather low opinion of the French.”
“She what?”
“She promised to return tomorrow, after I am gone.”
He became aware of the bundle of her things resting just inside the door, and its significance hit him so hard it nearly took his breath. “You’re leaving?”
“I sent for Karmele. She’s gone to fetch us a hackney. But I wanted to stay long enough to tell you good-bye.”
She took the two steps necessary to close the distance between them. For one glorious moment he thought she meant to kiss him, and he told himself he was six kinds of an Irish fool. She rested her palms on the front of his coat. He could feel the heat of her hands against his chest, feel his heart pounding against his ribs. Then she tipped her head to brush her lips against his ever so softly before taking a step back again.
Her hands fell to her sides. “There simply are no words adequate for the task of thanking someone who has saved your life,” she said. “But I don’t know what else to say except . . . merci.”
Somehow, he found enough breath to answer her. “You don’t need to be going yet.”
“Yes, I do.” Her gaze met his. “And you know why as well as I do.”
A long silence drew out between them, filled with their measured breathing and words best left unspoken.
He said, “What about that man—the one who was watching you last night—”
“Bullock?” She shrugged. “I can handle Bullock.”
She was so bloody brave and stubborn she frightened him. “And Damion Pelletan’s killer?” he asked, his voice rough with the force of his emotions. “Can you ‘handle’ him too?”
She lifted her chin in that way she had. “I refuse to live my life in fear. But . . . I will be careful. I promise.”
The rattle of a trace chain and the clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside announced the arrival of her hackney. She stooped to catch up her bundle and reached for the latch. Then she paused to look back at him. “I meant what I said last night. You don’t need to live with the pain from your missing leg. I can help you. There’s a trick t
hat uses a box and mirrors to fool the mind into—”
He shook his head. “No.”
“And you call me stubborn.” She jerked open the door.
The hackney was old and broken-down and smelled of moldy hay and spilled ale. Gibson was conscious of her woman, Karmele, scowling at him from the vehicle’s interior, her arms crossed beneath her massive breasts as he handed Alexi up into the carriage. He wished he could say something—anything—to stop this moment and hold her in his life. But the jarvey was already cracking his whip. The carriage rolled forward.
He raised one hand in an awkward gesture of farewell. But she kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her hair a bright flame lost all too soon in the gloom of the night. It wasn’t until she was gone that he realized he hadn’t actually called her stubborn.
He’d only thought it.
• • •
The impulse to lose himself in opium’s sweet embraces was strong enough to propel Gibson away from Tower Hill that night. Resisting a secondary urge to seek a coarser type of oblivion at his local pub, he caught a hackney to Mayfair and met Devlin at a quiet coffeehouse in Hanover Square.
“I can look at your face and see that you haven’t brought me good news,” said Devlin, ordering coffee for them both.
Gibson eased out a soft sigh as he settled in a chair near the fire, glad to get off his peg leg. “Part of the problem is Richard Croft. He’s been very busy going about justifying himself to anyone and everyone who’ll listen. Technically I suppose he could claim he’s been discreet, but it’s amazing how much a man can somehow manage to convey without actually saying it. Most people are wise enough to discern the truth—that Croft resigned because he feared Jarvis’s wrath should something go wrong. But rather than helping matters, that’s probably only made the situation worse.”
“All I need is one name,” said Devlin, leaning his forearms on the table between them.
Gibson wrapped his cold-numbed hands around his steaming coffee. “Well . . . My colleague Lothan has offered to consult with Lady Devlin. But to be frank, I don’t think he’ll find favor with her any more than Croft did—less so, in fact. If anything, he’s worse than Croft when it comes to the employment of bloodletting, purges, and emetics. And he absolutely refuses under any circumstances to use forceps, which I’m afraid may become necessary in this case.”
