Why Kill the Innocent

by C. S. Harris

  Sebastian ran one finger up and down the side of his tankard. “Tell me about Rothschild.”

  Archibald Potter hunched his shoulders and leaned in closer, dropping his voice lower. “They call them ‘the Family,’ you know. Ain’t nobody more active in the Channel than them. Lots of other London merchants and bankers finance operations. But the Rothschilds, they run their own bloody ships, specially constructed with secret compartments. They don’t just use kegs with false heads and hollowed-out pigs of iron hidden under the ballast. They’ve got secret drawers built into the binnacles that open by springs, false ceilings—anything you can think of and probably more than a bit you can’t. And they’re all flying flags with that Rothschild red shield and gold eagle.”

  “So they don’t get stopped,” said Sebastian. The Rothschilds paid a number of officials in various countries to look the other way. And even those who weren’t paid off were frequently too afraid to tangle with such a powerful, wealthy family.

  “They don’t get stopped very often—that’s for sure. And if they do get caught with contraband, all Nathan Rothschild needs do is claim he doesn’t know anything about it—just lays the blame for any illicit cargo they find on the crew and captain. That way the ship’s not forfeit, and it’s the crew that gets hauled off into custody.”

  “I wouldn’t think they’d keep quiet.”

  “They do if they’ve any sense. A revenue cutter stopped a Rothschild ship just a few weeks ago—the Viking—with a secret cargo of guineas in her stern. The revenuers took the captain and crew into custody, but a few days later they just”—Potter fluttered his hands through the air like a conjurer doing a trick—“disappeared. Everyone knows Rothschild’s got friends in high places—people who make sure anything he wants to happen, happens.”

  Sebastian felt a quickening of interest. “When did you say the Viking was stopped?”

  Potter shrugged. “First part of the month—during that nasty Great Fog we had.”

  According to Nathan Rothschild, Jane Ambrose’s final lesson with little Anna Rothschild had taken place on a Tuesday at the end of the Great Fog. It could mean nothing, of course. But then again . . .

  He became aware of Archibald Potter studying him with renewed interest. “You got Scottish in you?” asked the free trader suddenly.

  Sebastian shrugged. “Some. Why?”

  “You remember that fellow I was telling you about—the one with the yellow eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “He had a Scottish name, for all he was a French colonel.”

  Sebastian kept his hands steady by pressing them flat on the table. “Oh? What was his name?” he asked, his voice sounding convincingly casual.

  “Mac-something. Can’t recall exactly. But he looked more than a bit like yourself—except older, of course. Old enough by now to maybe be your father, I reckon.”

  “Interesting,” said Sebastian, his features carefully schooled into an expression of polite boredom even as he felt the blood coursing through his veins hard enough that for one pulsing moment he heard a roaring in his ears.

  * * *

  Leaving the Cat and Fiddle, Sebastian turned his steps toward the river, his gaze on the heavy white clouds pressing down on the city. But his thoughts were in the past.

  He was the third son and fourth child born to the marriage of the Earl of Hendon and his beautiful, restless wife, Sophia. He’d always known he was different from his brothers, Richard and Cecil—different in looks, interests, talents, and temperament. And so very, very different from their father, the Earl. He’d grown up feeling like an outsider in his own family, wondering why his eyes were a strange feral yellow rather than the startling blue that was such a strong characteristic in the St. Cyr family and wondering at the anger and disappointment he often glimpsed in the Earl’s face when he gazed upon his unsatisfactory third son. But somehow it had never occurred to Sebastian to wonder if he were really Hendon’s child.

  He’d learned the truth only recently in a series of devastating revelations that had come close to destroying him. Even after all these months, even after the long-delayed reconciliation with Hendon, he still felt a stranger to himself. For if he wasn’t Hendon’s son, then who was he? Half of his history, half of himself—his unknown father’s half—remained an enigma to him, a murky, mysterious world populated by the shadowy men and women from whom he was descended and yet about whom he knew nothing.

  Nothing.

  Looking out over the jumbled ice of the frozen river, he told himself the free trader’s tale of a French colonel with a Scottish name and yellow eyes meant nothing. Yes, yellow eyes were rare, but they were not unique. And while a Welsh cavalry officer—along with an English lord and a Gypsy stableboy—had been amongst those named as Sophia Devlin’s possible lover, no one had ever mentioned a Frenchman with a Scottish surname.

  He told himself that one of these days he was going to need to make peace with the mystery of his origins and accept that he would probably never learn what he was so desperate to know.

  He told himself these things. And still hope thrummed within him, undeniable and irrepressible.

  Chapter 30

  After leaving the river, Sebastian went first to the Admiralty, where he made inquiries into the fate of a certain Rothschild galley. Then, pondering what he’d learned, he turned his steps east again, toward the Bank of England and the Exchange.

  Nathan Rothschild lived in the same modest brick residence from which he operated his businesses. Situated on a drab court off St. Swithin’s Lane, just a stone’s throw from the Bank of England, the Stock Exchange, and the official residence of the Mayor of London, the house was as squat and ugly as the warehouse that stood beside it. Dressed as he was for his meeting at the Cat and Fiddle, Sebastian half expected the middle-aged manservant in rusty livery who opened the door to turn him away. But before Sebastian had a chance to present his card, the man bowed and said, “Lord Devlin, yes? If you will kindly step into the bookroom, I will apprise Mr. Rothschild of your arrival.”

  Sebastian was shown to a small, frigid room lined with shelves stuffed with dusty ledgers and crowded with three tall desks. None of the desks had a stool, and there were no chairs in the room. He was standing at the narrow window overlooking the court and watching a couple of workmen transfer wooden crates from the back of a wagon to the warehouse next door when he heard Rothschild’s heavy tread coming down the stairs.

  “Vhat the devil do you vant now?” the financier demanded as he drew up just inside the doorway. His drab old-fashioned frock coat was frayed at the hems; the overlong graying red hair fringed a balding pate.

  Sebastian turned to face him. “Tell me about the Viking.”

  Rothschild’s full lower lip jutted out, and he closed the door behind him with a snap. “Vhat about it?”

  “I’m told it was caught smuggling gold guineas.”

  “That had nothing to do vith me.”

  “Do you seriously expect me to believe that?”

  Rothschild snorted. “I don’t care vhat you believe.”

  From somewhere up above came the sound of a child’s laughter; then someone began playing the piano with exquisite skill. Sebastian glanced toward the sound. “According to the Admiralty, the Viking was seized in the Channel on the night of January third. Given the excellence of your family’s intelligence apparatus, I suspect it’s more than likely that you received word of the Viking’s fate the very next day—which coincidently happens to have been the last Tuesday of the Great Fog and the date of Jane Ambrose’s final visit to this house. So what happened? Did she overhear something she wasn’t supposed to hear? A conversation in which you betrayed your prior knowledge of the galley’s illegal shipment, perhaps? Is that why she was frightened? Not because you terminated your arrangement with her, but because you threatened her—perhaps even threatened to kill her if she told anyone what
she had heard?”

  Not a single trace of emotion showed on Rothschild’s face—not surprise, alarm, fear, or anger; he remained utterly inscrutable. “Vas Jane Ambrose here on the fourth? I do not recall.”

  “You know she was.”

  Rothschild shrugged. “And if your supposition vere true—vhich of course I in no way concede—do you seriously suppose that I would admit to it?”

  Sebastian gave the man a hard, tight smile. “Actually, no. I’d expect you to react precisely as you have—scornfully dismissive, arrogant, and utterly unconcerned with the death of a talented, innocent young woman you knew.”

  Rothschild made a rude noise. “I did not kill that voman.”

  “What about the two men who attacked me the other day in Fleet Street? Did you send them?”

  For the first time Sebastian saw the faintest hint of a reaction in the man’s pale protruding eyes, quickly hidden by lowered lids. “I haven’t the slightest idea vhat you are talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Sebastian picked up his hat from where it rested on the nearest desk.

  Rothschild opened the door for him. “As for the Viking, you don’t understand the importance of vhat you have bumbled into. Take my advice and stay out of it.”

  “Oh? Or you’ll—what?” said Sebastian. “Send someone to kill me? You already tried that, remember?”

  Something flickered again in the financier’s pale eyes. Something angry and brutal. But Sebastian noticed that he didn’t deny it.

  * * *

  “You think Rothschild is the one who sent those men to kill you?” Gibson asked.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Sebastian as the two men sat drinking mulled wine beside Gibson’s kitchen fire. “Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll ever be able to prove it.”

  “And Jane Ambrose? Did he kill her, too?”

  “I’d be inclined to think so, except . . .”

  Gibson glanced over at him. “Except?”

  Sebastian rocked back on his bench and crossed his arms. “I don’t know. Something feels wrong about it. Either that or I’m just missing something—something important.”

  “When’s the fellow’s inquest?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Gibson pushed up to go throw more fuel on the fire. “You heard Alexi and Lady Devlin are going to that poor girl’s hanging tomorrow? The one who came up to London after her husband was impressed.”

  Sebastian stared at him. “No. Why?”

  “Her ladyship thinks they owe it to the girl to be there, and Alexi agreed.” Gibson paused. “It’s gonna be ugly.”

  “Yes,” said Sebastian, his heart heavy for his wife. “But then, they know that.”

  “Aye,” Gibson admitted. “So they do.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, now dressed in elegant knee breeches, a linen shirt, and a finely tailored greatcoat, Sebastian tucked an elegant walking stick under one arm and trolled the expensive pleasure haunts of the West End. He was looking for Viscount Ashworth, the handsome but deadly Marquis’s heir who had married Sebastian’s niece the previous September. Since securing the hand of Miss Stephanie Wilcox, Ashworth had reverted to his old habits, which meant spending his evenings in London’s more notorious gaming establishments and brothels. Sebastian knew because he’d been keeping an eye on the man ever since that fateful September day.

  Sebastian eventually spotted his quarry in a noisy hell near Leicester Square. But rather than directly approach his niece’s husband, Sebastian simply hung back and watched. He watched Ashworth shift from EO table to faro to rouge et noir, drinking freely and laughing with friends, before casually tupping a black-haired whore against the wall in a darkened corner. Then he called for his greatcoat and hat and, whistling softly, set off alone toward the Haymarket.

  The night was so cold every sound seemed magnified—the crunch of Sebastian’s boots in the snow, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the tinkling notes of a piano underscored by men’s voices and a woman’s gay laughter. With each breath, the exhalation billowed around him to hang motionless in the coal smoke–scented air.

  Oblivious to his shadow, Ashworth turned purposefully into Piccadilly. When the Marquis’s son approached the dark, yawning mouth of an alley, Sebastian increased his pace. Coming up behind the man in a snow-muffled rush, he reached out to grab the Viscount’s upper right arm at the same time he shoved hard against Ashworth’s left shoulder.

  The force of the blow caused the man to pivot toward the entrance to the alley just as Sebastian let him go. Ashworth staggered forward several steps, off-balance, then tripped on the walking stick Sebastian thrust between the man’s legs.

  With a startled grunt, Ashworth went down hard on his stomach, his hands flung out at his sides in the snow. He was still collecting himself when Sebastian calmly planted his boot on the fallen man’s right hand.

  “What the hell are you—,” Ashworth began, then broke off to suck in a quick breath when Sebastian slid the stiletto from his walking stick and held the sharp tip against the bastard’s cheek.

  “Shut up and listen,” hissed Sebastian.

  Ashworth went utterly still, the whites of his eyes shining clearly in the moonlight as his gaze focused on the naked steel held against his face.

  “It’s terrible, how easy it is to have an accident,” said Sebastian softly. “I’m told your wife had an ‘accident’ recently, as well. You do remember, don’t you? The bruise on her cheek?”

  Ashworth blinked. His breathing was perhaps more rapid than normal, but other than that he seemed remarkably calm. “I take it this display of calculated barbarism is intended to intimidate me?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I seem to recall you expressed the hope last September of seeing my lovely bride a widow by year’s end. That didn’t happen, did it?”

  “Not yet.”

  Ashworth gave a low laugh. “Are you planning to take up murder now? And here I was under the impression you hold the practice in exaggerated repugnance. That is why you indulge in that peculiar pastime of yours, is it not?”

  “There are ways to destroy a man besides killing him.”

  “True. But unless you are willing to ruin your own dear niece in the process, the number of options narrows considerably.”

  “Narrows. But does not disappear,” said Sebastian, leaning into the stiletto ever so slightly.

  Ashworth blinked again but remained silent.

  Sebastian said, “Just remember: I’m watching you. Give me the faintest glimmer of an excuse, and I will take it. Without hesitation.”

  “You can try.”

  Sebastian gave a slow smile. “I seem to recall your late friend Sir Francis Rowe expressing a similar sentiment . . . right before he died.”

  “Rowe was a fool.”

  “And you think you’re not?” Sebastian subtly increased the weight on Ashworth’s hand as he drew a thin, bloody line across the man’s cheek with the tip of his blade. “Hurt my niece again and you’ll regret it.”

  Sebastian stepped back and sheathed his sword. “You’ve been warned.”

  Chapter 31

  Tuesday, 1 February

  The next morning, Hero rose before the sun and dressed in a somber carriage gown, warm socks, and heavy broquins. She was settling a veiled, low-crowned hat on her hair when Devlin came up behind her to put his hands on her waist.

  “Ever been to a hanging before?” he asked softly.

  She turned to face him. “No.”

  “The crowds can get rough.”

  “Alexi warned me. Tom offered to come with us, but I didn’t think that would be fair.” Tom’s brother, Huey, had been just thirteen when he was hanged as a thief.

  Devlin said, “If I didn’t have this damned inquest—”

  She brushed his lips
with hers. “I know.”

  His gaze met hers, and she saw the worry he was trying to hide. He said, “Why do this? Why force yourself to watch that poor young woman hang?”

  “Because she has no family in London, and someone should be there for her.” She reached for her gloves and drew them on with swift jerking motions. “What kind of society steals a man away from his pregnant young wife to send him off to war and then hangs her when she steals to try to keep herself and her child alive?”

  “One with its values in serious need of realignment.”

  “Will it ever change, do you think?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She gave a faint smile. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Armies will always need cannon fodder. And shopkeepers and merchants will always have more clout than starving women and children.”

  “I keep trying to imagine what she must be going through, but it seems unbearable.”

  “I suspect it is.”

  * * *

  The day dawned clear but bitterly cold despite the golden sunlight that spilled across the awakening city.

  Hero thought the frigid temperatures might reduce the number of spectators at the hanging, but she was wrong. She and Alexi arrived at the Old Bailey—the street before Newgate Prison where hangings were held—to find a surging, raucous, malodorous crowd of thousands: men, women, and children, their shouts and laughter joining into a roar. The atmosphere was that of a fair, with pie sellers and broadside hawkers and a flotilla of dirty, ragged urchins who darted through the milling throng to pick the pockets of the unwary.

  “It’s probably because they’re hanging a woman,” said Alexi, her face tight with suppressed emotion as they pushed their way through the crush of onlookers toward the ramshackle old house from which they had arranged to watch the hanging. “The crowds are always larger for women, especially when they’re young. Women and highwaymen and notorious murderers.”