Chapter 22
Lord Fairchild’s residence in Curzon Street was impressively large and stylishly decorated by its new young mistress, with striped silk drapes and rich Oriental carpets and Egyptian-inspired settees. As Sebastian followed the solemn-faced butler across a polished marble entry, he knew a moment of misgivings. Silver gleamed; the wood of the balustrade and hall tables glowed with wax. How could the granddaughter of a duke, born to such a genteel, rarified atmosphere, possibly have fallen so low as to grace the tawdry parlor of a brothel like the Orchard Street Academy?
Still solid and straight-backed despite his fiftysomething years, Basil, Lord Fairchild had the silver-laced dark hair and sallow skin more typically seen in a Spaniard or a Frenchman from the Côte d’Azure. Receiving the Viscount in a red-velvet-draped library, he fixed Sebastian with a heavy scowl and said, “If Hendon sent you here to talk to me about these damnable Orders in Council, you’re wasting your time.”
The Orders in Council were part of Britain’s tit-for-tat economic war with Napoleon. But one of the system’s unintended consequences had been a heating up of tensions with the Americans. Lord Fairchild was one of those pushing for the Orders’ repeal, whereas Sebastian’s father was a strong supporter of the Prime Minister’s determination to stand tough against the Americans’ belligerence. “It’s not that I’m soft on the defense of Canada or British shipping interests,” Fairchild was saying. “But Britain needs to stay focused on defeating the French.”
“I’m not my father’s envoy,” said Sebastian, and left it at that.
Lord Fairchild looked surprised for a moment, then gave a gruff laugh. “Well, then. Have a seat, Lord Devlin. My son, Cedric, has told me much of your exploits on the Continent. If we had a few more men like you, maybe Boney’d be on his way to hell by now, rather than riding roughshod over all of Europe.”
As far as Sebastian was concerned, his activities in the Army were something to be atoned for and, hopefully, someday forgotten—not glorified. But he merely inclined his head and said, “Thank you. I’d rather stand.”
“But you will take a drink,” said Fairchild with a smile. There was nothing in either the man’s manner or his demeanor to suggest the grieving father.
Sebastian said, “I’m afraid I may have some unfortunate news for you.”
“News?” Lord Fairchild’s smile faded. “What news?”
“It’s about your daughter Rachel.”
Lord Fairchild went to splash brandy into two glasses, his movements controlled, methodical. After a moment, he said, “Rachel? Unfortunate news? I don’t know what you can mean. My daughter is in the country.” Turning, he held out one of the brandies. And in that moment Sebastian knew, unequivocally, that the man was lying.
Rather than taking the glass, Sebastian reached into his pocket and drew out the delicate silver bracelet. It landed with a soft clatter on the polished surface of the table between them. “I think not.”
Lord Fairchild stared at the bracelet. Carefully setting aside the brandies, he stretched out a hand that was not quite steady to pick it up. He studied the medallion’s crest, then raised his gaze to Sebastian’s face. “Where did you get this?”
“Two days ago the young woman who owned that bracelet was murdered. She had brown hair and green eyes, and said her name had once been Rachel—although she’d lately taken to calling herself ‘Rose.’ ”
“I told you,” said Lord Fairchild, setting the bracelet down again, “my daughter is in Northamptonshire.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Why—Easter, I suppose.” The man stared back at Sebastian as if daring him to contradict it. “Yes, that was it. Easter.”
“I don’t think so,” said Sebastian. “I think she’s missing. I think she’s been missing for some time. Now she’s dead, and in a few hours, she’ll be given a pauper’s funeral by the Society of Friends. Is that what you want? For your daughter to be buried in an unmarked grave?”
Lord Fairchild’s cheeks darkened with rage, his eyes narrowing down to two small slits. “Get out,” he said through tight, twisted lips. “Get out of my house.”
Lord Fairchild thrust out his hand, reaching again for the bracelet. Sebastian got there first, his fist closing over the delicate silver chain and the medallion with its damning crest. “It’s not your daughter’s, remember?” he said.
For a moment, the two men’s eyes clashed, Lord Fairchild’s full of fury and fear, Sebastian’s sending a steady promise of intent. Then Sebastian turned on his heel and strode from the house.
Sending Tom and the curricle ahead of him, Sebastian walked the footpaths of Mayfair, a deep disquiet blooming within him.
Why?
he kept wondering. Why would a young, gently bred woman raised in the comfort and splendor of Curzon Street run from her family’s protection to seek a bleak refuge on the streets? What had she seen? Heard? Learned? What did she fear?
He was turning his steps toward St. James’s when a gentleman’s carriage swung around the corner and pulled in close to the curb, the coachman dropping the horses to a walk. Sebastian glanced at the well-known crest on the panel and didn’t alter his stride.
The King’s cousin, Charles, Lord Jarvis, let down the near window and said, “Ride with me a ways, Devlin.”
Sebastian turned to face him. “If you’re planning to do away with me, I’d like to point out that there are rather a lot of witnesses about.”
Jarvis said drily, “You of all people ought to know I never do my own dirty work.”
Sebastian laughed and leapt up into the carriage without waiting for the steps to be let down.
Jarvis signaled to the coachman to drive on. “It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been asking questions about Monday night’s fire.”
There was a pause. When Sebastian made no attempt to fill the silence, Jarvis shifted his considerable weight and said, “What precisely is your interest in the matter?”
Sebastian studied the Baron’s impassive features. “I don’t like murder. Especially when no one wants to acknowledge that it has taken place.”
Jarvis drew a delicately enameled snuffbox from his pocket. “People are murdered in London all the time.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Jarvis flipped open the snuffbox and lifted a pinch to one nostril. They were playing a game, a delicate verbal dance in which Jarvis was attempting to discover if his daughter’s presence at the murder scene was known without in the process betraying it. “There’s a reason you’ve interested yourself in these murders,” said Jarvis. “Do you have a connection with someone who was there?”
“I didn’t know any of the victims,” said Sebastian, choosing his words with equal care.
Jarvis snapped his snuffbox closed. “A witness, perhaps?”
“Sir William says there were no witnesses. But then, Sir William says there was no crime.”
“And have you discovered anything of interest?” asked Jarvis, dusting his fingers.
“Not yet.” Sebastian paused, then asked maliciously, “And what is your interest in this, my lord?”
A slow smile spread across the big man’s face. “I take an interest in the welfare of all the King’s subjects.”
The two men’s eyes met and clashed, the air charged with the memory of all that had passed between them. “Of course,” said Sebastian, and signaled the coachman to pull up.
Sebastian was striding away when Jarvis called after him, “I saw Miss Boleyn at Covent Garden Theater last Saturday. She’s as lovely as ever. But then, she’s not Miss Boleyn anymore, is she?”
Sebastian stiffened a moment, but kept walking.
Dropping into Gentleman Jackson’s salon, Sebastian glanced around, passed a few minutes chatting with acquaintances, then left again. He was looking for Tristan Ramsey, the man who was to have wed Rachel Fairchild before she disappeared forever into the suppurating world of the city’s streets. Sebastian had no doubt that Lord Fairchild would deny his daughter’s disappearance to the grave. Her betrothed might be more forthcoming.
Tristan Ramsey proved elusive. But in the Blue Room of the Cocoa-Tree Club, Sebastian ran across Rachel’s brother. A sporting young buck in doeskin breeches and topboots, Cedric Fairchild sat sprawled beside another man in one of the bell chairs clustered around the room’s empty hearth, one leg thrown carelessly over the chair’s arm, a glass of brandy cradled in his right hand. The man beside him was unfamiliar, although he wore the yellow-frogged blue tunic of a captain in the 20th Hussars.
Sebastian’s acquaintance with the younger Fairchild was slight. They’d served together, briefly, in Lisbon. But Sebastian had been a captain at the time while Cedric had been a cornet some four or five years his junior. Sebastian remembered him as a likable young officer, open-faced and guileless and quick to laugh.
“Devlin,” said the younger man, his leg sliding off the chair’s arm when Sebastian walked up to him. “Good God, I haven’t seen you in an age.”
“When did you sell out?” asked Sebastian.
Cedric Fairchild had his father’s almost black hair, with his sister’s fair skin and green eyes. “Just after Albuera.” He motioned to the hussar captain at his side. “You know Patrick Somerville?”
“No,” said Sebastian, shaking the man’s hand. “But I’ve heard of you. You’re General Somerville’s son, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” said the captain. He was tall and gaunt, with swooping blond sidewhiskers and the shiny pale skin suggestive of both malaria and a too-frequent recourse to the relief to be found in quinine and arsenic. “You know m’father?”
“I served with him as a young lieutenant.” Sebastian settled into a nearby chair. “I hear he’s retired now.”
“Nominally.” A smile crinkled the skin beside the hussar’s pale blue eyes. “He spends his days preparing for a possible French invasion by marching every able-bodied cottager of Northamptonshire back and forth with pitchforks and shovels.”
“Only the able-bodied ones?”
Somerville laughed. “Well, the ones with two legs at any rate.”
Cedric leaned forward. “I say, Devlin, did you ever serve with Max Ludlow?”
“I don’t believe so. Why?”
“Somerville here has just been telling me he’s gone missing.”
Sebastian turned toward the captain. “Since when?”
“Last Wednesday night,” said Somerville, draining his porter.
Wednesday?
Sebastian knew a quickening of interest. “Precisely what do you mean when you say he’s gone missing?”
“We thought at first he must be with some wench. But six days and six nights?” Somerville shook his head. “Ludlow doesn’t have that kind of stamina—or interest, for that matter.”
Sebastian studied the hussar’s troubled, sweat-sheened face. “Is Ludlow from Northamptonshire, as well?”
“Ludlow? No, Devonshire. We sent word to his brother’s country seat, but they haven’t seen him in months.” Somerville lifted his empty glass and stretched to his feet. “I need a refill.” Nodding to Sebastian, he told Cedric, “Let me know if you hear anything.”
Sebastian waited until the sandy-haired captain was out of earshot, then said bluntly, “I just had a conversation with your father. About your sister Rachel.”