Cedric straightened his collar, his eyes narrowing. “Actually, it was our sister Lady Sewell.” A sudden burst of laughter from a group of men entering the room brought his head around.
“Walk with me,” said Sebastian.
Buffeted by a cool wind, they strolled up the Mall toward Cockspur Street, with the rolling green swath of St. James’s Park stretching away to their right behind Carlton House and its gardens. “There used to be a leper hospital there,” said Cedric, looking across the park toward the river. “Did you know? It was a pretty insalubrious place at the time, all swamps and marsh-land. They say a fair number of lepers from the hospital are still buried there. Every now and then the royal gardeners dig up some poor bastard’s skull or thighbone.”
Sebastian stared out across the carefully tended greens and clipped hedges of the gardens and the park beyond it. Beneath the cloudy afternoon sky, the park had assumed a cold, somber aspect.
“They were outcasts,” said Cedric. “Shunned even by their families. Some were tradesmen, peasants, and laborers. But there were also noblemen, scholars . . . artists. It didn’t matter. What they had been was superseded by what they’d become. Something diseased and rotting. A threat to society.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze to the man beside him. “Is that how you thought of your sister?”
Cedric let out his breath in a harsh grating sound. “No. But it’s how she thought of herself.”
“You went to see her after Tristan Ramsey told you where he’d found her?”
Cedric’s face was ashen. “I tried to get her to come away with me.” His lips flattened. “She refused.” Tristan Ramsey had said much the same thing; but in Cedric’s case, Sebastian was inclined to believe it was true. “She said she was where she belonged. That house—” He broke off, swallowed. “It was horrible seeing her there.”
“Did she tell you why she ran away?”
Cedric shook his head. “I asked. She refused to say.”
They turned their steps toward Charing Cross and Northumberland House and Gardens beyond it. “I still don’t understand how she ended up there,” said Cedric. He threw a sideways glance at Sebastian, pale features suddenly flushing dark with anger. “But I swear to God, if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll kill you.”
Sebastian said, “Do you think it’s possible she was in love with another man? I mean someone other than Ramsey. Someone who lured her away from home, then abandoned her?”
Cedric thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat, his shoulders hunched. “I admit I thought it possible. When I pressed her to leave with me, she just threw back her head and laughed. She said she was in love with that Lincolnshire fellow. The one who owns the house.”
Sebastian cast Cedric a sharp sideways glance. “You believed her?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t look like a woman in love to me. If anything, I’d say she was afraid.”
“Of Kane?”
“I think she was afraid he’d kill her if she tried to leave. She said he’d killed before—other women who had tried to leave him. I told her she was being irrational. That we could protect her from the likes of some Covent Garden thug.” He paused. “She just told me to go away and not come back.”
“And so you did?”
“What else could I do? She refused to talk to me anymore. When I went back last Saturday, they told me she was no longer there.” He brought up both hands to scrub them across his face, his shoulders hunched. “I thought they were lying—that she just didn’t want to see me again. But a part of me was terrified something must have happened to her.”
“What made you think that?”
Cedric knotted the fingers of his hands together, as if he were in prayer. “I don’t know. It was just a feeling I had.” He hesitated. “I remember this one time in Spain, just before Ciudad Rodrigo. A fellow by the name of Hobbs took out a patrol. They were late coming back. We’d had one of those bloody awful rains that can come up out of nowhere in the Peninsula. Everyone was convinced they’d just used the storm as an excuse to spend the afternoon in a bodega somewhere.”
“But you didn’t think so?”
“No.” Cedric stared off across the gardens. “They’d been ambushed. We found them not two miles outside camp. They’d been set upon by peasants with pitchforks and scythes.” His face contorted with the memory. “They were literally ripped apart.”
Both men were silent for a moment, lost in visions of the past, of men bloodied and torn by cannon fire and bayonets as well as by pitchforks and scythes. Sebastian said, “Did you tell Lord Fairchild that you’d found your sister?”
Cedric let out a sound that was like a laugh, only devoid of all humor. “My father?” He shook his head. “My father isn’t well. It would kill him, if he knew what had happened to Rachel.”
“Sometimes not knowing is worse than knowing.”
“Not this time.”
Chapter 32
Hero gently closed the door to her mother’s room and paused in the hall for a moment, her hand still on the knob, a weight of sadness pressing down on her. Lady knob, a weight of sadness pressing down on her. Lady Jarvis had reacted badly to last night’s incident. Sometimes she worked herself up into such a state that it lasted for weeks.
Her hand slipping off the knob, Hero was just turning away when her father came up to her. “How is your mother?” he asked. There was neither warmth nor caring in the question.
“Resting. Dr. Ross has dosed her liberally with laudanum. She should sleep the rest of the day.”
Lord Jarvis’s lips thinned into the pained expression he inevitably assumed whenever the topic under discussion was his wife. “That’s a relief.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Hero’s face. “You’re certain you’re all right?”
“Thanks to you teaching me to keep a steady finger on the trigger.”
Father and daughter shared a private smile. His smile faded quickly. “I’ve dismissed the two footmen you and your mother had with you last night.”
“It wasn’t their fault.”
“Of course it was their fault,” said Lord Jarvis. “I didn’t send you into the country with three armed men to have you come back covered in some highwayman’s gore.”
Hero opened her mouth, then shut it.
“Coachman John tells me you took the injured highwayman to Paul Gibson’s surgery near Tower Hill. Why?”
“I doubted the practitioners of Harley Street would appreciate the delivery of a bloody highwayman at midnight. And if I’d simply taken him to Bow Street, he’d have died.”
“The man still lives?”
“Last I heard, yes.”
“Good. Then he can be made to talk.”
Hero felt a chill prickle down her spine. She’d heard dark rumors of the methods employed by Lord Jarvis’s henchmen to make people talk. “Papa—”
Jarvis raised his hand, stopping her. “These men are connected to what happened last Monday, aren’t they?”
“It would seem so, yes.”
He was so good at hiding his thoughts and feelings that even Hero often had a difficult time reading him. She was both shocked and touched when he suddenly said, “I’m concerned about you, Hero. You’re all I have left.”
“I’ll be careful,” she promised. Reaching up, she brushed her father’s cheek with a kiss and turned toward the stairs.
But she was aware of him still standing in the hall, watching her.
Jarvis was in the small chamber he reserved for mixing snuff when his butler ushered Colonel Epson-Smith into the room.
“You wanted to see me, my lord?” asked the Colonel.
“What I want is to see this unpleasantness brought to an end. Quickly.” Jarvis added a pinch of macouba to his mortar and began to grind it with a pestle. “You’ve had two days. What have you learned?”
Epson-Smith stood in the center of the room, his legs braced wide, his hands clasped behind his back. “Indications so far are that we’re dealing with a simple tussle over merchandise. It’s not clear yet precisely who is involved, but we’re working on it.”
Jarvis grunted. “Work faster.” Reaching for a small vial, he added three drops to his mixture. “You’ve heard of last night’s incident?”
“Yes, my lord. I’m not convinced, however, that it’s related to Monday night’s—”
“It is. The surviving individual is at a surgery near Tower Hill. Use whatever means necessary, but make him talk.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Jarvis looked up from shaking his mixture out over the sheet of parchment that he’d spread across the room’s table. “I also want one of your men watching over Miss Jarvis from now on. Discreetly, of course.”
The Colonel kept his face perfectly composed. If he’d learned yet of Hero’s presence at the Magdalene House the night of the attack, he had more sense than to mention it. He bowed, said, “Yes, my lord,” and withdrew.
Chapter 33
Sebastian arrived at Paul Gibson’s surgery near the Tower to find Miss Jarvis’s town carriage drawn up in the street outside. The wind had turned cold, the team of matched off-white horses shifting restlessly in their traces, tails flicking away an endless buzz of flies.
Tom studied the elegant equipage through narrowed eyes. “That’s ’er, ain’t it? The gentry mort what fooled me into leavin’ the chestnuts.”
Sebastian handed him the reins. “I’d advise you to get over it, Tom. Miss Jarvis is like her father: brilliant and deadly. You don’t want to tangle with her.”
But Tom simply thrust out his lower lip in a mulish scowl and stared straight ahead.
Sebastian jumped down from the curricle and was halfway across the footpath when the door to the surgery was yanked open. “Oh. It’s you,” said Miss Jarvis, standing on the threshold, a formidable presence in a burgundy driving gown and matching velvet hat.
Sebastian paused in midstride. “Whom were you expecting?”
“The constables.” She stepped back to allow him to enter. “Dr. Gibson sent for them shortly before I arrived.”
“Is he all right?”
“No. He’s dead.”
Sebastian knew a curious sensation, as if the blood had suddenly drained away from his head. It was only the appearance of Paul Gibson himself at the entrance to his front room that brought the blood pounding back to Sebastian’s temples when he realized she had spoken not of his friend but of her assailant from the night before.
“I’m sorry,” said Gibson, drying his hands on a rough towel. “I was with him all night. I just stepped into the back to wash my face and grab something to eat. I couldn’t have been gone five minutes.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Sebastian, glancing at the silent, shrouded form on the bed. “He was gravely wounded.”
“True. But it wasn’t his wound that killed him.” Gibson went to flip back the sheet covering the dead man’s face and shoulders. “Someone came in here and broke his neck.”