Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,16
of Warton’s ball, Berkeley Square
THURSDAY, JUNE 2: Lady Forbes’s rout, St. James’s Square / Mrs. Drummond’s ball, Half Moon Street
FRIDAY, JUNE 3: the Marchioness of Hertford’s ball, Manchester Square
SATURDAY, JUNE 4: Mrs. Campbell’s rout, Grosvenor Street
SUNDAY, JUNE 5: Mr. and Mrs. James Mortimer’s public breakfast, Oaklawn, Blackheath
It was the final item that caught Sebastian’s eye:
MONDAY, JUNE 6: the Comte de Compans’s soirée, Dover Street
“Ain’t got all day, ye know,” grumbled the barman.
Sebastian tucked the folded news sheet into his pocket and closed the chest’s lid. “I’ve finished.”
* * *
Alistair James St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon, was striding purposefully across Palace Yard toward Whitehall when Sebastian came upon him.
One of the most powerful men in Britain after Lord Jarvis, Hendon had served as Chancellor of the Exchequer under a succession of three prime ministers. There’d been a time when he’d been taller than Sebastian, although these days the Earl had begun to stoop. He had a blunt, heavy-featured face, thinning white hair, and the piercing blue eyes that had been the hallmark of the St. Cyr family for generations but were so noticeably lacking in Sebastian. Sebastian had grown up calling this man “Father,” although he’d recently learned that their relationship was considerably more complicated. The rift that discovery had caused was beginning to heal, but slowly.
“I’m surprised you’re not at Ascot with the Regent and the Allied Sovereigns,” said Sebastian, falling into step beside him.
Hendon made a gruff noise deep in his throat and kept walking. “We’re looking at two solid weeks of endless balls, routs, dinners, receptions, banquets, and reviews. They don’t need me at Ascot.”
“Understandable.”
Hendon threw him a quick glance, his jaw tightening. “I saw this morning’s papers. Is it true, what they’re saying? That Nicholas Hayes was found murdered up in Somer’s Town?”
“It is, yes.”
“What a sordid affair. Please tell me you haven’t involved yourself in it.”
“I have, actually.”
Hendon’s jaw tightened. “You were—what? Eight? Ten?—when he killed that Frenchwoman?”
“Thirteen. Fourteen by the time he was transported.”
“Huh. Well, I doubt you paid much attention to it at the time, but if you had, you’d know not to have anything to do with this. You’d simply be glad the wretched man is finally dead and let it go.”
“Oh? So tell me about him.”
Hendon drew up abruptly. “You can’t be serious.”
“But I am.”
Hendon cast a quick glance around the crowded Yard. “We can’t discuss it here.”
“Then let’s go for a walk.”
* * *
They walked across Westminster Bridge, toward the sun-dazzled south bank of the river.
“How much do you know?” asked Hendon.
“Nothing beyond the fact that Hayes was transported for murdering the Countess de Compans, and that she was very young and very beautiful.”
Hendon stared off across the river, his eyes narrowed against the glint bouncing off the water. “She was beautiful, with the palest blond hair and eyes the color of violets. To be honest, she was the most exquisitely beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Chantal was her name. Chantal de LaRivière. She was younger than the Count—no more than twenty or twenty-one when she died. She left a child barely a year old.”
“Tragic.”
“It was, yes.”
“So exactly what happened?”
“LaRivière found Hayes trying to force himself on her. When he pulled the bastard away from her, Hayes drew a double-barreled pistol and shot first the Count, then Chantal. The bullet only grazed LaRivière’s head, but Chantal was killed.”
“Sordid, indeed,” said Sebastian.
“Hayes insisted he was innocent, of course.”
“Oh? What was his story?”
“He denied that LaRivière found him trying to force himself on the Countess. Claimed she was simply present at an argument between the two men and that the pistol was LaRivière’s. According to Hayes, the Count threatened him with the gun, and it went off when he tried to defend himself. He said the same bullet that wounded the Count killed Chantal outright.”
“Surely the servants would have been able to count the number of gunshots.”
“He didn’t dispute that the gun went off twice. He claimed the first bullet—fired by the Count—had gone wild, although it was never found.”
“And the jury didn’t believe his story?”
“Given the man’s disreputable history? Of course not. Hayes had no good excuse for being where he was. And while he claimed they were arguing, he refused to say about what. If he’d only admitted it, he might have been found guilty of manslaughter. Instead, he was convicted of murder. I’m surprised he didn’t hang.”
“Did you know him?”
“Hayes? No, not really. Knew the father, of course. He was up at Oxford with me.”