Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,28
in one hand and her parasol in the other, her thoughtful gaze on the feathery tops of a distant line of trees lifting in the hot wind, when she saw Devlin walking toward her.
“Any luck?” he asked, coming up to her.
“Nothing.” They turned to walk together along the lane that ran toward the open countryside, and Hero shifted the parasol to keep the hot sun off her face. “What are you doing here?”
“Irvine Pennington was found stabbed to death in an alley near his tea gardens this morning.”
“Good heavens. Why would anyone kill him?”
“Lovejoy is inclined to think both killings may be related to the tea gardens themselves—that it’s possible Nicholas Hayes’s history had nothing to do with his death at all.”
“But you don’t agree?”
“I don’t. Although I have nothing to base that on besides a gut feeling.” They’d reached the rolling fields and market gardens of the open countryside, and he paused to watch the warm wind ruffle the ripening grain. He said, “You’re familiar with the set that frequents Annabelle Hershey’s salon, aren’t you?”
“I am. Although somehow I doubt that’s an innocent question.”
“Have you ever met Lady Forbes, the wife of Sir Lindsey Forbes?”
“Kate Forbes? Yes, of course. She’s published several fascinating books of the drawings she made of the native plants of the Malabar Coast when she was in India with her husband. Why do you ask? What has she to do with anything?”
“According to Aunt Henrietta, she eloped with Nicholas Hayes six months before he was arrested for killing Chantal de LaRivière.”
Hero turned to stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid I am. It was her father, Theo Brownbeck, who set about the false tale that Hayes had kidnapped some heiress.”
Hero gave an inelegant snort. “Now, that I can believe. No doubt he even has a pet Bible verse to trot out to justify it all. I’ve never understood how such a sanctimonious, pompous hypocrite managed to produce someone like Kate.”
“You like her?”
“I do.”
“Then I suspect he left her upbringing to her mother.”
“No doubt.” Hero was silent for a moment. “However did he manage to set about such a story while still keeping Kate’s name out of it?”
“Perhaps by announcing that she was betrothed to Forbes. The marriage took place just three weeks later.”
Hero’s lips tightened, her nostrils flaring on a quickly indrawn breath. “What a beastly man.”
Sebastian said, “I could try talking to Lady Forbes about Nicholas Hayes, but it would be rather indelicate.”
“Huh. If Aunt Henrietta is right, it’s going to be indelicate no matter who does it.” When he remained silent, she said, “Let me guess: You want me to approach her?”
His eyes crinkled in a smile, and she cuffed him playfully on the chin.
“Coward.”
Chapter 18
S ir Lindsey Forbes’s impressive town house in St. James’s Square was famous as a showcase for his extensive collection of artifacts, mainly Indian brasses, religious sculptures, and silk paintings but also an impressive number of priceless Chinese porcelains, for the East India Company had long enjoyed a monopoly over British trade with China as well as with India.
Although Hero knew Lady Forbes from Annabelle Hershey’s salon, she had never visited the former Kate Brownbeck at home. When Hero arrived at the square shortly after nuncheon, she half expected Lady Forbes to decline to see her. But a few minutes after Hero sent up her card, the butler returned with a bow to say, “This way, my lady, if you please.”
She followed him up a gleaming broad staircase to a cabinet lined with mahogany shelves filled with row after row of colorful Chinese porcelain jars. Lady Forbes herself stood at the red lacquered table in the center of the room. She had a crisp white apron pinned over her fine muslin gown and was carefully measuring out a portion of what Hero realized must be tea leaves. The rich aroma of fine teas filled the air.
The former Miss Kate Brownbeck was an attractive woman somewhere in her mid- to late thirties, her fair hair as yet untouched by gray, her features strong and even. She had a reputation for grace, poise, composure, and calm self-mastery. But today her eyes were red and puffy, her expression that of a grief-stricken woman struggling to maintain a facade of equanimity. “I hope you’ll pardon me for receiving you like this,” she said, “but I didn’t want to interrupt the process.”
Hero perched on a nearby stool indicated by her hostess. “You’re mixing tea?”