Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,32
Jack Smith.”
“Right then, Mr. Jones—”
“It’s Smith!”
“Mr. Smith. I’m going home now. If I see you anywhere near me or mine again, I might not bother calling the constables. I might just shoot you.”
“You can’t do that!”
Sebastian took another step back. “I suggest you not try testing that theory. Now, get out of here.”
Chapter 20
S ebastian was in his library, pouring a tankard of ale from a fresh pitcher, his thoughts far, far away, when an angry, insistent knock sounded at his front door.
“A Mr. Brownbeck to see you, my lord,” said his majordomo, Morey, appearing at the library door a moment later.
Sebastian took a deep swallow of ale. “Show him in.”
Theo Brownbeck came in with a quick, decisive step. A stout, self-important little man in his late fifties or early sixties, he had thinning iron gray hair, heavy jowls, and thick, bushy eyebrows. His dress was typical of the older merchants and bankers of the City, his silver-buttoned coat cut square and with a stand-up collar, his waistcoat long with flap pockets, his short breeches buckled at the knee. He drew up just inside the door, his breathing agitated, his color high, his face damp with perspiration. “You know why I’m here,” he said without preamble.
“Actually, I don’t,” said Sebastian. “But please, do have a seat.”
“Thank you. I prefer to stand.”
“May I offer you some ale?”
The banker looked as if he’d prefer to refuse, but he was hot enough that temptation overwhelmed him. “Please,” he said grudgingly. “I’m told Lady Devlin visited my daughter a short time ago.”
Sebastian went to fill another tankard with ale. “Who told you that?”
“Good God, man, that’s not the issue here.”
“Oh? So what is the ‘issue’?”
“I’ll not have my daughter’s name dragged through the mud by that villain’s reappearance.”
Sebastian held out the ale. “By which I gather you’re referring to the murder of Nicholas Hayes?”
Brownbeck wrapped a meaty fist around the tankard, then pointed a shaky finger at Sebastian. “You stay away from my daughter, you hear? You and Lady Devlin both.”
Sebastian took another sip of his own ale. “Did you know Nicholas Hayes was in London?”
Brownbeck’s eyes widened. “Merciful heavens, of course not. If I’d the slightest suspicion he was anywhere in England, I’d have gone straight to the authorities.”
Sebastian studied the older man’s red, angry face. “Would you?”
“Of course I would—as would any right-thinking man.”
“It’s curious that he returned, don’t you think?”
“To be honest, I hadn’t given it any thought.”
“Can you think of a reason why he would come back?”
“In my experience, it’s useless to try to ascribe rationality to the dangerous incorrigibles of this world. And while Hayes may have been an earl’s son, he’d long ago betrayed his birth and breeding and cast himself down into the gutter.”
“You must get on well with the Count de Compans.”
Brownbeck looked vaguely baffled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He sounds just like you.”
Brownbeck’s lip curled. “I know Lady Devlin believes that the poor are somehow the innocent victims of society’s inequities, but those familiar with the frailties of the flesh and the ways of our world know better. The unfortunate, painful truth is that what the kindhearted mistake for misfortune is actually the predictable result of a fatal lack of discipline, sobriety, decency, and prudence—as Hayes’s descent into opprobrium so glaringly illustrates.”
“I’ve been wondering if revenge might have had something to do with Hayes’s return,” said Sebastian, carefully keeping his voice even.
Brownbeck sniffed. “I wouldn’t know. As I said, it’s a waste of time attempting to discern the motives of such a degenerate. If you ask me, the authorities would do well to look for his killer amongst the denizens of the underworld.”
“A footpad, you mean?”
Brownbeck snorted. “Footpads, prostitutes, sharpers—he consorted with them all. After his father disowned him, the scoundrel actually hired a thief to break into Seaforth’s house and steal from him.”
“Oh? Where did you hear that?”
“The old Earl told me about it himself.”
“Someone burgled the late Earl of Seaforth’s house, and he blamed his own son? Bit of a stretch, wasn’t it?”
“It was obvious.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“Because of what was taken, of course.”
“What was taken?”
“A stash of banknotes whose location was known only to the rogue, and a watch that once belonged to the First Earl and that the lad had long coveted.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“So what led the Earl to leap to the conclusion that Nicholas had hired a thief? Couldn’t he simply have entered the house and taken the stuff himself?”
Brownbeck shook his head. “Not unless the cad had recently acquired some specialized