Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,52
and utterly amoral.”
“She was?”
“There, you see?” said his aunt. “You’re shocked, aren’t you? You’ve been picturing her as this gentle, innocent, tragic little thing, haven’t you?”
“I suppose I have. What makes you think she wasn’t?”
“A woman’s intuition, mainly. But I also watched her work her wiles on several different men. She knew exactly what she was doing.”
“Which men? Can you remember?”
“Crispin Hayes, for one. But there were others.”
“Do you remember their names?”
Aunt Henrietta stared off down the street. “Hmmm. There was one young Scotsman in particular. I can’t recall his name, but I remember wondering why she bothered with him. He was attractive, but not excessively so. And his father was nothing more than a Marine officer.”
Sebastian drew up short. “You mean Hamish McHenry?”
“Ah, yes, that was his name. I don’t know what became of him.”
“He bought a pair of colors.”
“Then that explains why he disappeared.”
“Did you ever see the Countess ‘work her wiles’ on Nicholas Hayes?”
“No. Not that it would have done her any good. I told you, he had eyes only for Kate.”
“Even after she married?”
“By the time she was married, Nicholas had been banished by his father.”
Sebastian watched the pigeon take flight at the approach of a rumbling old landau. “I’m told Chantal de LaRivière left a child.”
“Yes, Compans’s heir.”
“So he’s still alive?”
“Last I heard. I believe he left for France with the Bourbons.”
“And the Count de Compans never remarried?”
“No.”
“Because he’s still desperately in love with his dead wife?”
Aunt Henrietta sniffed. “To be honest, I don’t know that he was ever in love with her. He was obviously proud of her beauty—saw her as reflecting well on him. And I believe he liked knowing that other men desired and coveted his wife. There’s no doubt he now plays the part of the bereaved husband, although from what I understand it hasn’t kept him from maintaining a string of mistresses over the years.”
“In other words, Gilbert-Christophe de LaRivière is as much of a playactor as Chantal was. She played at being sweet and innocent, while he has now assumed the role of a bereaved widower forever in love with his murdered wife. So where lies the truth? I wonder.”
The Dowager drew up at the corner and turned. “In my experience, the truth is generally the exact opposite of what such people would have you believe.”
* * *
After leaving Bond Street, Sebastian paid another visit to Lower Sloan Street.
He found Mrs. McHenry alone in her parlor, tatting. “Oh dear,” she said when a nervous young housemaid showed him in. “Hamish isn’t here again. But you did find him yesterday, didn’t you, my lord?”
“I’m afraid not.” Sebastian was beginning to suspect Hamish McHenry had regretted stepping forward and was now trying to avoid him.
“Oh dear,” she said again. “I think he’s gone off to watch the barges on the river. The Regent is taking the Allied Sovereigns to Woolwich today, you know, for the launching of the Enterprise. Now that should be a grand sight. Hamish has always loved the tall ships.”
“I’m surprised he bought a pair of colors rather than joining the Navy or the Marines like his father.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice as if imparting an embarrassing secret. “Well, to be honest, he gets frightfully seasick, you see. He’s dreading this coming voyage to America.” She settled back against the cushions. “Still enjoys seeing the ships, though. He was talking about going down to Woolwich for the launch, but I believe he decided simply to watch the barges from London Bridge.” She glanced down at the watch she wore pinned to her shelflike bosom. “I suspect you could catch him there, if you hurried.”
“Thank you,” said Sebastian, pushing to his feet. “I believe I shall.”
Chapter 32
T he masses of spectators converging on the waterfront to gawk at the Allied Sovereigns’ grand barge expedition were formidable. Finally forced to abandon his curricle and horses in Tom’s care at the Strand, Sebastian worked his way through the jovial, laughing crowd toward the river. By the time he reached London Bridge, this stretch of the sun-spangled Thames was already filled with dozens of elegant barges rowed by uniformed watermen.
The barges carrying the Regent and his royal guests were the most opulently carved and gilded. But even those of the Admiralty and the Navy and the various city companies were impressive, draped with colorful bunting and silk flags that flew gaily in the warm breeze. All along both shores and crowding every bridge were masses of onlookers, cheering, waving their