Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,67

was hot-tempered, unpredictable, and dangerous.”

“In other words, well enough to be frightened of him if you discovered he’d somehow managed to return to England.”

Brownbeck slammed down his empty glass. “You’re right in that, at least. If I had known of Hayes’s return to England, I probably would have been frightened. But I did not know.” He walked over to give the bellpull a sharp tug. “This conversation is over.”

A footman appeared in the doorway, and Brownbeck snapped, “His lordship is leaving.”

Sebastian settled his hat on his head. “Where were you last Thursday evening, by the way?”

Rather than answer, Brownbeck went to sit heavily in his chair and reached for his quill. “Good day, my lord. And don’t come back.”

Chapter 40

Y ou’re stuck, you bleedin’ fool!”

Sebastian could hear Grace Calhoun’s husky shout even before he turned into Chick Lane.

A wagon carrying a load of long wooden beams had tried to cut the corner too sharp and was now wedged between a chandler’s and the butcher shop opposite. Grace Calhoun stood tall and imposing in front of a nearby greengrocer’s, her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed as she watched the wagoner uselessly whip his horses. “You can beat them poor beasts to death, but all that’ll get you is a dead team. It won’t do nothin’ to move your bloody wagon. You’re gonna need to back up and take that corner wide, the way you should’ve done in the first place.”

Sebastian reined in, and for an instant Grace’s gaze flicked to him. But she gave no other indication she either saw or recognized him. She stayed where she was until the cursing, grumbling driver began to back his team. Then she turned to Sebastian and said, “What are you doin’ here again?”

Sebastian handed his reins to Tom and hopped down. “We need to talk about Nicholas Hayes.”

She huffed a low laugh and started walking toward the Red Lion. The afternoon had turned sultry, with a solid covering of high white clouds that somehow brought no relief from the heat.

“Ain’t got nothin’ more to say about him.”

Sebastian fell into step beside her. “Did you know he had a child by a rich man’s daughter—an infant that died?”

“And if I did?”

“Is that why he came back to London? To punish those responsible for his child’s death?”

She turned in through the ancient narrow arch that led to the Red Lion’s dilapidated old stable yard. “I told you, I don’t know why he came back.”

“Were you his lover eighteen years ago?”

That stopped her. She drew up in the shadow of the arch, her lips twisting into a hard smile that nevertheless managed to carry more than a hint of sadness. “Lover? Nah.”

“But you were more to him than just the owner of the inn where he found refuge.”

When she remained silent, he said, his voice low and earnest, “I need you to help me understand him.”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” What could he say? Because bringing this man’s murderer to justice was more important to Sebastian than he could begin to explain, even to himself? Because he felt driven to prove that Nicholas Hayes had been wrongly convicted so long ago? Because while nothing could be done at this point to alleviate the tragedy of the dead man’s life, it was somehow vitally important that the tragedy be both recognized and remembered by someone?

But Sebastian could say none of those things. And so he said, “Because I don’t want whoever killed him to get away with it. To go on living his life while Nicholas is just . . . dead.”

She stared directly into his face, and he wondered what she saw there—if she understood perhaps better than he did himself why he was doing this. Then she drew a deep breath that parted her lips, and her eyes became unfocused in a way that made him think she looked within. Just when he thought she would tell him to leave her, she said, “All right.”

They sat on an aged stone bench in the shade cast by the inn’s crumbling high walls and talked of long ago. The courtyard smelled of damp stone and the lichen staining the worn pavers near the largely unused stables; deep in the shadows, the exposed ancient bricks had taken on a pink glow.

She told him of a troubled, lonely young man bereft of the woman he loved and a child he would never see. Of a son cast off by an unforgiving father and adrift. At twenty, Nicholas Hayes