Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,7
years ago in the most sordid circumstances imaginable, and everyone in London knows it.”
“No jest.”
The Earl turned away to go stand beside the room’s empty hearth with one hand resting on the marble mantelpiece. He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular as if he were struggling to compose himself—or perhaps simply choosing how best to respond. He finally said, “You’re certain?”
“Reasonably so, yes. Bow Street is sending the body for a post mortem.”
“A post mortem? How barbaric. Is that really necessary?”
“I’m afraid so, under the circumstances.”
Seaforth swung to face him again, his forehead beaded with sweat. “Why are you the one telling me this?”
“It seemed preferable to having someone from Bow Street cause a stir by barging into the Regent’s reception with the news.”
Seaforth’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, but why you? What has any of this to do with you?”
Rather than answer, Sebastian said, “You didn’t know your cousin had returned to London?”
“No, of course not.”
“Any idea why he might have decided to come back?”
“I told you, I thought he was dead.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t think of a reason why he might decide to return, if he were alive.”
“How’s this for an answer? I have no idea what he was doing in London.” The Earl’s lips flattened into a pinched expression. “Although I probably should have guessed he’d find one more way to embarrass and disgrace the family. I don’t suppose there’s any possibility of keeping this from becoming widely known?”
“No,” said Sebastian. “When was the last time you heard from him?”
“Nicholas? I never heard from him again after he left England. Actually, I never spoke to him at all after his arrest—or in the months before that. The man was a disgrace. Why would I?”
“You weren’t close?”
“Hardly. I don’t know how familiar you are with his history, but my uncle had already disowned him for abducting an heiress a good six months before he was arrested for murder. No one in the family had anything to do with him.”
Sebastian hadn’t heard this part of the tale. “An heiress?”
“That’s right.”
“What was her name?”
“I don’t know.” The tone was testy. Annoyed. “What difference does it make?”
“Do you recall the names of your cousin’s friends?”
“No, I don’t. I told you, I try not to think of the man.” Seaforth glanced beyond Sebastian to the noisy, crowded reception rooms. “And now you really must excuse me. I didn’t come to Carlton House tonight to discuss Nicholas.” And with that, he brushed past Sebastian and began to push his way through the throng.
Sebastian went to stand in the doorway, his gaze following the Earl’s progress. He was still standing there when Hero came up beside him.
She said, “Do I take it the dead man up in Somer’s Town actually is Nicholas Hayes?”
“Apparently so.”
“Was Ji there?”
“No.”
“That’s worrisome.” She was silent, her gaze, like Sebastian’s, following Seaforth as he worked his way across Carlton House’s vast, opulent hall. “How did he take the news of his cousin’s return and death?”
“With anger and bluster but not a great deal of surprise—and not even a hint of feigned grief.”
“You think he knew Nicholas Hayes was in London?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I think he might have.”
“Discovering that the rightful owner of the titles and estates you’ve been calling your own for years is actually very much alive strikes me as a powerful incentive for murder. If one were the murdering sort, of course.”
Sebastian watched Seaforth turn to glance back at them, as if aware of both their scrutiny and their speculation. “It does, doesn’t it?”
Chapter 7
J i couldn’t stop shivering.
The night was warm, the dark sky above clear with a scattering of stars. And still the child shivered. Drawing back into the shadows of a crumbling, deeply recessed doorway, Ji stared across the narrow lane at the ancient inn. The warm golden glow of light from the familiar mullioned windows beckoned like a comforting old friend, but Ji’s heart was thumping with fear and uncertainty.
Trying desperately not to cry, the child listened to the outbursts of laughter from the inn’s taproom, the clink of glasses, the murmur of strangely accented male voices. Then the tavern’s door crashed open and a couple of drunken drovers staggered out to stand legs astraddle and relieve themselves against a post. The air filled with the acrid stench of their urine.
Everything in this place, England, was so strange. The crush of carriages filling the streets with the thunder of horses’ hooves and the clatter of iron-rimmed