Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,78

suggested by that day’s revelations that he almost missed the men who fell into step behind him as he neared his curricle.

They did not strike him as being either seamen or lumpers.

His hand going to the double-barreled pistol he’d slipped into his pocket that morning, Sebastian met Tom’s eye and then swung around. “Have something you wish to say to me, do you, gentlemen?”

There were four of them, their weathered faces sun-darkened and unshaven, their clothing the tattered remnants of the uniforms of men who’d fought for years against Napoléon. The clothes could have been stolen or bought secondhand, but Sebastian didn’t think so. He knew ex-soldiers when he saw them—which meant the men now ranged against him were exponentially more dangerous than your typical dockland ruffians.

They drew up abruptly, their widening eyes and slack jaws betraying a shattered expectation of remaining undetected until they were ready to move in for the kill. But these men were not easily deterred. One of them—a tall, gangly fellow with a sergeant’s chevrons on his stained, ragged red coat—exchanged a quick, significant look with his fellows and laughed. “Wot? Us?”

Sebastian drew the pistol from his pocket and pulled back the first hammer with an audible click. “Just out for a stroll, are you?”

“Ain’t no law agin that, now, is there?” said the sergeant.

“Strolling? No.”

Sebastian was aware of Tom nudging the horses forward to bring them closer. He didn’t expect the situation to escalate. The men would have to be mad to continue an assault against a victim now armed and ready for them.

But the men were obviously desperate. They’d faced death often enough in the past for far less pay than they’d doubtless been promised by whoever had hired them to kill Sebastian. He saw the sergeant’s sideways glance and quick jerk of the chin, and said, “Bloody hell,” as they rushed him.

His first bullet took the sergeant high in the chest, spinning him around and sending him sprawling. Sebastian thumbed back the second hammer and shot another man in the throat. Then, dropping the flintlock, he yanked his knife from the sheath in his boot.

The two surviving assailants broke and ran.

Sebastian threw a quick glance at his tiger. “You all right?”

The boy was staring at him openmouthed. He swallowed and said, “Aye, gov’nor. Who are they?”

Sebastian went to check first one, then the next of the downed men, looking for weapons. They weren’t dead yet, but they soon would be. In the coat of the second man, he found a bloodstained letter written in a woman’s hand that began, Dearest Richard, I can’t begin to express to you the excitement with which I await your long-anticipated, safe return home. . . .

“Damn,” said Sebastian, swiping the back of one gloved hand across his sweaty forehead. Damn, damn, damn.

* * *

“Do you think Forbes set them after you?” asked Sir Henry Lovejoy as he and Sebastian walked along the terrace of Somerset House.

“Perhaps. Although the site of the attack could simply have been coincidental. The truth is, they could have been hired by any one of the four men who seem to be implicated in all of this.”

Lovejoy stared out over the wind-whipped river. “Four men. I can’t believe four men knew Hayes was in London and yet not one told the authorities.”

“LaRivière still isn’t back from Oxford, so I haven’t had a chance to confirm it with him. But I can’t see any reason for both Brownbeck and Seaforth to lie about that when they seem to be telling the truth about the rest. So yes, I’d say four: Brownbeck, Forbes, Seaforth, and LaRivière.”

Lovejoy shook his head as if still finding the information too difficult to absorb. “The involvement of Seaforth and LaRivière I understand. But Theo Brownbeck? Sir Lindsey Forbes? What have they to do with Nicholas Hayes?”

“It’s . . . delicate,” said Sebastian. “It involves the reputation of a lady, which makes it difficult for me to talk about. Let’s just say both men had a very good reason to worry that Nicholas Hayes had returned to England specifically to kill them.”

“And yet neither felt moved to make a report to Bow Street when they realized he had returned?” The magistrate’s voice was rough with his disgust. “It’s unbelievable.”

“Yes. And suggestive.”

Lovejoy looked over at him. “Meaning?”

Sebastian chose his words carefully. “Brownbeck came right out and admitted that he considered going to Bow Street but decided against it because he didn’t want the embarrassment of having the past dredged up again.