Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,85

top hat lay upside down where it had fallen on the cobbles beside him, and Sebastian found himself staring down at the dead nobleman’s thinning, vaguely untidy hair. The Earl had been both selfish and scheming, an ugly combination of weak and vicious. And yet . . .

“Why Seaforth?” he said, thinking aloud.

Lovejoy looked over at him. “What do you mean?”

“I can see any one of four men—Forbes, LaRivière, Brownbeck, or even Seaforth himself—murdering Nicholas Hayes out of fear he’d come back to England to kill them. And I can see the same frightened killer then deciding to eliminate Pennington when he realized the gardens’ owner would be able identify him. But why the bloody hell kill Seaforth?”

Lovejoy’s lips pressed together in a frown. “Well, he is the one who told you they all knew Hayes was in London.”

“Revenge, you mean? For having too loose a tongue? I suppose it’s possible.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“I think it more likely that Seaforth knew who murdered Hayes and was panicking enough to begin talking about it, and that’s why he was killed.” Or perhaps because he was behind the attack on our carriage and Jarvis found out about it, thought Sebastian. But he decided not to say it.

“Perhaps someone is acting on a violent grudge they hold against the Hayes family,” suggested Lovejoy.

“Now, that’s a possibility I hadn’t considered.”

“Who’s the new Earl?”

Sebastian thought about the three eager, redheaded little boys he’d seen with their father and mother on Bond Street. And about another child, this one dark-haired and exotic, who might or might not have a claim to his murdered father’s titles and lands. “It’s one of two children, both about eight or nine.”

Lovejoy’s face had taken on a pinched look. “Let us hope I am wrong.”

* * *

Hero spent the first part of the morning in a chair by the drawing room windows, going over the notes from her various interviews. Yesterday’s near miss with Ji had been encouraging, frustrating, and frightening. They now knew Ji was still alive. But if Hero hadn’t been there . . .

“Was that the lad you was looking for?” Alice had said, coming up to Hero afterward as the crowds gathered round the ruffian’s broken body.

“Yes,” said Hero. “Why? Do you know him?”

“No,” said the old woman. “Sorry. I only play Clerkenwell on Wednesdays, you know. What was it you said you wanted him for?”

“Just to interview him.”

“Ah. Well, I’m right sorry you missed him, then.”

Hero was planning to move their search to Westminster next. But she had this niggling feeling she was missing something—something that would be obvious if she only knew where to look. Yet after several hours of reading and rereading the same scribbled notations from her talks with a dozen or more street performers, she was beginning to suspect that the vague, fanciful notion was nothing more than wishful thinking.

“’Orses,” said Simon, who’d been playing with a small wagon at her feet but now looked up at the sound of a carriage dashing down the street. Simon had trouble with his h’s—amongst other sounds—with the result that he had a disconcerting tendency to sound like a Cockney street urchin.

“’Orses,” he said again, scrambling up into the chair beside her to lean against the caned back and peer out the windows overlooking the street.

The clatter of hooves and the rattle of trace chains drew Hero’s attention to a smart barouche and team drawing up before their steps. As Hero watched, a gentlewoman in an elegant sapphire blue walking dress and broad-brimmed hat appeared in the carriage’s doorway, then paused to thank the footman who’d let down the steps. Even from this distance, she projected an aura of rare grace and self-possession. A pigeon taking flight with a whirl of wings from the pediment of a nearby house caused her to look up, the brim of her hat lifting so that the morning light fell full on her face.

“Come, Simon,” said Hero, setting aside her notebook to lift the child from the chair. “Let’s go find Claire, shall we?” And then she went to ring the bell and send word to Morey that she was at home to Lady Forbes.

Chapter 50

T hank you for agreeing to receive me at such an unfashionably early hour,” said Lady Forbes.

“We keep very unfashionable hours around here,” said Hero with a smile. “Please, have a seat.”

Lady Forbes did not sit. Instead, she stood just inside the entrance to the drawing room, her face abnormally pale, her breathing