body heat and sweat. She seemed impervious, as was her affectation, but he could hear the shallowness of her breathing. In her corset, it must be a test of endurance.
"You think the Governor struck Abernathy?" she whispered, when they were sealed within.
Sebastien nodded in the dark, but of course she could not see that. "I do, yes."
"I don't," she said. She pressed a hand against his neck, as if drinking in his coolness. Her perspiration slicked his skin. "He's frightened of someone. But it's not Michael Penfold."
That worthy arrived a comfortless half-hour later, and was shown up the stairs with haste, to the room they watched. They had fallen silent as soon as the carriage drew up in the street, and Sebastien could hear Abby Irene's stays creaking now with the flutter of her breath.
The dead boy—Grant Nelson, Sebastien reminded himself: even the dead might have some dignity—sat with his back to the door, resplendent in a scarlet gown with one of Chouchou's platinum wigs curling delicately across his forehead. His head lolled, as if he dozed; otherwise, the corset under his brocade bodice held him stiffly upright. The Colonial Governor was a stout man, well-favored, with muttonchop sideburns and a rose-gold watch-chain. He did not seem to notice the crunch of gray sea-salt under his boots as he crossed the carpet, quietly calling Chouchou's name, and placed a hand on Nelson's bare shoulder just as Abby Irene murmured a few words of sufficient power to raise the hairs even on magic-deaf Sebastien's neck.
Penfold snatched his hand up and skipped back, covering his mouth with the other hand to stifle his shout. Sebastien breathed deeply, carefully—but while he could smell the man's sudden chill sweat, and Abby Irene's hotter and more stifled one, there was no tang of blood.
He could also hear Penfold's whimpered prayer as he nerved himself and came back, circling the divan upon which the body of Grant Nelson was propped, fist still stuffed against his mouth. "Please no," Sebastien heard him say, and then his combined grunt or relief and horror. "Oh, Grant."
"He's not bleeding," Abby Irene said. "He's not bleeding at all."
"Someone could have done it for him," Sebastien said, but he was snatching at straws and they both knew it. That kind of brutality was not what one expected of a hired killer; it was the product of hate.
"Well," she said, groping for the handle that would release the cubbyhole door, "I suppose I should go explain to his Honor why we've ruined
his evening."
* * *
The explaining, which Sebastien effaced himself from as much as possible—he was "Mr. John Nast, my associate," for Abby Irene's purposes as far as this interview went, and that suited him well—was cut short. "I rather strong-armed Mr. . .that is to say, Miss Abernathy," she offered apologetically, while Chouchou fluttered over the half-prostrated Governor and David remained absent. "You must understand, your Honor, the melodrama was only to clear your name."
"May I inquire, Lady Abigail," he said, hunched over a restorative brandy, "who advanced it as a suspect?" His glare rested on Chouchou, but Abby Irene shook her head and womanfully forbore from correcting him.
"I am afraid, your Honor, that I am not at liberty."
"Weren't you removed from the case?"
"I am no longer in the employ of the city," she admitted. "But I've done nothing illegal."
Chouchou brought another brandy; Sebastien did not miss the gentle manner in which Penfold lifted it from her fingers, or the tenderness with which he stroked her hand. He glanced at Abby Irene.
She had seen. And was nodding softly, bitten-lip. No, perhaps he had not struck her.
Penfold snorted. This brandy, he nursed rather than quaffed. "I'll see you at my offices tomorrow, Lady Abigail. Along with my son, the Chief Inspector, I think. For a more in-depth discussion of your involvement in this case. For now, if that will be quite all—"
"Yes, your Honor."
"Good," Chouchou said, fanning herself. "My carriage will run you home."
"What about Mr. Nelson?"
"I'll see to proper burial," Chouchou and the Governor said, both at once, and then shared a startled glance. Penfold shook his head and said, "It is the very least I can do."
Chouchou patted his shoulder. "But please get that coffin out of my dressing room, if you don't mind?"
Sebastien nodded. "We shall, if we can borrow your carriage again. Lady Abigail Irene?"
He could manage her name. She offered a small grateful smile. "I shall return to my hotel," she said. "If it's all quite the same