“Perhaps. What about the possibility that Jarvis has suborned Vaundreuil himself?”
“To be honest, I’ve wondered about that. I’ve no proof, mind you; it’s just a feeling I have.”
Sebastian nodded and started to turn away. “Thank you.”
“Devlin?”
He glanced back at the Earl.
Hendon’s teeth clamped down on the stem of his pipe. “How does Lady Devlin?”
“She is well.”
“And my grandson? When is he expected to make his appearance?”
The child would be no true grandchild to Alistair St. Cyr. But if a boy, he would someday become, in turn, Viscount Devlin and eventually Earl of Hendon. “Soon,” said Sebastian after only a moment’s hesitation.
Hendon nodded, his lips relaxing into a faint smile. And Sebastian knew again the whisper of an old emotion he did not want, a sensation all tangled up with every painful and joyous memory of a childhood he had no desire to revisit.
“You’ll let me know?” Hendon asked gruffly.
“Yes.”
And then, because there was nothing more to say, Sebastian left.
• • •
The night was cold, the fog a thick, foul presence that seemed to press down on the city. Sebastian walked through empty streets, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the moisture-laden air. He was trying to sort through a tangle of evidence and explanations surrounding this baffling series of murders. But his thoughts kept returning, unbidden, to a lonely old man standing beside his hearth, his pipe in his hand, his startlingly blue eyes clouded with a host of contradictory emotions that Sebastian suspected the Earl himself never completely understood.
He was about to turn and climb the steps to his house when he became aware of someone running behind him.
He whirled, his hand going to the dagger in his boot just as a breathless voice exclaimed, “My lord Devlin?”
One of Lovejoy’s constables appeared out of the fog, his open mouth sucking air painfully, his somewhat ponderous stomach jiggling with his half trot.
Sebastian relaxed. “Yes; what is it?”
The constable drew up, his full, florid face slick with sweat despite the cold, his hands on his knees as he hunched over and sought to even his breathing. “Begging your lordship’s pardon, but there’s been a murder. Sir Henry thought you might like to know.”
“What’s happened?”
“A gentleman’s been murdered in Birdcage Walk.” The constable straightened, his breath still coming in panting gasps. “Leastways, the lady-er-gentleman with her-er, him-says it’s a gentleman. A gentleman dressed up like a lady, it is. Never seen nothing like it in all my born days!”
Chapter 44
The promenade known as Birdcage Walk ran along the south side of St. James’s Park. A broad carriageway lined with rows of elm and lime, it was open to commoners traversing it on foot. Only members of the royal family were allowed to drive down Birdcage Walk. It wasn’t a privilege they exercised often, but the prerogative remained exclusively theirs, nonetheless.
Over the past fifty or more years, the walk had become notorious as a popular “molly market,” or cruising ground. The area’s proximity to the nearby barracks meant that handsome young guardsmen eager to earn an extra guinea or two could inevitably be found here. As Sebastian walked beneath the fog-shrouded branches of the winter-bared trees, he wondered if that was why Ambrose LaChapelle had come here.
But as he approached the huddle of greatcoated men near the eastern end of the walk, he was surprised to see the tall, chestnut-haired Serena sitting hunched on a bench off to one side. She had her head down, her hands thrust between her knees in a posture that would have made more sense if she had been wearing breeches. Her green silk gown was torn, the black lace that had once trimmed the neckline ripped so that it dangled off one shoulder.
“Ah, Lord Devlin,” called Sir Henry Lovejoy, separating himself from the knot of constables beside what Sebastian could now see was the sprawled body of another woman-or in all probability a man in a woman’s red velvet gown, topped by a short white fur cape stained dark with blood. “I thought you might want to see this.”
Sebastian glanced again at Serena. The French courtier did not look up.
“What happened?” Sebastian asked the magistrate.
“Her name is Angel Face. Or at least, that’s what she called herself when she was wearing skirts. In breeches, he was James Farragut, a jeweler who keeps-kept-a shop in the Haymarket. According to the-” Sir Henry paused, as if trying to settle on an appropriate noun. “-the person who was with her-him, they were simply walking along the carriageway when an unknown man came up behind them, stabbed Farragut in the back, and then ran off.”
“Farragut is dead?”
“Oh, yes. I gather he died almost instantly.”
Sebastian went to hunker down beside the dead man. Of medium height and slim, he had softly curling dark hair and a delicately boned face ending in a strong jawline. Sebastian had never seen him before. “How did you know I might be interested?”
“The. . person. . who was walking with the victim suggested it.”
Sebastian pushed to his feet and went to where LaChapelle still sat. The French courtier might have fought bravely against the forces of the Revolution, but the murder of his friend had obviously affected him profoundly. “You all right?”
“Yes.” Serena thrust out her jaw and blew a long breath up over her face. “Oh, God; it’s my fault. Angel is dead because of me.”
Sebastian sat on the bench beside her. “What were you doing here?”
A ghost of a smile touched the courtier’s painted lips. “Caterwauling, of course. There are some grand guardsmen to be found along here.”
Caterwauling. Sebastian had heard they also called it “picking up trade” or finding someone to “endorse.” He said, “Bit chilly, isn’t it?”
Serena shrugged. “The cold tends to discourage the bastards working for the Society for the Suppression of Vice.”
Sebastian stared off across the fog-shrouded park. “Why do you say you’re responsible for Angel Face’s death?”
Serena kept her gaze on the sprawled body of her friend. “She was cold. I lent her my fur cape. It’s very distinctive-I’m known for it. I think whoever killed her saw it and thought she was me.”
Sebastian studied the dead Haymarket jeweler. In the darkness and fog, she could easily have been mistaken for the French courtier. And yet. .
“You can’t know that for certain,” said Sebastian.
“What? You think this is a coincidence?”
Sebastian shook his head. “What can you tell me about the man who stabbed her?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. It all happened too fast. At first, I thought he’d simply run up behind us and pushed Angel, to be rude. People do that sometimes, you know. But then she coughed and staggered against me, grabbing my dress to try and stay upright, so that I had to catch her. By the time I realized she’d been stabbed, the man who’d done it was gone.”
Sebastian studied the rows of limes along the border of the carriageway. Just to the south of the park lay the Recruit House and, beyond that, the gardens at the rear of the Gifford Arms Hotel. Until now, everyone killed had been either a member of the French delegation or connected to it in some way. So why the hell had LaChapelle been attacked?
Aloud, he said, “Who would want to kill you? Not just any random molly, but you?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Sebastian brought his gaze back to the courtier’s painted face. “Did you tell the magistrates who you are-I mean who you really are?”
Serena rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Do you truly think I would? There will be an inquest, remember. What would you suggest as my choice of attire for the occasion? Should I go as Serena Fox, or as Ambrose LaChapelle, the gentleman who was cruising Birdcage Walk dressed as a lady? Either way, what do you imagine my reception would be?”