Why Mermaids Sing

Chapter 12

At just past seven o’clock that morning, Sebastian turned his black Arab mare through the gate into Hyde Park. The morning was clear and cool, the park largely deserted at this hour except for a single rider hacking his gray up and down the Row.

It was the Earl of Hendon’s habit each morning he was in London to begin the day with a ride in Hyde Park. As Sebastian watched, the gelding missed its stride, and a gentle breeze brought him the sound of his father’s words of admonishment mingling with the familiar drumming of hoofbeats.

It had been Hendon himself who taught Sebastian and his brothers to ride. Even in those days, Hendon was always busy with affairs of state. But the task of teaching his sons to ride was one he would delegate to no mere groom. The Earl had been a relentless taskmaster, his expectations high, his comments at times brutal. But his pride in his sons’ accomplishments had been there, too, in the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, in the rare words of praise for a movement well executed.

Remembering those days now with a smile, Sebastian brought the Arab in beside his father’s gray. They posted side by side for a moment in silence. Then the Earl threw Sebastian a quick glance from beneath lowered brows. “You’re obviously here for a reason, and it must be damnably important to drag you out of bed at this hour. What is it? Lost your aunt’s fortune on the ’Change, have you?”

Sebastian laughed. It was a never-ending source of chagrin to Hendon that his son and heir had inherited a small country estate and comfortable independence from a great-aunt. An heir with an independent income was difficult to control, and control was important to the Earl of Hendon. “Actually, I wanted to ask your opinion of Sir Humphrey Carmichael.”

“Carmichael?” Hendon let his breath out between his teeth in a sound of disgust. “Damned upstart. His father was a weaver. Did you know that? A bloody weaver.”

“So I’d heard. Owns a number of mills someplace up north, does he not?”

“Yorkshire. That’s where he got his start. Now the man has interests in everything from coal mines to shipping and banking.”

Sebastian studied his father’s dark face. Hendon possessed all the arrogance and prejudices of his class, but his harshest condemnations were saved for those in political opposition to the ruling Tories. Sebastian smiled. “Carmichael’s a Whig, is he?”

“Ostensibly, no. He claims to support the Tories. But in practice the man is a bloody radical. He builds houses for his workers. Imagine that! Hires surgeons to tend their ills. Even feeds them a midday meal. And he won’t let a child under twelve work more than ten hours a day in his mills or his mines.”

“What is the nation coming to?” Hendon cast him a dark look, but Sebastian kept his gaze fixed ahead. “Does Carmichael have any association with Alfred, Lord Stanton?”

“Stanton’s a banker. He has associations with every man of wealth or standing in the City.” There was a pause; then Hendon said, “It’s because of what they’re saying happened to Stanton’s son, isn’t it? That’s why you’re asking. Because Barclay Carmichael died the same way.”

“Yes.”

Hendon frowned, but said nothing.

“What of Stanton’s politics?” Sebastian asked. “Is he a Tory?”

“Good God. Of course. The Stantons go back to the Conqueror.”

Sebastian laughed. “The implication being, I suppose, that such a proud lineage naturally confers upon its descendants protection against all radical philosophies?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Again they rode in silence, Hendon working his jaw back and forth in that way he had when he was annoyed or thoughtful. After a time, he said, “It’s a ghastly thing, what was done to those two young men. What sort of vile beast would perpetrate such a barbarity upon men of wealth and breeding?”

Sebastian stared off across the park to where the calm waters of the Serpentine reflected the clearing blue sky. Their wealth was the most obvious link between the two murdered men, a link that suggested their killer might harbor a vicious resentment of men of wealth and privilege. Except that Sebastian wasn’t so sure it was that simple. Barclay Carmichael had been wealthy, but his family’s origins were humble. “What do you know of Carmichael’s son, Barclay?”

Hendon shrugged. “I’ve encountered him in the clubs. He seems to have been well regarded.”

“Despite the lingering odor of the shop?”

“Sir Humphrey Carmichael married the Marquis of Lethaby’s daughter, Caroline.”

“Ah. And paid handsomely for her, I’ve no doubt.”

Hendon grunted. “Pulled Lethaby out of the River Tick.”

It was an old story: once proud noble families brought to the edge of ruin by bad luck, dissipation, or bad management, forced to marry off their daughters to rich cits in order to maintain their precarious hold on respectability. Mere wealth could never buy its possessor true acceptance into the innermost circles of Society. But it could buy a lord’s daughter and, through her, social acceptance for one’s sons.

A sudden thought occurred to Sebastian. “Is there a connection between the Stantons and the Marquis of Lethaby?”

“You’d need to ask your aunt Henrietta about that. The woman’s a walking Burke’s Peerage. You could ask her about it tonight—if you went to her ball.”

Sebastian laughed out loud and turned his horse’s head to leave.

“Sebastian—”

Sebastian hesitated, the black Arab tossing her head.

Hendon worked his jaw furiously back and forth. “This killer…Whoever he is, the man is dangerous. Dangerous and disturbed. You will take care.” It was an order, not a request.

Sebastian let his gaze drift over the blunt-featured, white-haired man astride the big gray and felt the annoyance raised by his father’s earlier remarks begin to drain out of him. In Sebastian’s memories, his father was a commanding, intimidating figure, his vivid blue eyes flashing, his body large and hale. Once Hendon had been unforgiving, merciless, and fearless. He was still unforgiving and merciless, but when had he begun to grow old? Sebastian wondered. Old and afraid.

“I’ll be careful.”