Why Mermaids Sing

Chapter 18

Sebastian was in his dressing room, shrugging into a black evening coat with the clumsy help of his footman Andrew when Tom came to deliver his report.

“Discover anything of interest?” Sebastian asked, nodding the footman’s dismissal.

“Quail spent most o’ the afternoon in St. James’s, in ’is club. Then he went ’ome.”

“To his wife? That’s unusual. Do you think he knew you were following him?”

“I don’t think so, no. Want I should trail ’im again tomorrow?”

Sebastian smoothed his lapels. “Yes. I won’t need you in the morning. I’m interviewing some gentlemen’s gentlemen who look promising.”

Tom dug the toe of his shoe into the carpet and tried to look innocent.

Smiling to himself, Sebastian reached for a small flintlock and slipped it into his pocket. Pistols weren’t exactly standard evening wear, but the low-heeled pumps that were de rigueur for balls meant he couldn’t carry a knife in his boot.

Tom’s eyes widened. “Expectin’ trouble?”

“When it comes to murder, I always expect trouble.”

Henrietta, Dowager Duchess of Claiborne, stood at the top of the imposing stairs of her Park Street town house, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She had been receiving her guests, but the arrivals had long since begun to thin, and Henrietta was forced to admit that her handsome if wayward young nephew, Viscount Devlin, was not coming. Turning away, she blew out a harsh, ungenteel breath of disgust.

Beside her, her son, the present Duke of Claiborne, leaned toward her to say, “You didn’t really expect him to show, now, did you?”

“Of course not. But I’m still annoyed with him.”

At the age of seventy, the former Lady Henrietta St. Cyr was one of the grand dames of society. She had never been beautiful, but she had always been fashionable. And very, very astute.

She had erred, she knew, in presenting both Bisley’s daughter and the Fenton girl to Devlin; the one was too frivolous, the other too severe. But she had high hopes for this newest possibility, the Dillingham girl. Lady Julia was breathtakingly lovely and satisfyingly intelligent without being a dead bore. As Devlin would discover if he’d simply condescend to meet the poor girl.

Abandoning her post at the top of the stairs, Henrietta moved through her guests with the practiced ease of an accomplished hostess. She was steering a wayward buck toward a shy young girl in ivory figured silk when she became aware of a stir around her, like the fluttering of hens when a wolf threatens the chicken house.

Turning, she saw a solitary figure climbing the marble steps. Devlin.

He wore the standard male evening attire of black silk knee breeches, black dress coat, and black silk waistcoat with a graceful ease that somehow managed to be both negligent and exquisite at the same time. Reaching the top of the steps, he paused, his gaze scanning the crowded rooms. He had his mother’s tall, fine-boned good looks, with dark hair and the strangest pair of yellow eyes Henrietta had ever seen. Eyes that lit up with a smile as he came toward her.

“Aunt,” he said, bowing low over her hand.

She rapped his knuckles with her fan, hard. “Don’t think to turn me up sweet. I’m surprised you bothered to show up at all, as late as it is.”

Devlin grinned. “I hadn’t intended to, but I had some questions I wanted to ask you.”

Far from being annoyed, Henrietta knew a quickening of curiosity. “Questions? About what?”

Taking her arm, he steered her toward a small withdrawing room. “Not here.”

“I have guests,” she protested.

His smile widened into something devilish. “I can come back tomorrow morning. Early.”

Henrietta sighed. It was well known that she never left her room before one o’clock. “You unnatural young man. I don’t know what sordid mess you’ve involved yourself in this time, but I refuse to tell you anything until you promise to at least dance the quadrille with Lady Julia.”

“Who?”

“Lady Julia Dillingham.”

She thought he might balk, but he only laughed and said, “A fair-enough exchange. The quadrille it is. Now tell me what you know about the Stantons and the Carmichaels.”

Henrietta felt her smile slide off her face. “What have you to do with that ghastly business?”

“A friend has asked for my help.” He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it. “I understand Sir Humphrey Carmichael married the daughter of the Marquis of Lethaby. Is Lethaby in any way related to the Stantons?”

“Only very distantly.” She went to lower herself into a curving chair of puce velvet, and sighed. “He was such a charming young man, Barclay Carmichael. He had every girl of marriageable age in London on the scramble for him. What a pity.”

“Do you know of any connection between Stanton and Carmichael?”

“The fathers or the sons?”

“Either one.”

Henrietta tapped one finger thoughtfully against her lips. “I do seem to recall they were both involved in something a few years back, but I couldn’t say now exactly what it was.”

“A scandal?”

“No. I don’t believe so. If I remember correctly, Russell Yates was also involved in some way.”

Devlin raised one eyebrow. “Russell Yates? Now that’s interesting.”

Russell Yates was one of society’s more colorful characters, a born gentleman who’d made his fortune as a privateer. There had always been whispers about Yates, about his murderous past and the connections he still maintained with smugglers and free traders. But lately there had been other rumors, dark hints about certain activities that seemed to belie his virile image and that weren’t discussed in mixed company. It was all said in whispers, of course, for in an age in which vice and sin were commonplace, there still remained this one taboo, this one prohibition, the violation of which could lead not to mere ostracism, but a sentence of death.

Henrietta studied her nephew’s face, but he was giving nothing away. “Have you heard the rumors about him?”

“I’ve heard them.”

“Do you believe there’s anything to them?”

“I don’t know. But it does suggest a new angle of inquiry.”

“You can’t be serious. I don’t know about young Stanton, but no one ever questioned Barclay Carmichael’s interest in the ladies.”

Devlin shrugged.

Henrietta pressed her lips together and made an exasperated sound deep in her throat. “Hendon told me you’d involved yourself in these latest murders. Don’t you think it’s a bit, well, common, Devlin?”

His brows twitched together into a frown that was there, then gone. “Common? Dreadfully so. In fact, if you had the least regard for the reputation of this Lady Julia, you would most definitely advise her not to dance the quadrille with me.”

Henrietta pushed to her feet with a grunt. “I fear it would take far more than an unnatural interest in murder to render you anything other than an enviable catch, my dear.” She looped her arm through his. “Now take me back to my ball, you troublesome child. I believe the quadrille is next.”