Why Mermaids Sing

Chapter 45

SATURDAY, 21 SEPTEMBER 1811

Sebastian’s sister lived in an elegant town house on St. James’s Square. The house technically belonged to her son, the young Lord Wilcox, for Amanda was recently widowed. But Lady Wilcox ruled both her son, Bayard, and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Stephanie, with brutal purpose and an iron will.

Sebastian found her in the morning room arranging white and yellow lilies in a large vase. She was a tall woman, and thin, with their mother’s pale blond hair still only barely touched by gray although she was twelve years Sebastian’s senior. She looked up without smiling at his entrance.

“I trust you are here to tell me the notice in this morning’s papers was an error.”

“You saw it, did you?”

She set down the last lily with enough force that the rings on her hand clattered against the marble tabletop. “Dear God. It’s true.”

“Yes.”

Her jaw hardened with cold fury. “You do realize that Stephanie’s come out is less than six months away?”

Sebastian controlled the impulse to laugh. “Console yourself with the thought that most of the talk will have died down by then.”

She studied him with one brow thoughtfully arched. “How did Hendon take it?”

“Predictably. He has promised never to darken my doorway again. I presume you intend to do the same?”

“As long as that woman is your wife? I should think so.”

Sebastian nodded. “I’ll bid you good day, then.” And he walked out of her house and out of her life.

Sir Henry Lovejoy was at his desk, glancing over the coming day’s schedule, when Viscount Devlin arrived at his office.

Henry sat back. “Good morning, my lord. And congratulations.” He permitted himself a small smile. “I saw the announcement of your upcoming nuptials in the paper this morning.”

The young Viscount was looking oddly strained, but Lovejoy supposed that was to be expected in one about to embark upon such a life-altering event.

“Some men broke into Miss Boleyn’s house last night and tried to kill us.”

“Merciful heavens. Do you know who they were?”

Devlin shook his head. “Hirelings. You received the list of passengers and ship’s officers I sent yesterday?”

“Yes, yes.” Henry opened a drawer and pulled out a report. “Please, my lord, take a seat. I have my constable’s notes right here. Of the ship’s officers, the second mate”—Henry consulted his constable’s notes—“Mr. Fairfax, died four years ago from a fall.”

“A fall?”

“Yes. From a third-floor window in Naples. There was some speculation Mr. Fairfax may have deliberately thrown himself from the window, but as the gentleman was in his cups at the time, it was impossible to say.”

Henry consulted the notes again. “The third mate, a Mr. Francis Hillard, was lost overboard while at sea off the Canary Islands two years ago, while the first mate—Mr. Canning—drank himself to death six months ago. A most unlucky lot, from the sounds of things.”

Devlin grunted. “And the passengers?”

“The spinster, Miss Elizabeth Ware, died two years ago of hysteria.”

“Hysteria?”

Henry nodded. “The constable spoke to her sister. Seems the poor woman went mad not long after her return to London. Stark, raving mad. As for Mr. and Mrs. Dunlop, they were living in Golden Square up until several weeks ago, but they appear to have packed and fled the city somewhat precipitously. That leaves only Mr. Felix Atkinson of the East India Company. He lives with his wife and two children in a house in Portland Place.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

Henry slid the paper with the address across the desk to the Viscount. “I am no longer a part of the investigation, remember?”

The Viscount smiled and rose to leave.

“There is one other thing,” said Henry.

Devlin paused. “Yes?”

“Captain Quail. I’ve had another of my constables checking into his whereabouts on the nights of each of the murders.”

“And?”

“It seems the Captain was neither at home nor with the Horse Guards on any of the nights in question.” Henry peeled his glasses off his nose and rubbed the bridge. “I also looked into the Captain’s activities in the Army. I understand why you suspected him.”

“But there’s no connection between Quail and the Harmony. At least, not that I know of.”

“No.” Henry replaced his glasses and reached for his schedule again. “There does not appear to be, does there?”

Sebastian was halfway across the entrance hall of his Brook Street house, heading toward the stairs, when his majordomo cleared his throat apologetically.

“I trust you have not forgotten, my lord, that you have an interview with a gentleman’s gentleman scheduled for this morning?”

Sebastian paused with one foot on the bottom step, his hand on the newel post. “What? Good God.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of putting the gentleman in the library.”

Suppressing an oath, Sebastian turned toward the library. The prospective valet proved to be a tall, cadaverously thin man with a bony face and prominent, thick lips.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting,” said Sebastian, reaching for the valet’s credentials. Sebastian was heartily sick of this entire hiring process. Unless this candidate engaged in pagan sacrifices or wiped his nose on his sleeve, Sebastian was determined to hire him. “I understand you were most recently employed by Lord Bingham.”

The gentleman’s gentleman inclined his head. “That is correct.”

“And why, precisely, did you leave Lord Bingham’s service?”

“I’m afraid Lord Bingham shot himself last Tuesday.”

Sebastian looked up. He vaguely recalled hearing something about Lord Bingham earlier in the week, but had been too preoccupied to pay it much heed. “Right. Well, tell me—”

The sounds of an altercation in the hall reached them through the library’s closed door, Tom’s ringing cockney tones blending with Morey’s hissed “Not now. He’s with—”

The door burst open and Tom catapulted into the room. “Wait till you ’ear this, gov’nor. I been lookin’ into that cove, Quail, and you know ’ow ’e told you ’e didn’t know Barclay Carmichael? Well, it seems Carmichael won five hundred quid off ’im at faro right afore Carmichael was found butchered in the park last summer.”

The valet’s already pale skin bleached white. “Merciful heavens. It’s true, what they say.”

Sebastian swung to look at the man. “What? What do they say?”

The valet pushed to his feet and backed toward the door, his hat gripped tightly in both hands. “That you involve yourself in…in murder.”

Sebastian rose from behind his desk and took a step forward. “Yes, but never mind that. You’re hired. You can start work today. My majordomo will show you—”

But the gentleman’s gentleman had already bolted through the door.

“You didn’t want ’im anyway,” said Tom with a sniff. “’E looked like a queer cove to me.”

“All I get is queer coves. Obviously because word has gone out amongst the gentlemen’s gentlemen of the city that I am a queer cove.”

Tom sniffed again. “I checked ’afore I come here. Quail’s at ’is ’ouse. In Kensington, just off Nottinghill Gate. Want I should get the curricle?”