Why Mermaids Sing (17 page)

S
ATURDAY
, 21 S
EPTEMBER
1811

S
ebastian’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?”

C
aptain Peter Quail occupied a pretty little brick row house on Campden Hill Road, with a shiny black painted front door and a small garden filled with a profusion of late-blooming roses. As Sebastian reined in his chestnuts beside the gate, a delicate-looking young woman with a basket looped over one arm and a pair of secateurs in her hand looked up from deadheading a large shrub near the fence.

Sebastian handed the reins to Tom. “Walk them.”

The woman appeared to be in her midtwenties, with a finely featured face and soft blond curls that tumbled from beneath a straw bonnet tied at her chin with a cherry red ribbon. She wore a lightweight, cherry red spencer over a simple sprigged muslin morning gown, and watched Sebastian’s approach with the wary eyes of a woman whose fragile world has already been rocked too many times by the unpredictable activities of her erratic husband. “Mrs. Quail?” Sebastian asked, politely removing his hat as he opened the low front gate.

“Yes.”

He gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m Lord Devlin. I served in the same regiment as your husband in Portugal. Perhaps you’ve heard him speak of me.”

The wariness in her pale blue eyes receded, and she smiled. “I have heard Peter mention you, yes. How do you do, my lord? What brings you here?”

Sebastian let his gaze drift over the house’s curtained windows. “Is the Captain at home?”

Mrs. Quail closed her secateurs and laid them in the basket of roses. “Why, yes. If you’d like to—”

The front door jerked open to slam against the inside wall with a bang. Captain Quail clattered out onto the small porch and down the steps to advance on them with a quick, long-legged stride. He was only half dressed, the tails of his shirt untucked, the neck half open to reveal a triangle of bare chest.

“What have you told him?” he demanded, his handsome jaw clenched, his eyes hard on his wife’s face.

She took a step back. “Nothing. Lord Devlin just—”

“Get inside,” he ordered, his good arm swinging through the air to point back at the house.

Her face drained pale, then flushed scarlet. She threw Sebastian a quick, mortified glance, then looked away. “Excuse me, my lord.”

Sebastian watched her hurry toward the house, her head bent, and felt his hands curl into fists at his side.

“What are you doing at my house?”

Sebastian brought his gaze back to Quail’s handsome face, with its rugged chin and clear blue eyes and aquiline nose. “You lied to me. You told me you didn’t know Barclay Carmichael, when in fact he won five hundred pounds off you shortly before he was killed.”

The Captain’s jaw tightened. “Get off my property. Now.”

With deliberate slowness, Sebastian settled his hat back on his head and turned toward the gate. “You might warn your wife to expect the constables soon.”

“Constables?” Quail stood in the center of his yard, his empty shirtsleeve flapping in the cool breeze. “Why? I had nothing to do with that man’s death, I tell you. He was killed by the West End Butcher.”

Sebastian paused with one hand on the gate. “You didn’t by any chance have a younger brother, did you? A brother who served as a cabin boy on a merchant ship?”

Quail’s eyes narrowed. “No. What are you talking about?”

“The
Harmony
.”

“Never heard of it.”

Sebastian studied the man’s closed, hard face, and found only confusion and anger. He turned away.

“You don’t think it’s him, do you?” said Tom, scrambling back up onto his perch as Sebastian took the reins.

Sebastian gave his horses the office to start. “Unfortunately, no. Which means that however much I’d like to kill him, I can’t.”

Kat was peering through the bowed window of a perfumery on Bond Street when she heard a man’s cheery voice say, “Top o’ the morning to you, my lady.”

She swung to find Aiden O’Connell smiling at her with lazy green eyes. “
Now
you come?” she said.

His smile widened to bring a beguiling dimple to one cheek. “I had to leave town unexpectedly for a few days.” He captured her hand and brought it to his lips in a parody of gallantry. “Forgive me?”

She took her hand back. “No.”

He laughed. “Why did you want to see me?”

He fell into step beside her as she turned to walk up the street, her sunshade held at a crisp angle. “Actually, I was going to suggest you might want to leave the country.”

“Really?” He kept the smile in place, but his gaze sharpened. “Why?”

“Someone was about to betray you to Lord Jarvis.”

The dimple faded. “Who?”

Kat twirled her parasol. “Jarvis gave me a choice: your identity or my life.”

“And so you betrayed me.”

“As it happens, no. Lord Jarvis’s threat to me became known, and it was suggested his own health might suffer as a consequence.”

“Ah. I think I understand. I saw the notice of your approaching nuptials in this morning’s paper. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. But your congratulations are premature.” She swung to face him. “I want your help leaving the country.”

He opened his eyes wide. “Really? And your marriage to Lord Devlin?”

“Would ruin him.”

The Irishman was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You love him that much? That you would go away to save him from himself?”

“Yes.” Turning, she continued up the street. “It’s to your advantage to help me leave. You know that. Without Devlin’s protection I would remain vulnerable to Jarvis.”

“Why do you need my help? Ships leave England from any number of ports every day.”

“Because Jarvis’s men may still be watching the ports. I can’t take that chance—and neither can you. I don’t have much time,” she added impatiently when he said nothing. “The wedding is scheduled for Monday night.”

O’Connell continued studying her in silence for a moment, then let out his breath in a strange sound that could have meant anything. “I’ll see what I can do.”

T
he children were playing in the square across from the house. The boy looked about twelve, towheaded, with ruddy cheeks, and limbs just beginning to lengthen beyond boyhood. The girl was some four or five years younger and still very much a child, with a ragged, beloved doll she kept tucked under one arm as she ran, laughing, after her brother.

Sebastian stood and watched them for a time, then turned to mount the steps to Felix Atkinson’s house in Portland Place.

He found Atkinson still at home and finishing his coffee in the morning room. He looked surprised and vaguely annoyed to have Sebastian’s card brought up to him.

“Please have a seat, Lord Devlin,” he said curtly. “Although I must warn you, I haven’t much time. What may I do for you?”

Sebastian took one of the chairs near the cold hearth and said in a pleasant voice, “I understand you were a passenger on the
Harmony
’s return voyage from India some five years ago.”

Atkinson set aside his cup with a shaky hand. “Yes, that’s right.” He was a prim-looking man of medium height and build, in his late thirties now, perhaps a little older. He wore his light brown hair oiled and swept to one side in a futile attempt to disguise a receding hairline, and he had a habit of putting up one hand to touch it, as if to reassure himself it was still in place.

“You’ve noticed, I assume,” said Sebastian, “that someone seems to be killing the sons of your fellow passengers?”

Atkinson’s hand crept up to touch his hair, then slipped away. “Well. You don’t mince words, do you, my lord? To answer your question: Yes, I have noticed. Perhaps you noticed on your way into the house that I have at least two Bow Street Runners watching my children at all times.” He pushed to his feet. “I appreciate your concern for my family’s welfare even if I fail to understand what affair any of this might be of yours. However, I am a busy man, Lord Devlin, so I really must ask you to excuse—”

“Sit down,” said Sebastian, his voice no longer pleasant.

Atkinson sank back to the edge of his chair.

“It must have been a living hell on that ship after the crew left, taking with them most of the food and water.” Sebastian leaned forward. “I imagine you thought you’d never see your family again.”

Atkinson cleared his throat and looked away. “It was difficult, yes. But we were all Englishmen and women, thank God.”

“I would have expected the water to run out before the food.”

“So we feared. The crew left us but one barrel of water, you know. But one of the gentlemen aboard—Sir Humphrey, to be precise—rigged up a kind of distillery using a teakettle and a gun barrel. It didn’t produce much, but it was enough to keep us alive. That was when the lack of food became the major issue. Most of the ship’s stores had been lost in the storm, and the crew took what was left.”

“Tell me about the cabin boy,” said Sebastian, his gaze on the other man’s face.

A tick began to pull at the edge of Atkinson’s mouth. “The cabin boy?”

“What was his name again? Gideon?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Do you by any chance remember his family name?”

The twitch became more rapid, distorting the lower part of the man’s face. “I don’t know that I ever heard it. Why?”

“He was injured, was he not? In the storm.”

“Yes.”

Sebastian leaned forward. “I wonder, how long after the crew left did he die?”

Atkinson leapt from his seat and began to pace the room. “I don’t know. I can’t recall. It was a very difficult time.”

Sebastian watched the man striding back and forth. “I suppose you’ve heard the rumors?”

Atkinson stood very still, his entire face now twitching with distress. “Rumors? What rumors?”

“It was inevitable, I suppose, given the way the bodies of the victims have been butchered. I mean, a shipload of starving passengers and a dying boy…” Sebastian shrugged. “You can imagine the conclusions people are drawing.”

“They’re lies.” Atkinson’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. “All lies. It never happened.” He brought up a handkerchief to press against his lips. “Do you hear me? It never happened.”

Sebastian stretched to his feet. “Unfortunately, someone out there obviously believes it did happen. And unless you help us catch him, that boy of yours playing in the square will continue to be at risk.”

“How can I help you catch this killer when I don’t know who he is? You think if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you?”

Sebastian let his gaze drift toward the window overlooking the square. In the sudden silence, the laughter of the children came to them, light and sweet. “If there’s one thing the last few days have taught me,” said Sebastian, “it’s that some men will do anything, sacrifice anything and anyone, to save their own lives.”

He turned toward the door. “Good day, Mr. Atkinson. Do give my best to your family.”