Chapter 39
Amanda, Lady Wilcox, was calmly unbuttoning the fur collar of her gray wool pelisse when Sebastian reached the entry hall.
“Amanda,” he said. “What is it? Has something happened to Bayard?”
She turned to look at him, showing him a tight, angry face. “Bayard is fine. But I would like a word with you, if you please. In private.”
He went to throw open the door to the library. “Of course.”
“This shouldn’t take long,” she said, jerking off her kid gloves as she went to stand before the fire. “I understand Bayard came to see you this morning.”
“Put him up to it, did you?”
“I did not.”
“Really?” Sebastian walked over to the small table that held a collection of carafes and crystal glasses. “May I offer you some wine?”
“Thank you, but no.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I have some,” said Sebastian, pouring himself a generous measure.
She pulled down the corners of her mouth, but all she said was, “I didn’t ‘put him up to it,’ as you so crudely phrased it. But I won’t deny that I was hoping you’d listen to him.”
Sebastian set the decanter aside and looked over at her. “Did you seriously think I would believe that Bayard—Bayard, of all people—is genuinely concerned about the damage my activities might wreak on the prestige and social standing of the family?”
Her fist tightened around the gloves she held in her hand. “And why, pray tell, do you find that so difficult to believe? Simply because you have no regard for our reputations, how dare you assume that the rest of us are equally lacking in a sense of what is owed the family!”
Sebastian took a deliberately slow swallow of his wine. “Well, in my experience, men who go around violating women aren’t generally concerned about such niceties.”
“Violating women?” She gave a low, harsh laugh.
“Good heavens, what a ridiculous thing to say. Have you been talking to some silly chit who was more than eager to spread her legs for a fine lord, only to have second thoughts afterward and convince herself she was forced? Who is this shameless doxy? Give me her name and I’ll have her taken up for slander.
Six months in the Bridewell ought to teach her not to lie about her betters. ”
Sebastian was silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he studied his sister’s smug, vaguely amused features.
“You know, don’t you?” he said incredulously.
“You know what Bayard and his friends have been doing. That’s why you’re here: because you’re afraid that if I keep digging into the deaths of his friends, it’s all going to come out—every last sordid detail of their activities.
And if you think my interest in solving murders is a stain on the family’s honor, then what the hell are you going to do when it comes out that your son is a murderer? ”
“A murderer?” This time her laughter was much less convincing. “Surely you aren’t suggesting that Bayard killed Marcus Toole?”
“No. Not Toole.”
“Then whom, pray tell?”
“A fifteen-year-old girl who bled to death after your son and his friends were finished with her.”
“So she’s dead? This young woman you’re claiming my son forced?” A faint smile of satisfaction curled the corners of her lips. “Well, she won’t exactly be testifying against him, then, will she?”
Sebastian stared at her, trying to comprehend how this self-obsessed, soulless monster could have been born of the flawed but gentle, loving woman who’d been their mother.
And how a man as honorable as Hendon could have begat someone so utterly devoid of human feelings.
He shook his head. “I’m not stopping, Amanda. Not for you, not for Bayard.”
Hot, angry color flooded her face. “And Hendon? What about him? You might be his heir, but Bayard is his grandson—his own flesh and blood. Have you no consideration for what you would do to him?”
“You’re not going to stop me, Amanda.”
He watched the blood drain from her face, watched a venomous gleam kindle in the depths of the intensely blue eyes that were the hallmark of her family. “My God, how I hate you.”
“I know.”
She pressed her lips into a thin, tight line and swept from the room.
Sebastian stood for a moment, listening to his sister’s angry voice in the street outside, giving orders to her coachman. Then he sent for Jules Calhoun.
“You wished to see me, my lord?” said the valet, looking vaguely puzzled.
Sebastian started to take another sip of his wine, then set the glass aside.
“Three weeks ago, on the evening of Friday, the eighth of November, someone stabbed Gilbert Keebles on or near Westminster Bridge. Bow Street couldn’t find anyone who would admit to having seen it happen.
But it occurs to me that the kind of people likely to have been hanging around the bridge late at night might not be inclined to reveal their activities to Bow Street’s constables. ”
A flare of amusement showed in the valet’s eyes. “If anyone was around to see it, my lord, I’ll find them.”
Later that night, Sebastian stood beside his bedroom window, his gaze on the dark, angry clouds bunching over the frost-rimed rooftops and clustered chimneys of the city.
He could hear the wind flapping a loose shutter somewhere, hear the rattle of distant carriage wheels and the soft patter of Hero’s footsteps as she slid from the bed and came to him.
“It’s worrying you, isn’t it?” she whispered. “What Amanda said about the effect all this is likely to have on Hendon.”
Reaching out, he took her in his arms, buried his face in the heavy fall of her hair, breathed in the warm, comforting scent of her.
“Bayard is Hendon’s grandson—his only true grandson.
I’ve been standing here trying to imagine how I’d feel about someone who was responsible for betraying one of Guinevere or Simon’s sons someday. ”
Hero was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I think if your grandson had done the things Bayard has done, you’d understand. You’d understand that anyone who brought them to justice was only doing what was right. What needed to be done.”
“You think so? I’m not so certain.”
She leaned back so she could look at him, her eyes searching his face in a way that made him wonder what she saw there. “What are you going to do?”
“Have a go at Bayard again in the morning.”
“Think that will do any good?”
“No. But I need to try.”
“Yes,” she said, bringing up a hand to touch her fingertips softly to his lips.
Except that by the next morning, Bayard was dead.