Sebastian said, “Was Cedric Fairchild with you in Africa?”
“Cedric? No. We’ve known each other since we were in leading strings. My father’s land marches with Lord Fairchild’s estate.”
“Then you know his sister Rachel.” Sebastian deliberately kept the sentence in the present tense.
Somerville nodded. “She used to come over and play with m’sisters when she was little.”
Sebastian smiled. “How many sisters do you have?”
Somerville gave a mock groan. “Five. M’father claims buying a pair of colors is nothing compared to the cost of a London Season.”
“How many still left to go off?”
“Four. Fortunately Mary—the eldest—managed to do quite well for herself. Married Lord Berridge, you know. She’s promised to sponsor her younger sisters, when the time comes. M’father’s relieved, I can tell you. He always hoped Cedric would take a fancy to one of them, but I’m afraid Cedric always looked upon my sisters as if they were his sisters, too.”
“I imagine they were often at Fairchild Hall.”
“Well, no,” said Somerville. His eyes were bright, feverish with a deadly combination of sickness and arsenic. “As a matter of fact, m’father would never let any of ’em go over there.” The captain hesitated, then leaned forward to add softly, “He always said Lord Fairchild was a tad too fond of little girls, if you know what I mean?”
Sebastian took a slow sip of his beer.
Had there been rumors around the village of Wansford? Sebastian wondered. Tales of frightened little girls? Servants who caught glimpses of what was meant to be hidden? Sebastian couldn’t even say exactly what had first raised the suspicion in his head. There couldn’t be that many reasons a gently bred young woman would flee her home to end her days on the streets.
Yet Rachel Fairchild had run away twice. Once from the Fairchild townhouse in Curzon Street, then again from the Academy in Covent Garden. Were the two flights linked? Or had the first flight merely exposed her to the danger that had led to the second—and, ultimately, to her death?
Sebastian regarded the young man beside him. “Tell me about the first Lady Fairchild.”
“Lady Fairchild?” Somerville looked surprised. “She was French, you know. An emigree. I remember she always wore a red velvet band around her neck, in memory of some relative or other who’d been guillotined.” He brought up one hand to touch his throat. “It fascinated me when I was a lad. But I don’t recall much else about her. I was still at Eton when she died.”
“Was she ill for long?”
“Ill? Hardly. She was shot.”
“Shot?”
Somerville nodded. “Lord Fairchild himself found her in the Pavilion—you know, one of those follies built like a Greek temple. By the lake. The inquest decided it was some poacher’s shot gone wild, but, well”—Somerville shrugged—“people will talk.”
“They thought it was murder?”
“Murder? Oh, no.” Somerville drained his tankard. “They thought it was suicide. But then, what were they going to do? Bury her ladyship at the crossroads with a stake through her heart? They returned a verdict of death by misadventure, and Lady Fairchild now sleeps peacefully in the family tomb.”
“Buy you another beer?” offered Sebastian.
The captain looked at his tankard as if startled to discover it empty. “I thank you, but no.” He set the tankard aside and rose to his feet. “I promised m’sister Mary I’d take her for a drive around the park this afternoon. Since I’ve been posted back here to London, she’s decided to make good use of me—she’s lined me up for everything from Lady Melbourne’s famous picnic this Saturday to some grand ball or t’other I can’t remember when. It’s enough to make a man look upon forced marches and monthlong sieges with something approaching fondness.” Smiling faintly, Somerville gave a casual salute and turned toward the door.
It was when Sebastian was leaving the Crown and Thorn that he very nearly walked straight into the Earl of Hendon. Both father and son took a startled, awkward step back, and for one blazing moment their gazes met and held.
They had encountered each other in this manner a dozen times or more over the past eight months. And each time Sebastian had felt the same shaking rush of anger and betrayal, the same brutal reminder of all he was trying to forget. He thought that, in time, he might be able to forgive Hendon for the lies, for the wretched coil Sebastian knew was not intentional, even if it was of Hendon’s making. But Sebastian wasn’t sure how he was ever going to forgive Hendon for the triumphant joy Sebastian had glimpsed in his father’s face the day Sebastian’s world had come crashing down around him.
He was aware of the leap of hope in his father’s eyes. Saw, too, when hope faded into hurt. With painful politeness, Sebastian executed a short bow, said, “Good evening, sir,” and withdrew.
Chapter 36
Having bathed and exchanged her ruined burgundy carriage dress for a walking dress of soft fawn alpaca, Hero sallied forth again, this time to pay her long-delayed call on Rachel’s sister Lady Sewell.
The former Georgina Fairchild had married a middle-aged baronet named Sir Anthony Sewell. Sewell was comfortably rather than excessively wealthy, his house on Hanover Square well appointed but modest. The match had surprised many, for Georgina Fairchild was both attractive and well dowered, yet she had contracted this
