Sebastian turned.
Attired in evening dress and a silk-lined cape that fluttered open with each angry step, Lord Fairchild strode purposely toward him across New Palace Yard. “This must stop,” the Baron blustered as he came up to Sebastian. “Do you hear me, sir? It must stop.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Lord Fairchild’s face darkened to a hue somewhere between magenta and purple. “Don’t play me for a fool.” He spat the words out like bullets. “You know full well of what I speak.”
“If you mean my investigation into the murder of your d—”
Lord Fairchild made a low growling sound deep in his throat. “Not here, for God’s sake,” he snapped, drawing Sebastian farther up the pavement. “Is that what this is all about?” His voice dropped to an acid whisper. “Do you seek to damage me by attacking my daughter’s reputation?”
“What this is about,” said Sebastian, his gaze searching the other man’s mottled, distorted features, “is justice. Justice for a murdered woman lying in an unmarked grave.”
The Baron clenched his teeth together so tightly his jaw quivered. “My daughter is in Northamptonshire. You hear me? Northamptonshire. If you persist in insinuating otherwise, I swear to God, I’ll call you out for it.”
Sebastian studied the beefy, red-faced lord before him. He thought about the short, tragic life of Rachel Fairchild, and about Lord Fairchild’s “fondness” for little girls, and he knew a revulsion so swift and profound it turned his stomach.
Once, Sebastian had thought the link between father and child one of the closest bonds in nature, second only to that between a mother and her children. Sebastian’s relationship with his own father had never been an easy one; he’d always known he both baffled and disappointed Hendon. There had even been a time, in the dark days after the death of the last of Sebastian’s brothers, that Sebastian would have said Hendon hated him—hated him for living when Hendon’s other sons had died. Yet through it all, Hendon’s devotion to the preservation of his remaining son—and the pledge he represented to the future—had endured. Sebastian had always believed it must be so for all fathers. It was only in the past year that he had come to realize just how fragile—and secondary— paternal devotion could sometimes be.
The bells of Westminster began to chime the hour, the melodious notes echoing out over the city. “I understand there’s an important debate this evening on the Orders in Council,” said Sebastian evenly. “You’re missing it.”
Lord Fairchild opened his mouth and closed it, then swung away, his jaw held tight, his head thrust forward like a bull’s.
Sebastian waited until the Baron had taken several strides before calling after him, “I hear you’re the one who discovered your wife’s body. How . . . tragic.”
The Baron swung back around, his massive frame quivering with fury. “If you mean to insinuate—”
“I insinuate nothing,” said Sebastian, and continued on his way to Queen Square.
“It’s quite an innovation,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, nodding to the rows of flickering gas lamps that bathed the interior of McCleod’s Coffee Shop in a soft golden glow. Gas lamps had already replaced the oil lamps along Pall Mall and in the surrounding streets, but few shop owners were as innovative—or as courageous—as the proprietors of McCleod’s. The sputtering gas jets and occasional explosions and asphyxiations generally limited the introduction of gas to the outdoors. “I’ve heard it said that someday, not only every street in London, but every house in London will be lit by the gasworks.”
Sebastian shifted his weight against the booth’s unpadded back. “I’ve heard it said that the runoff from the gasworks is what’s killing the fish in the Thames.”
Sir Henry brushed away the suggestion of pollution with an impatient hand. Apart from the law, the only other passion in the little magistrate’s life was science, and he brooked no criticism of it. “There are always naysayers.”
Sebastian simply smiled and raised his coffee to his lips.
Sir Henry cleared his throat. “I understand it was your misfortune to discover Sir William this afternoon. It’s why you’ve sought me out, isn’t it, and bought me this coffee?”
Sebastian laughed. “I’d have bought you a brandy but I know you don’t imbibe.”
A fervently devout man, Sir Henry had secret leanings toward the Reformist Church, although he generally kept his views to himself. Being anything other than High Church wasn’t good for one’s career. He said, “I take it you think this death is somehow linked to what happened at the Magdalene House on Monday.” The barest hint of a smile tugged the edges of the Queen Square magistrate’s mouth. “I know you have continued to involve yourself in the investigation.”
Sebastian took another sip of coffee. “It was my understanding there was no investigation.”
“Not officially. But according to Sir William’s clerk, Sir William was intrigued by what happened.”
Sebastian knew a flicker of surprise, although when he thought about it, he realized it made sense. By instructing Sir William to shut down any speculation about the fire, Lord Jarvis had obviously sparked the magistrate’s curiosity.
“Officially,” Lovejoy was saying, “the fire was just a fire. But Sir William was nevertheless pursuing a few discreet inquiries.”
“Obviously not discreet enough.”
“You think it’s why he was killed?”
“Yes.”
Sir Henry cleared his throat again. “It’s rather embarrassing, you know. Having the chief magistrate of Bow
