“And Jane Ambrose? Did he kill her, too?”
“I’d be inclined to think so, except . . .”
Gibson glanced over at him. “Except?”
Sebastian rocked back on his bench and crossed his arms. “I don’t know. Something feels wrong about it. Either that or I’m just missing something—something important.”
“When’s the fellow’s inquest?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Gibson pushed up to go throw more fuel on the fire. “You heard Alexi and Lady Devlin are going to that poor girl’s hanging tomorrow? The one who came up to London after her husband was impressed.”
Sebastian stared at him. “No. Why?”
“Her ladyship thinks they owe it to the girl to be there, and Alexi agreed.” Gibson paused. “It’s gonna be ugly.”
“Yes,” said Sebastian, his heart heavy for his wife. “But then, they know that.”
“Aye,” Gibson admitted. “So they do.”
Later that evening, now dressed in elegant knee breeches, a linen shirt, and a finely tailored greatcoat, Sebastian tucked an elegant walking stick under one arm and trolled the expensive pleasure haunts of the West End. He was looking for Viscount Ashworth, the handsome but deadly Marquis’s heir who had married Sebastian’s niece the previous September. Since securing the hand of Miss Stephanie Wilcox, Ashworth had reverted to his old habits, which meant spending his evenings in London’s more notorious gaming establishments and brothels. Sebastian knew because he’d been keeping an eye on the man ever since that fateful September day.
Sebastian eventually spotted his quarry in a noisy hell near Leicester Square. But rather than directly approach his niece’s husband, Sebastian simply hung back and watched. He watched Ashworth shift from EO table to faro to rouge et noir, drinking freely and laughing with friends, before casually tupping a black-haired whore against the wall in a darkened corner. Then he called for his greatcoat and hat and, whistling softly, set off alone toward the Haymarket.
The night was so cold every sound seemed magnified—the crunch of Sebastian’s boots in the snow, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the tinkling notes of a piano underscored by men’s voices and a woman’s gay laughter. With each breath, the exhalation billowed around him to hang motionless in the coal smoke–scented air.
Oblivious to his shadow, Ashworth turned purposefully into Piccadilly. When the Marquis’s son approached the dark, yawning mouth of an alley, Sebastian increased his pace. Coming up behind the man in a snow-muffled rush, he reached out to grab the Viscount’s upper right arm at the same time he shoved hard against Ashworth’s left shoulder.
The force of the blow caused the man to pivot toward the entrance to the alley just as Sebastian let him go. Ashworth staggered forward several steps, off-balance, then tripped on the walking stick Sebastian thrust between the man’s legs.
With a startled grunt, Ashworth went down hard on his stomach, his hands flung out at his sides in the snow. He was still collecting himself when Sebastian calmly planted his boot on the fallen man’s right hand.
“What the hell are you—,” Ashworth began, then broke off to suck in a quick breath when Sebastian slid the stiletto from his walking stick and held the sharp tip against the bastard’s cheek.
“Shut up and listen,” hissed Sebastian.
Ashworth went utterly still, the whites of his eyes shining clearly in the moonlight as his gaze focused on the naked steel held against his face.
“It’s terrible, how easy it is to have an accident,” said Sebastian softly. “I’m told your wife had an ‘accident’ recently, as well. You do remember, don’t you? The bruise on her cheek?”
Ashworth blinked. His breathing was perhaps more rapid than normal, but other than that he seemed remarkably calm. “I take it this display of calculated barbarism is intended to intimidate me?”
“You could say that.”
“I seem to recall you expressed the hope last September of seeing my lovely bride a widow by year’s end. That didn’t happen, did it?”
“Not yet.”
Ashworth gave a low laugh. “Are you planning to take up murder now? And here I was under the impression you hold the practice in exaggerated repugnance. That is why you indulge in that peculiar pastime of yours, is it not?”
“There are ways to destroy a man besides killing him.”
“True. But unless you are willing to ruin your own dear niece in the process, the number of options narrows considerably.”
“Narrows. But does not disappear,” said Sebastian, leaning into the stiletto ever so slightly.
Ashworth blinked again but remained silent.
Sebastian said, “Just remember: I’m watching you. Give me the faintest glimmer of an excuse, and I will take it. Without hesitation.”
“You can try.”
Sebastian gave a slow smile. “I seem to recall your late friend Sir Francis Rowe expressing a similar sentiment . . . right before he died.”
“Rowe was a fool.”
“And you think you’re not?” Sebastian subtly increased the weight on Ashworth’s hand as he drew a thin, bloody line across the man’s cheek with the tip of his blade. “Hurt my niece again and you’ll regret it.”
Sebastian stepped back and sheathed his sword. “You’ve been warned.”
Chapter 31
Tuesday, 1 February
The next morning, Hero rose before the sun and dressed in a somber carriage gown, warm socks, and heavy broquins. She was settling a veiled, low-crowned hat on her hair when Devlin came up behind her to put his hands on her waist.
“Ever been to a hanging before?” he asked softly.
She turned to face him. “No.”
“The crowds can get rough.”
“Alexi warned me. Tom offered to come with us, but I didn’t think that would be fair.” Tom’s brother, Huey, had been just thirteen when he was hanged as a thief.
Devlin said, “If I didn’t have this damned inquest—”
She brushed his lips with hers. “I know.”
His gaze met hers, and she saw the worry he was trying to hide. He said, “Why do this? Why force yourself to watch that poor young woman hang?”
“Because she has no family in London, and someone should be there for her.” She reached for her gloves and drew them on with swift jerking motions. “What kind of society steals
