Who Slays the Wicked Read online

  She had unusual eyes, he noticed; almond shaped and of a light frosty gray that made him think of the steppes of Asia in winter. If those eyes were anything to go by, he decided, she was more than capable of tying a man to his bed and turning his chest into a bloody mess.

  “I know why you are here,” she said, fingering the lace edging of her elegant silk gown’s low neckline in a way that drew his attention—as he knew it was meant to.

  “You do?”

  “Mmm. We’re told you have a reputation for investigating murders, and Viscount Ashworth has just been murdered—quite spectacularly, yes?” She spoke good English, with a pronounced French inflection rather than a Russian accent. But then he had heard that many Russian woman of her class spoke no Russian at all.

  He said, “Do you mind if I ask how you knew him?”

  “We met at a loo-party given by Countess Lieven.” Countess Lieven was the wife of the Russian ambassador to London, Kristofer Anreyevich Lieven, and if rumor was to be believed, she had slept with a goodly percentage of the most powerful men in the British government.

  “And you quickly became . . .” He paused, searching for the right word, and finally settled on, “Friends?”

  “That surprises you?” She leaned forward ever so slightly, her fingers still playing with the lace edging of her bodice. She had full, high breasts, and her gown was cut to show them to advantage. “I enjoy beauty in all its many forms, and Lord Ashworth was an undeniably attractive gentleman. Handsome and intriguing.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Just yesterday. In the afternoon.”

  “For any particular reason?”

  “He called to return a book he had borrowed.”

  “And did you see him again last night?”

  She tipped her head to one side. Her lips were still smiling, but the expression in those exotic eyes was utterly unreadable. “I did not. Are you suggesting I might like to play Viscount Ashworth’s games, my lord?”

  The question was both an abrupt attack and a telling revelation. He glanced at Colonel Demidov, but the Russian was staring woodenly into space, his face set in stiff, hard lines.

  Sebastian said, “You know about Ashworth’s . . . games?”

  “I have heard of his tastes, yes.”

  “Was that one of the things that . . . intrigued you?”

  He expected her to take offense—or at least pretend to. Instead, she relaxed back in her chair and smiled. “You could say that.”

  The colonel by the hearth never moved, while the silent woman in the corner kept her attention on her tatting and might have been deaf for all the heed she seemed to be paying to their conversation. Sebastian chose his next words carefully. “Would you happen to know of other women who . . . found Ashworth intriguing?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry; no.”

  “Do you know if he’d quarreled with anyone recently? Or if there was someone who might have threatened him or wished him harm in any way?”

  A faint frown puckered her high white forehead. “Actually, he did mention some beastly shopkeeper who’s been more than tiresome. But if he gave the man’s name, I fear I do not remember it.”

  “A shopkeeper?”

  “A shopkeeper or a tradesman. I don’t recall precisely. But I gather the man was becoming quite a nuisance. He actually threatened him.”

  “Threatened him? How?”

  “I don’t believe Ashworth said. He—” She broke off as the door from an adjoining room opened and a vision in black silk and exquisite lace swept into the room with an air of theatrical grandeur worthy of the stage.

  Even if Ivanna Gagarin had not hastened to present him, Sebastian would have had no difficulty recognizing the new arrival as Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Catherine. He’d heard her described as a strikingly attractive woman, and she was, with curling dark hair, brilliant flashing eyes, and the overbearing manner of someone who expects to be the center of attention—and doubtless sulked spectacularly when she was not. But then, she was the daughter of one Tsar, the sister of another, and the widow of a German Prince. Sebastian suspected she’d been indulged and catered to her entire life. She was dressed in deep mourning for her late husband, Prince George of Oldenburg, although it occurred to him that her bereavement didn’t prevent her from traveling widely or attending the numerous banquets and balls given in her honor.

  “I have met your father, the Earl,” she said in French as Sebastian bowed low. “He is a shrewd man, but very cautious, yes?”

  “I’d say that’s a fair assessment, yes, Your Highness,” said Sebastian.

  She let her gaze travel over him in open appraisal. “You look nothing like him.”

  “I am told I resemble my mother.”

  “You must.” She did not sit, but prowled restlessly around the room, as if requiring the movement as an outlet for her boundless energy. “I take it you are here because of this ghastly murder we are hearing so much about. Is it usual, in England, for noblemen to involve themselves in such matters?”

  “Not usual, no.”

  “Yet you do?”

  He found himself wondering why the sister of the Tsar of Russia was here, now, asking probing questions about an investigation into the murder of a man she must have barely known, if at all. But he kept that thought to himself. “As it happens,” he said, “the dead man was my niece’s husband.”

  The Grand Duchess exchanged a swift, surreptitious glance with her noble lady-in-waiting, then said, “But his murder is not the first you have chosen to investigate, no?”

  “No, Your Highness.”

  She raised one carefully arched eyebrow. “You have many murders in London?”

  “No more than most large cities, I suspect.”

  “It is a very large, busy city, this.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “We were advised that the Pulteney is a hotel of the greatest gentility. But, ppff, it is noisy. First, I was given a room overlooking the mews, only to be awakened at half past six by carts with men ringing bells and shouting, ‘Dust-ho.’ Then came more carts with rattling pewter pots and bawling vegetable sellers. So I moved to rooms overlooking Piccadilly, only to discover that from midnight until past five, a steady stream of carriages goes back and forth always. And there is this watchman person who endlessly announces the hour and weather—as if anyone trying to sleep cares. Why must they do this thing?”

  She looked at him in a way that told him she both expected a response and considered the obvious answer—that the calls were intended for those not sleeping—to be irrelevant. He said, “I suppose because it has always been the custom, madame.”

  “Ppff,” she said again in disgust. “You English have customs the most strange.”

  There seemed no reply to that, and so he bowed again to the ladies and the silent colonel, and took his leave. To his surprise, Ivanna Gagarin walked with him to the parlor door.

  “Lord Ashworth told me he was related to you by marriage,” she said, stopping him on the threshold.

  “Did he? Why was that, I wonder?”

  “He said you’d threatened to kill him.”

  “On more than one occasion, actually.”

  She rested a hand fleetingly and ever so lightly on his arm, and he was surprised to feel his skin crawl. His reaction to her was that powerful, that visceral. She said, “It makes for an interesting dynamic, does it not? For you to investigate the murder of a man you yourself threatened to kill?”

  He held himself perfectly still. “If nothing else, I suppose it gives me some insight into the motivation of his killer.”

  A calculating, malevolent gleam showed in the depths of those wintry eyes. But all she said was, “Perhaps. Or perhaps not.”

  And then she turned and left him without a backward glance.

  Chapter 8

  Sebastian wasn’
t prepared to take anything Princess Ivanna Gagarin told him at face value. But on the off chance there might be something to her tale of a “beastly shopkeeper,” he decided to pay another visit to Curzon Street. If an angry merchant had been personally dunning Ashworth, his staff would know about it.

  Ashworth’s butler, Fullerton, was an ancient, wizened relic with watery, myopic eyes, wispy white hair, and liver-spotted, palsied hands. His demeanor was that of an elderly family retainer, and Sebastian had always wondered why Ashcroft hadn’t pensioned the old man off long ago. Now he thought he understood: a tired, indulgent, doddering old man would likely remain ignorant of—or at least choose to overlook—behavior and incidents that would drive away a younger butler.

  “Sir Henry and the constables have all gone, my lord,” said Fullerton, blinking, when he opened the door to Sebastian. “And we’ve instructions from his lordship to keep everyone out of the Viscount’s chamber until his lordship overcomes his grief enough to deal with it. Locked up, it is.”

  “Actually,” said Sebastian with a pleasant smile, “I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time. There are a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  Fullerton took a step back. “Me, my lord?”

  “Mmm. Has Ashworth’s valet turned up yet?”

  “No, my lord.” He ushered Sebastian to a seat but insisted on remaining standing himself, his hands folded together behind his back.

  “What was the valet’s name, again?” asked Sebastian.

  “Digby, my lord. Edward Digby. It’s most curious,” added the old man with a shake of his head. “Can’t think where he’s taken himself off to. Most improper to disappear like this without warning.”

  “How long has he been with the Viscount?”

  “Five or six years, my lord.”

  “And how long have you been with his lordship?”

  “Me?” The old man allowed himself a faint smile. “Why, I’ve known his lordship since he was born. Used to be down at Lindley Hall in Devon, you see. The Marquis, he was all for having me retire, but then Lord Ashworth offered to take me on here.”

  “That was very kind of him,” said Sebastian, who doubted Ashworth had ever deliberately done a kind thing in his life.

  “I’m not one to want to spend my last years sitting in a chair by some cottage fire,” said the old man, his jaw jutting out.

  “I can see that,” said Sebastian. “Who do you think killed his lordship?”

  “Me?” Fullerton looked surprised by the question. “As to that, I couldn’t say, my lord.”

  “No?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “What about Ashworth’s valet, Digby? Could he have done it?”

  “Digby?” The aged butler indulged himself with a faint sneer. “Wouldn’t think he had it in him, my lord. Thing is, the paltry fellow can’t abide the sight of blood. Cut his lordship one day while shaving him and fainted dead away. Wasn’t worth much the rest of the day either.” Fullerton leaned forward and dropped his voice. “You did see the state of his lordship’s bedchamber this morning?”

  “I did.”

  Fullerton nodded and straightened with a creak. “You ask me, it looked more like an abattoir than a gentleman’s bedroom. Digby would’ve crumpled into a sniveling puddle if he’d seen it.”

  “So where do you think he’s gone?”

  “Well, he has people down in Kent. Mayhap he’s taken himself there, although I’ve no notion why he’d go off like this without telling anyone.”

  Sebastian could think of several reasons, but all he said was “Do you know of any shopkeepers or tradesmen with whom Ashworth might have quarreled recently?”

  Fullerton held himself quite still. Only the faint widening of his eyes and a spasm along his jawline betrayed him.

  “There is someone,” said Sebastian, watching him.

  The butler brought up a hand to pull at one earlobe. “His lordship had a long-standing belief that tradesmen, shopkeepers, and merchants should consider themselves honored to be given the privilege of serving him. Saw their demands for actual payment as something of an insult, he did.”

  “I wouldn’t imagine very many of them agreed with that philosophy.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “So who amongst those his lordship ‘honored’ with his patronage has complained recently?”

  “Most complained for a time. Those who kept at it and didn’t give up sometimes got half of what they were owed.” He paused. “Eventually.”

  “Anyone not satisfied with that?”

  “We—ell.” Fullerton looked thoughtful. “There’s a fellow over on Long Acre who sold his lordship some furniture last September. Cut up something fierce when his lordship refused to pay for any of it.”

  “How large of a bill are we talking about?”

  “Three thousand guineas, I believe.”

  Sebastian was surprised into making a low whistle. “That’s a hefty sum.” A housemaid in a gentleman’s establishment rarely made more than fifteen pounds a year.

  Fullerton nodded. “At one point, his lordship offered the fellow eight hundred, but he refused to take it. He’s been following his lordship around, demanding the entire sum—quite loudly. Even stood outside White’s one day, telling anyone and everyone who’d listen that his lordship was a dishonorable cheat. His lordship threated to call the authorities on him.”

  “Did that stop him?”

  “Not for long. Showed up here just a few days ago, he did, threatening to make his lordship pay—‘One way or another,’ he said.” The butler’s eyes widened in that way he had, as if seeing something for the first time. “You think he might be the one who did that to the Viscount?”

  “It certainly sounds possible. What’s this fellow’s name?”

  “McCay, my lord. Lawrence McCay.”

  “When was this, exactly?”

  “That he last came around? Must’ve been Tuesday or Wednesday, I’d say.”

  “How did Ashworth react?”

  The butler’s thin nose twitched. “Laughed in the fellow’s face, he did. Told him to go ahead and try.”

  * * *

  By the time Sebastian reached Long Acre, the afternoon was still fine, the blue sky above only faintly hazed by the smudge of coal smoke and dust that normally hugged the city. But it was late enough that the light soaking the upper stories of the old brick shops and houses had taken on the golden, tea-colored hues of approaching evening, and the raucous muddle of carts, wagons, carriages, donkeys, and barrows clogging the street already lay in shadow.

  There’d been a time long ago, in the days when Henry VIII seized this area along with the convent gardens to the south that became known as Covent Garden, that Long Acre had been a simple lane cutting across fields and pastureland belonging to Westminster Abbey. Building here didn’t begin in earnest until the arrival of the Stuarts. For a while, the district had been prosperous and fashionable, but the street was now given over to coach makers, wainwrights, upholsterers, and cabinetmakers. Sebastian suspected it would be difficult for any of these businesses to sustain a three-thousand-guinea loss to a spoiled, arrogant marquis’s son who viewed tradesmen’s bills as impertinent insults unworthy of payment or even notice.

  McCay & Sons, Fine Furniture Emporium, sprawled across a row of three old brick houses on the corner of Long Acre and Cross Lane that probably dated back to the days of Charles I. It was an impressive establishment that included, besides the front showroom, or “ForeWare Room,” a “glass room” for mirrors, a joinery shop, a marble hall, a chair-making workshop, an upholstery room, and a gilding room. When Sebastian pushed open the showroom door, a bell jingled, and a dark-haired young woman who’d been reading a newspaper spread out atop an elegant rosewood chest straightened and turned toward him with a welcoming smile. “May I help you?”

  Sebast
ian handed her his card. “I’m looking for Lawrence McCay. Is he in?”

  She fingered the card, her smile fading as she read it. But then, given the establishment’s recent experience with Ashworth, Sebastian supposed a certain amount of hostility toward a random viscount was to be expected. “I’m sorry; he’s just stepped out.” She paused, then repeated with a marked reduction in enthusiasm, “May I help you?”

  Sebastian let his gaze drift around the nearly empty showroom. From the looks of things, Ashworth’s default had forced McCay to sell much of his display stock to stay afloat and pay the tradesmen who worked for him. “I understand Viscount Ashworth was one of your customers.”

  She shifted to stand behind the chest, as if she felt the need to put some sort of barrier between them. She was an attractive woman probably in her early twenties, built small but strong, with a square chin, short nose, and shrewd brown eyes narrowed with hostile suspicion. “Why are you here asking about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know.” She nodded to the open newspaper. “I was just reading about his murder.”

  “Oh? How much detail do they go into?”

  “A great deal. Is it true? Was he really found tied to his bed and hacked to death?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  She gave a curt nod of approval. “Good. I hope he suffered. Maybe he even thought about the way he cheated us as he lay dying—although I doubt it.”

  Sebastian studied her pretty, hard-set face. Nothing missish about this young woman. “I understand he owed Lawrence McCay money.”

  “He did. More than three thousand guineas.” She shook back her hair. “What do you think our chances of recovering it from his heirs are?”

  “From what I’m hearing, they can’t be worse than your odds of recovering such a sum from Ashworth himself.”

  A succession of emotions chased one another across her features, comprehension and chagrin followed instantly by fear as she realized that Lawrence McCay made an obvious suspect and that the bluntness of her speech had not been wise.