Sebastian let his head fall back, his gaze raking the top of the house. Feather-light streaks of black ash were still falling from out of the misty gray sky. But the flames had subsided, leaving the air thick with the pungent stench of wet, burned wood.
He tore off the cravat he’d shoved back down around his neck and used it to wipe his face. Six years in the army had given him a painful familiarity with gunpowder explosions. He had no doubt as to what he had just witnessed, just as he had no doubt that Alexandrie Sauvage had been the intended target. The blast had been sited directly beneath her rooms.
What kind of monster could without hesitation or remorse risk killing or maiming an entire house full of innocent men, women, and children, simply to murder one woman? Who would do something like that? And why?
He glanced back at Karmele’s body to see a young woman with a halo of dark red hair kneeling on the pavement beside her, one charred hand cradled in her lap, her head bowed as if in silent prayer. An empty market basket rested on the pavement beside her.
Sebastian walked up to her, not stopping until the toes of his Hessians nearly touched the worn, mossy green gown puddled on the debris-strewn pavement around her. He watched her stiffen, her gaze lifting slowly from his boots to his face.
“I thought you were dead,” he said.
She shook her head. “The cold, damp weather always makes Karmele’s rheumatism act up. I offered to go buy the bread this morning.”
He hunkered down beside her, his gaze hard on her face. “If you know anything—anything—that might explain who is doing this, or why, you must tell me.”
Her face was ashen pale, the sprinkle of cinnamon across the high bridge of her nose standing out stark as she lifted her gaze to the fire-blackened bricks of the roofline above them. “What makes you think this was directed at me? It could have been an accident.”
“This was no accident. It was a small charge of gunpowder deliberately staged in the rooms directly beneath yours. What do you know about the tenant on the floor below you?”
She shook her head. “Last I heard, the rooms were empty. There was an old widow—a Mrs. Goodman. But she died a week or so ago.”
She fell silent, her gaze coming to rest, again, on her woman.
He said softly, “Are you all right?”
She swallowed hard. “Yes.” But he knew what she was thinking, that this was all somehow, ultimately, her fault, that she had caused Karmele’s death.
He said, “How long ago did you leave the building?”
“Just minutes before the explosion. I was crossing Brewer Street when I heard it.”
“It’s possible you left right after the killer set the fuse. You didn’t notice anyone strange as you were leaving?”
“No.” She cast a quick, probing glance at the crowd of people milling about them. “Are you saying whoever did this could still be here?”
Sebastian let his own gaze drift around the rubble-strewn square, thronged now with gawkers. “Whoever lit that fuse would have wanted to be well away from the building itself before the powder blew. But I doubt he went far. He’d want to be here to see it—and to make certain nothing went awry.”
“But something did go awry,” she said, her voice a husky rasp. “I am still alive.”
He brought his gaze back to her face. “Why would someone want to kill you? Not Damion Pelletan, but you?”
“I do not know! Mother of God, you think I would not tell you if I did?”
He held her furious gaze for one long moment. “Yes.”
? ? ?
Jules Calhoun let out a pained sigh. “I may be able to salvage the buckskins, my lord,” he said. “But the coat and waistcoat are hopelessly ruined. And the cravat.”
“Sorry,” said Sebastian, pulling a clean shirt over his head.
“And your boots! I fear they may never be the same again.”
“If anyone can save them, you can.”
Calhoun made an inelegant noise deep in his throat.
Sebastian said, “When you were asking around Tichborne Street about Bullock, did anyone mention whether or not he had a military background?”
Calhoun looked up from the boots. “I don’t believe so, no. Why?”
“He has what looks like a scar from a saber slash across his cheek. I’d be interested to know if he spent some time in the army—and if so, with what sort of a unit.”
“You think Bullock could have set that gunpowder to explode?”
“I’d find it difficult to believe he has the requisite knowledge—unless there’s something in his background we don’t know about.”
Calhoun turned toward the door, the charred clothes held in one extended hand. “I’ll see what I can find, my lord.”
“Calhoun?”
The valet paused to look back at him.
“Be careful.”
? ? ?
The conviction that Alexandrie Sauvage was hiding something remained.
And so that afternoon Sebastian went to see one of the few people he knew in London who was familiar with her—and still alive.