The Birth of Blue Satan by Patricia Wynn

he was not wounded until this evening, if not myself?”
    Tom grunted. “Then what are ye blatherin’ about?”
    “Because, imbécile —” Philippe gave him an impatient sniff— “it is these gentlemen who must believe, not you—and not me!”
    “Well, I’ll tell ‘em. Just as soon as you get his lordship tooken care of.”
    The dubious look on Philippe’s face caused Tom’s stomach to flip.
    “I hope, mon cher Thomas, that your word will be enough.” The Frenchman shook his head. “I hope your English law will believe two servants of monsieur le vicomte . In my country, they would not.”
    “Then it’s a damn good thing this is England,” Tom growled, but the Frenchy’s comment had unnerved him. What if he was not believed? No English jury would believe a Frenchman—the French were known to be liars. And no one else could swear to the fact that Lord St. Mars had been wounded in the street except his groom, who was known to love him.
    A slower man than Tom might have worried that the words of a servant willing to die for his master would carry little weight. What if the justice of the peace already believed Lord St. Mars had killed his father?
    But no—they couldn’t hang a peer on only one man’s supposition. It was a worry, though, to think that St. Mars would be bothered with such foolishness when he was ill and grieving.
    If only he had done as Master Gideon had ordered and pursued the attacker, he would have had his proof. But he had not. And his master was too delirious now to tell him what he should do.
     

     
    By the second day after the ball, all of London had been stunned by the news of Lord Hawkhurst’s murder. Knowing of the rumours about Isabella and Lord St. Mars, ladies who had seldom visited Mrs. Mayfield paid evening calls on her in the hopes of gleaning gossip for their friends. Not even the news that Niccolini had returned to the opera, the rumblings from Parliament, or fears of the Pretender could eclipse such a shocking event in their midst.
    More than once that next week, Mrs. Mayfield had the tea table set out in the withdrawing room. She had bought it in a moment of riotous indulgence after her last successful round at the bassett tables. The tiny tea dishes had come all the way from China, as had the tea, which cost more than the household budget could spare. But for once Hester had more on her mind than their precarious finances.
    From each visitor they learned a bit more. That St. Mars had been carried into his house in a raging fever. That Sir Harrowby’s personal physician had been called to attend him. That his lordship’s condition was very grave.
    The round tea table only seated five with comfort, so during these visits Hester occupied a chair against the wall, using the time to ply her needle. Her aunt hardly wanted her to indulge in the expensive tea, so her work became her aunt’s excuse for excluding her from the treat. As annoying as this was, it did give Hester a chance to observe the ladies’ faces without being observed herself.
    It never took long for visitors to begin speculating about St. Mars. Today, Lady Dimsborough stunned them with news she had learned from her husband.
    “They say that the magistrate from Kent has grown tired with waiting for Lord St. Mars to recover, and that he has set two constables to guard Hawkhurst House.”
    Hester’s hand froze. For a moment none of ladies responded. She could see the tension in her aunt’s back.
    “What does he want to speak to St. Mars about?” Mrs. Mayfield asked.
    “According to my husband, Sir Joshua has some questions concerning the argument he had with his father the morning Lord Hawkhurst was killed.”
    “Does anyone know the subject of their quarrel?”
    Two of the ladies exchanged embarrassed glances.
    “There have been rumours,” Lady Dimsborough replied with a glance at Isabella, “but I hate to repeat them. They may be false. All I can say is that Dimsborough always did say that the