“That is...sort of accurate, yes,” he admitted ruefully. “The records are unusually messy, with no names noted, but we know it was sunk off the coast of Puerto Rico generations ago in the hope it could not be unlocked.”
“But then Jianwei found it by astral walking on the ocean floor,” Jade said.
“He did not unlock it that way,” Sebastian said. “The relics all have their keys, yes? The brooch’s key is theft and murder together—it must be stolen while someone is dying at someone else’s hand.”
“Charming,” Jade said dryly. “But then, it seems all the relics were made with murder, so none of them are exactly charming trinkets. So someone sank the brooch to the bottom of the ocean in the hopes that no one would be murdered near it?”
“And that the brooch could not be stolen if no one owned it.”
“But then Baron Zeppler stole it from Zhang, and murdered one of their family friends while doing it. So that’s how he unlocked it by accident.” Jade looked pensive. “There was more than one murder at that French country estate where Baron Zeppler was in May. Could Mercier have been there and somehow stolen the brooch from Zeppler, and be using its magic to commit these murders?”
“The brooch would make Mercier’s fire magic much stronger, but I don’t see how it could give him the power to kill like this,” said Sebastian. “What if Lord Blanshard was the one who stole the brooch?”
“Then which one of them was in the alley last night?”
Zhang suddenly opened his eyes. “I saw the body.” He’d gone too pale. “It’s hard to tell, but there may have been burns on her arms. Everything is shriveled, including the heart.”
What a terrible crime. “Did you get her name?” Sebastian asked.
“Olive Reilly,” said Zhang.
Oh no. Sebastian buried his face in his hands.
“Did you know her?” Jade said gently.
He nodded into his hands. “She had the room under Molly. We only spoke a few times, but she was very sweet. She did not deserve to meet an end like this.” He’d need to send a telegram to Molly and Isabel; they were going to be crushed.
“The poor thing.” Jade sighed, a frustrated sound. “What do we do now?”
“My mother has a friend in Limehouse,” said Zhang. “Not a paranormal, but used to be married to one, and still trades sometimes in paranormal books. We could pop in, see if they have any ideas.”
Jade and Zhang looked at Sebastian expectantly.
“Considering how things went with Lord Fine, it is probably best I do not meet any more of your friends, yes?” Sebastian said, trying for a lightness none of them felt. “I am going to go into the boarding house, see if I can learn anything more. A few of Molly’s friends think I’m her boyfriend. They might talk to me.”
“I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you,” Jade said sincerely.
Lord Fine wasn’t, Sebastian’s mind pointed out.Lord Fine wanted to call the police. And if Molly’s friends knew the truth about your past, they’d be as scared of you as he was. Your history will never rewrite itself, Sebastian; nothing you do will make you one of the heroes again.
Sebastian swallowed. There was a paranormal killer in London. Whatever his past, he had to do what he could to stop them.
Wesley spent the day chain-smoking in the study, trying and failing to distract himself with the newspaper and his own business. A useless effort; he couldn’t focus in the slightest on the registry of charities he’d requested from his solicitor, and the newspaper was full of sensationalized shouting about the ghastly murder of Lord Thornton’s scullery maid in Kilburn.
He didn’t return Jade’s call either, and it needled at him like a splinter, dismissing a lady’s request like that, especially a woman like Jade. He’d apologize when he had a case to present to her. Surely keeping her out of danger was more important than manners.
I know everything Sebastian did,Jade had said. I know more than you. I forgave him, and so did Arthur.
Balderdash. Of course Arthur hadn’t forgiven him. Jade must have been mistaken.
I swear to you that things are not what you think.
Of course it was what he thought. Everything was always exactly as bleak, and people as villainous and self-serving, as Wesley thought they were, and the only time he got it wrong was when he wasn’t pessimistic enough.
He glanced back down at the newspaper on his desk, and saw not black-and-white print, but shades of soft brown like the rolling hills of the Yorkshire moors, eyes the color of the autumn leaves of the ash trees on the dales.
Case in point: he had not been nearly pessimistic enough about how much his own libido would try to thwart his reasoned mind.
“My lord?”
