Page 73 of A Stolen Heart

SEBASTIAN CAME TO ALEXANDRA’S house the following afternoon to take her to call on the Honorable Bertram Chesterfield. Alexandra could not help but be a little on edge. She had not been alone with Sebastian since the morning he had brought her home. Of course, seeing him the night before at the opera had lessened some of the awkwardness inherent in the situation, but they had been surrounded by people there, even when they were walking together along the hall. Here she was enclosed in the small space of the carriage with him, an enforced intimacy. She could not help but think of the way she had acted the other night in this carriage, the passion she had felt and Sebastian’s rebuffing of her. She supposed that his actions had been those of a gentleman, but, frankly, she would rather that they had been those of a man in the throes of desire.

She could not meet his eyes.

“Miss Ward…Alexandra…”

“Do you think that we will discover anything useful today?” she asked brightly to forestall whatever he was going to say. His voice had a deadly serious tone that she sensed boded ill. She did not want to hear any sympathy from Sebastian about her mother’s mental state, nor any further rehashing of his reasons for rejecting her.

He paused, then sighed and followed her lead, “I dare say not. I have never known Bertie Chesterfield to say anything useful before.”

They continued to talk of trivial commonplaces until the carriage pulled up in front of Mr. Chesterfield’s narrow town house.

It was something of a shock to Alexandra to walk into Chesterfield’s drawing room. Because he was a contemporary of her parents, she had expected a man who dressed and looked like most men his age—sober, perhaps a little old-fashioned, maybe even sporting a wig or formal knee britches. Instead, the ginger-haired man who rose and came toward them was on the cutting edge of fashion—beyond it, one might even say.

His waistcoat was puce, his collar points so high and starched that he could barely turn his head, and his snowy cravat was an intricate tangle of cloth that must have taken his valet half an hour to achieve. Though his form was rather short and squat, he wore skintight breeches designed to show the muscular leg of a man like Sebastian. Unfortunately, what they showed of Chesterfield was every bulge and roll of fat. A large flower decorated the buttonhole of his lapel. His hair, an improbable shade of orange, was combed carefully over the balding front of his head.

“Thorpe, dear chap,” he said in a cheerful tone, reaching out to shake Sebastian’s hand. “It’s been an age since I saw you last. That curricle race of Crimshaw’s, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. I am not a fan of curricle races.”

“Indeed?” Chesterfield looked faintly surprised that such a man could exist. “You always were an odd sort. All those years in the Caribbean, I suppose.”

“India.”

“Was it? Are you sure? Well, now, isn’t that amazing? I would have sworn it was one of those islands. Ah, well. Delighted to see you anyway.” He glanced toward Alexandra, frowning.

Thorpe politely introduced her as a friend of the Countess of Exmoor. Chesterfield spent several minutes extolling the virtues of the Countess before he pressed them to sit down.

“We have come to ask you about those days in Paris during the revolution.”

Chesterfield looked surprised. “I say. That was an eon ago.” He chuckled. “Can’t think what you young people would want to know about such an old event. World’s completely changed since then. Yes, passing of an era.” He nodded as if in agreement with his statement.

“It is really for the Countess that we are asking. You see, some question has arisen about her grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren! What—you mean the ones who were killed then?”

“Exactly,” Alexandra said. “There may be some question, you see, as to whether all of them actually died.”

“Died! Well, of course they did,” he responded bluffly. “Saw it with my own eyes.”

“Could you tell us exactly what you saw happen to Chilton and his family that day—moment by moment?” Sebastian asked. “It’s rather important.”

Though he feigned reluctance, Bertie Chesterfield launched into his story easily enough. “It was evening, you see, just turning dark. The mob came pouring down the street. I was across the way, staying with Lord and Lady Brookstone. They’d rented a house there, you see—didn’t know something like this would happen, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Nice neighborhood, but mostly rented houses. That’s why Chilton was there. They’d taken the house so she could be near her mother—Lady Chilton, I mean, the French gal—” He paused, suddenly struck by something, and peered at Alexandra. “I say, you look a rather lot like Lady Chilton. I thought you seemed familiar.”

“I may be related to her,” Alexandra told him. “That is why it’s so important that we find out exactly what happened that day.”

“By Jove.” He gazed at her for a moment in wonderment.

“You were saying that Lord Chilton had leased the house.”

“Yes. Well, the mob came pouring down the street, carrying torches and shouting. They were after blood. They tried to beat down our door, but we had good English servants, and we barricaded ourselves in. Across the street it was a different story. Poor Chilton came out and tried to tell them that he was English, but then his in-laws said something in French, and they knew they were Frogs. They went wild, shouting about the aristocrats and how they must die. Pulled Chilton and his lady right out amongst them and killed them. Parents, too. Then they stormed into the house, and when they were done, they set it afire.”

“So you actually saw Lord and Lady Chilton killed?”

“My, yes—gruesome sight, I must say. Although I never held with his marrying a Frenchwoman.”