Where Serpents Sleep

by C. S. Harris

  It was when Sebastian was leaving the Crown and Thorn that he very nearly walked straight into the Earl of Hendon. Both father and son took a startled, awkward step back, and for one blazing moment their gazes met and held.

  They had encountered each other in this manner a dozen times or more over the past eight months. And each time Sebastian had felt the same shaking rush of anger and betrayal, the same brutal reminder of all he was trying to forget. He thought that, in time, he might be able to forgive Hendon for the lies, for the wretched coil Sebastian knew was not intentional, even if it was of Hendon’s making. But Sebastian wasn’t sure how he was ever going to forgive Hendon for the triumphant joy Sebastian had glimpsed in his father’s face the day Sebastian’s world had come crashing down around him.

  He was aware of the leap of hope in his father’s eyes. Saw, too, when hope faded into hurt. With painful politeness, Sebastian executed a short bow, said, “Good evening, sir,” and withdrew.

  Chapter 36

  Having bathed and exchanged her ruined burgundy carriage dress for a walking dress of soft fawn alpaca, Hero sallied forth again, this time to pay her long-delayed call on Rachel’s sister Lady Sewell.

  The former Georgina Fairchild had married a middle-aged baronet named Sir Anthony Sewell. Sewell was comfortably rather than excessively wealthy, his house on Hanover Square well appointed but modest. The match had surprised many, for Georgina Fairchild was both attractive and well dowered, yet she had contracted this unspectacular alliance just halfway through her first Season. Hero Jarvis was not the type of female to interest herself in such gossip and speculation, but she nevertheless found herself contemplating possible explanations as she followed Lady Sewell’s butler up the stairs to the Sewells’ drawing room.

  She discovered Lady Sewell already entertaining visitors. One, a flaxen-haired, plump-faced young woman in pink muslin, Hero recognized as Lady Jane Collins. She sat on a red damask sofa beside a sprightly older woman introduced to Hero as Miss More. Miss More was the well-known author of numerous bestselling tracts on Christian piety, and it soon became obvious to Hero that Lady Sewell, too, was something of an Evangelical.

  “We’ve just been discussing this dreadful new poem that has taken the ton by storm,” said Lady Jane, shaking her head and tut-tutting in a way one might expect of a woman thirty years older. “Shocking. Positively shocking.”

  Hero glanced at Lady Sewell. Tall and slim, wearing a high-necked crimson gown of figured muslin, she sat in a chair covered in the same red-and-gold-striped silk that hung at the windows. The room was dramatically yet tastefully done. The vibrant palette became its owner, for she was dark of hair and pale of skin, with exquisite high cheekbones and enormous green eyes. Except for the tall, slender nature of her build and those green eyes, there was nothing about this intense, self-contained woman to remind Hero of the frightened Cyprian she had met in Covent Garden.

  “Lady Jane is referring to Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, of course,” said Lady Sewell. “Have you read it, Miss Jarvis?”

  Hero was torn between her natural tendency for blunt honesty and the need not to alienate Rachel’s sister. Whatever she thought of the absurd posturing of Lord Byron himself, Hero found his poem both lyrically written and profoundly emotionally evocative. She compromised by simply saying, “I have read it, yes.”

  “The profane, too, have their place in God’s plan,” intoned Miss More with all the moral authority of a woman who’d spent the last thirty years of her life writing improving religious tracts. “They serve to confirm the truths they mean to oppose.”

  “Vice enhancing virtue by contrast?” said Hero drily.

  Miss More’s pinched lips stretched into a smile. “Exactly.”

  Hero suppressed the urge to shift restlessly in her striped silk chair. She could hardly bring up Rachel with the two Evangelical ladies present. Yet propriety limited Hero’s own visit to fifteen minutes. If they didn’t leave soon—

  As if on cue, Miss More and Lady Jane rose to their feet and, after reassuring themselves of Lady Sewell’s plans to attend the next meeting of the London Society for the Promotion of Christianity Among the Jews, took their leave. Hero waited until she heard their footsteps descending the stairs, then said, “I met your sister Rachel the other day.”

  Lady Sewell sat very still. “My sister?”

  Hero pushed on. “You are very different from each other, are you not?”

  Lady Sewell smoothed her skirt over her knee with a hand that was not quite steady. “That’s right. Rachel takes after our mother.”

  Hero studied the other woman’s composed features. Either Lady Sewell was an incredibly cold woman, or she had no idea where Hero was going. She said more gently, “You haven’t been told, have you?”

  “Been told? Been told what?”

  How did you tell a woman her little sister had been murdered? Hero had never been very good at this sort of thing. She said bluntly, “I’m sorry. Rachel is dead.”

  Lady Sewell’s mouth sagged open, then closed, the muscles jumping along her tight jaw. “There must be some mistake.”

  “I was with her when she died.” Hero leaned forward. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Lady Sewell rose very slowly and walked across the room to stare out the window, one hand clutching into a fist around the striped silk of the curtain at her side. Instead of answering, she said, “You say you were with Rachel when she died. When did this happen?”

  “Last Monday. At the Magdalene House.”

  Lady Sewell whirled to face her. “At the what?”

  “The Magdalene House. It was a refuge for women wishing to leave their life on the streets.”

  “I know what it was.” Hero watched as horror and disbelief flickered through those beautiful green eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Where did you think she’s been all this time?” said Hero. “You knew she wasn’t in Northamptonshire.”

  “I’d hoped . . .” Lady Sewell’s voice caught. She swallowed, her throat working convulsively. “You said you were with Rachel. What were you doing at this refuge?”

  “I’ve been conducting research for a bill to be introduced to Parliament. I’ve discovered that women tend to enter prostitution for two reasons. For some, it’s quite straightforward; they simply can’t earn enough money to stay alive any other way. The second reason is more complicated. It’s as if for some women life on the streets becomes a form of never-ending penance. It’s as if they see themselves as ruined and give up any hope of ever leading a respectable life.”

  Lady Sewell stood stiffly, her chest jerking with each convulsively indrawn breath.

  Hero pushed on. “If Rachel needed money or a refuge, surely she could have come to you. Couldn’t she?” When the woman remained silent, Hero said again, “Couldn’t she?”

  Lady Sewell reached out one hand to grip the back of a nearby chair.

  Hating herself for what she was doing, Hero said, “Why did your sister leave home?”

  Lady Sewell swallowed again, then shook her head and said in a hoarse whisper, “I don’t know. She was happy with her betrothal. At least, I thought she was.”

  “Did she quarrel with your father, perhaps?”

  Sudden fury flared in the other woman’s eyes, bringing a flush of hot color to her pale cheeks. “What do you mean by that?” She pushed away from the chair, then drew herself up short. “If you’re suggesting—” She broke off.

  Hero stared at the other woman in confusion. “Suggesting—what?”

  Lady Sewell brought one hand to her forehead in a distracted gesture and turned half away. “Why are you here? Asking these questions? Involving yourself in this?

  “Because your sister died in my arms. She was shot.”

  Rachel’s sister spun back around, all trace of color leaving her face again. “But . . . the Magdalene House burned.”

  “The fire at the Magdalene House wasn’t an accident. Those women were murdered, althou
gh because of what they were, no one seems to care.”

  For one telling moment, Lady Sewell’s gaze met hers, then wavered away. “I . . . I’d like to be alone now.”

  Hero rose to her feet. She discovered that her hands were tingling, and tightened her hold on the strings of her reticule. “If you’re interested, Rachel was buried by the Society of Friends, at their meetinghouse in Pentonville.”

  “Please, just . . . go.”

  Hero inclined her head and turned toward the door. Lady Sewell still stood tall and rigid beside the windows.

  But when Hero glanced back at the woman’s masklike face, she saw the glistening of silent tears.

  “There have been some developments,” said Epson-Smith, his voice pitched low.

  Jarvis swung his head to study the Colonel’s lean, sun-darkened features. “Not here.”

  They walked away from the turmoil of the reception area, into the lee of the portico. “Now what?” snapped Jarvis as the cool shadows of the coming evening closed around them.

  “The assailant who survived last night’s attack is dead.”

  “Did you learn anything from him?”

  “Unfortunately, he died before we could reach him.” Epson-Smith stared off across the courtyard entrance of the palace. “There’s more.”

  “What else?”

  “This afternoon, one of our men—Farley—was following Miss Jarvis when she met up with Lord Devlin. Farley . . . lost them.”

  Jarvis was silent long enough that a muscle jumped along the Colonel’s jaw. “Where did this happen?”

  “Near the Tower. Miss Jarvis initially encountered Devlin at the surgery of an Irishman, Paul Gibson. Farley trailed them from there to the church of St. Olave on Seething Lane.”

  “What? What on earth were they doing there?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I suspect it was merely a stratagem. When Farley followed them into the church, Devlin back-tracked and cut the cinch on Farley’s saddle. Our man didn’t catch up with them until some time later, at Bow Street.”

  “Bow Street?”

  “Yes, my lord. Sir William has been murdered. I’m afraid Miss Jarvis was there when the body was discovered.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Miss Jarvis?” The question seemed to surprise the Colonel. “Of course, my lord.”

  Out on Pall Mall, the new gas lamps had been lit, their flares feeble flickers just visible in the last gasps of daylight. “Your man’s an idiot,” said Jarvis.

  “Yes, sir. But I thought you should know that it is evidently Miss Jarvis’s intent to elude our protection.”

  Jarvis drew out his snuffbox and flipped it open with one expert flick of his finger. He didn’t look at Epson-Smith, although he was aware of the man beside him. Epson-Smith was coldly efficient and utterly ruthless. He didn’t usually fail. Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril, sniffed, and said, “I don’t care if you need to set a regiment to follow Miss Jarvis through the streets of London. This is not to happen again. Understood?”

  Something flickered in the other man’s eyes, then was gone. “Yes, sir. And Lord Devlin?”

  Jarvis snapped his snuffbox closed and turned back toward the Colonel. “I told you, I’ll deal with Devlin.”

  Chapter 37

  Sebastian was crossing Margaret Street, headed toward a meeting with Sir Henry at Queen Square, when he heard himself hailed by an impervious voice.

  “Lord Devlin.”

  Sebastian turned.

  Attired in evening dress and a silk-lined cape that fluttered open with each angry step, Lord Fairchild strode purposely toward him across New Palace Yard. “This must stop,” the Baron blustered as he came up to Sebastian. “Do you hear me, sir? It must stop.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Lord Fairchild’s face darkened to a hue somewhere between magenta and purple. “Don’t play me for a fool.” He spat the words out like bullets. “You know full well of what I speak.”

  “If you mean my investigation into the murder of your d—”

  Lord Fairchild made a low growling sound deep in his throat. “Not here, for God’s sake,” he snapped, drawing Sebastian farther up the pavement. “Is that what this is all about?” His voice dropped to an acid whisper. “Do you seek to damage me by attacking my daughter’s reputation?”

  “What this is about,” said Sebastian, his gaze searching the other man’s mottled, distorted features, “is justice. Justice for a murdered woman lying in an unmarked grave.”

  The Baron clenched his teeth together so tightly his jaw quivered. “My daughter is in Northamptonshire. You hear me? Northamptonshire. If you persist in insinuating otherwise, I swear to God, I’ll call you out for it.”

  Sebastian studied the beefy, red-faced lord before him. He thought about the short, tragic life of Rachel Fairchild, and about Lord Fairchild’s “fondness” for little girls, and he knew a revulsion so swift and profound it turned his stomach.

  Once, Sebastian had thought the link between father and child one of the closest bonds in nature, second only to that between a mother and her children. Sebastian’s relationship with his own father had never been an easy one; he’d always known he both baffled and disappointed Hendon. There had even been a time, in the dark days after the death of the last of Sebastian’s brothers, that Sebastian would have said Hendon hated him—hated him for living when Hendon’s other sons had died. Yet through it all, Hendon’s devotion to the preservation of his remaining son—and the pledge he represented to the future—had endured. Sebastian had always believed it must be so for all fathers. It was only in the past year that he had come to realize just how fragile—and secondary—paternal devotion could sometimes be.

  The bells of Westminster began to chime the hour, the melodious notes echoing out over the city. “I understand there’s an important debate this evening on the Orders in Council,” said Sebastian evenly. “You’re missing it.”

  Lord Fairchild opened his mouth and closed it, then swung away, his jaw held tight, his head thrust forward like a bull’s.

  Sebastian waited until the Baron had taken several strides before calling after him, “I hear you’re the one who discovered your wife’s body. How . . . tragic.”

  The Baron swung back around, his massive frame quivering with fury. “If you mean to insinuate—”

  “I insinuate nothing,” said Sebastian, and continued on his way to Queen Square.

  Sebastian shifted his weight against the booth’s unpadded back. “I’ve heard it said that the runoff from the gasworks is what’s killing the fish in the Thames.”

  Sir Henry brushed away the suggestion of pollution with an impatient hand. Apart from the law, the only other passion in the little magistrate’s life was science, and he brooked no criticism of it. “There are always naysayers.”

  Sebastian simply smiled and raised his coffee to his lips.

  Sir Henry cleared his throat. “I understand it was your misfortune to discover Sir William this afternoon. It’s why you’ve sought me out, isn’t it, and bought me this coffee?”