by C. S. Harris
Sebastian laughed. “I’d have bought you a brandy but I know you don’t imbibe.”
A fervently devout man, Sir Henry had secret leanings toward the Reformist Church, although he generally kept his views to himself. Being anything other than High Church wasn’t good for one’s career. He said, “I take it you think this death is somehow linked to what happened at the Magdalene House on Monday.” The barest hint of a smile tugged the edges of the Queen Square magistrate’s mouth. “I know you have continued to involve yourself in the investigation.”
Sebastian took another sip of coffee. “It was my understanding there was no investigation.”
“Not officially. But according to Sir William’s clerk, Sir William was intrigued by what happened.”
Sebastian knew a flicker of surprise, although when he thought about it, he realized it made sense. By instructing Sir William to shut down any speculation about the fire, Lord Jarvis had obviously sparked the magistrate’s curiosity.
“Officially,” Lovejoy was saying, “the fire was just a fire. But Sir William was nevertheless pursuing a few discreet inquiries.”
“Obviously not discreet enough.”
“You think it’s why he was killed?”
“Yes.”
Sir Henry cleared his throat again. “It’s rather embarrassing, you know. Having the chief magistrate of Bow Street murdered in his own public office.”
“Is that why it’s been released that Sir William died of an apoplectic fit?”
“There will be rumors, of course. But then, there would have been rumors even if he had died of an apoplectic fit.”
“Very true.”
Lovejoy fixed him with an uncompromising stare. “Tell me about the Magdalene House fire.”
Sebastian gave the magistrate a carefully edited version of what he had so far discovered. He left out all mention of Russian sables and Irish thieves, but the tale he wove was still sordid—and utterly inconclusive. In the end, the magistrate removed his wire-framed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It is all rather complicated. It’s as if it goes off in six different directions at once.”
Sebastian said, “I’m obviously missing something. Something important.”
Sir Henry fit his glasses back on his face and cleared his throat again. “I’ve been offered the position of Bow Street magistrate.”
Sebastian raised one eyebrow. “Congratulations.”
“It is an honor, of course. I wouldn’t be chief magistrate—Sir James will replace Sir William in that capacity. But . . . well, if truth were told, I suspect I might somewhat miss Queen Square.”
“So you haven’t decided yet whether or not to accept?”
“No. The prestige means nothing to me. But . . .” The magistrate hesitated, and Sebastian knew he was remembering certain incidents in the past, when Bow Street had interfered in Sir Henry’s own investigations in a high-handed and contemptuous manner.
“It is tempting,” said Sebastian.
“Yes.”
The door to the coffee shop swung inward to admit another customer, who brought with him the smell of coming rain and a great gust of wind that snuffed out three of the gas lamps on the nearest wall.
“The fault’s in the design of the gas jets,” said Sir Henry as the proprietor bustled forward with a taper to relight them. “With a better design that wouldn’t have happened.” When Sebastian remained silent, he added, “Imagine the reduction in crime the city will experience once every street is illuminated by gas.”
“As long as there’s no wind,” said Sebastian.
“I tell you, the fault’s in the design of the jets,” insisted Sir Henry.
But Sebastian only laughed.
Chapter 38
That evening shortly before dinner, Hero was working in the library when her father entered the room. Lord Jarvis rarely dined at his own home. Looking up, she had little doubt as to why he was here, now.
He stared at the books she had scattered across the library table and frowned. “What is all this?”
Hero laid down her pen and sat back. “Some research I’m doing.”
Lord Jarvis grunted. “Why can’t you arrange flowers and embroider seat covers like other women?”
“Because I’m your daughter,” she said, gathering the books into a neat stack.
He didn’t even smile. Pressing both hands flat on the tabletop, he leaned into them, his gaze hard on her face. “What exactly is Devlin’s interest in the deaths of the Magdalene House women?”
Hero stared up at him without flinching. His lackey had obviously wasted no time reporting back to him. “The same as mine. To see justice done.”
Pushing away from the table, he swiped one big hand through the air, like someone brushing aside an annoying gnat. “There is no justice in this world. There are only the strong and the weak. Those women were weak.”
“Which is why it is the obligation of the strong to fight for them.”
Lord Jarvis let out his breath in a scornful huff. “I told you I would deal with those responsible.”
Hero pushed to her feet. “Because of me. Not because of them.”
“What difference does that make?”
She found herself oddly reluctant to explain to him the effect her meeting with Rachel Fairchild had had upon her, or the guilt that drove her to try to understand what had gone wrong in the young woman’s life. She said instead, “Has your Colonel Epson-Smith discovered those responsible?”
“Not yet. But he will.” He turned away to pour himself a glass of brandy. “You broke our agreement. You went to Bow Street.”
“On a slightly different errand. You heard Sir William is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he was involved with one of the women killed?”
Jarvis looked over at her. “Who told you that? Devlin?”
“No. Someone else.”
Jarvis grunted. “You brought Devlin into this?”
“Yes.”
“How much does he know?” he asked, decanter in hand.
“You mean, does he know I was at the Magdalene House when it was attacked? Yes.”
Lord Jarvis poured himself a measure of brandy, then replaced the stopper in the decanter and set it aside without looking at her. She knew he was choosing his words carefully. “Devlin wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you to get at me. You know that, don’t you?”
She chose her words with equal care. “I know he is your enemy. But I do not believe he would hurt me to get at you. He’s not”—she started to say, like you, then changed it to—“like that.”
She expected him to laugh at her again. Instead, he merely looked thoughtful. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze turned now to study her face in a way that made her uncomfortable. He said, “Why Devlin?”
Because he’s the one man in this country who isn’t afraid of you, she thought. But again, she didn’t say it. She said, “He has achieved good results in the past, in similar situations.”
“And did you ask yourself why he agreed to help?”
“I know why he agreed. To get back at you.”
“Yet you say he wouldn’t hurt you.”
“That’s right.”
He went to sit in one of the upholstered chairs near the empty hearth, his glass cradled in his palm. “I set Farley to follow you this afternoon for your own protection. You knew that. Yet you evaded him. Why?”
“I know something of your Colonel’s methods. The last thing I would ever want to do is unwittingly furnish him with a few more hapless victims.”
Lord Jarvis pressed his lips together in a frown. “That’s not the intent here.”
She met his gaze squarely. “It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”
He glared right back at her. “And your exposing yourself to danger is a risk I’m not willing to take.”
“Papa.” She went to lean over the back of his chair, her arms looped around his neck. “I was never in any danger this afternoon
and you know it.”
He brought up one of his big hands to cover hers. With anyone else, he would have been overbearing and coldly threatening, but he’d learned long ago that didn’t work with Hero. She was too much like him. He said, “Where did you go this afternoon?”
“To meet a woman I hoped would help me make some sense of what happened at the Magdalene House.”
He took a long swallow of his brandy. “With Devlin?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose it’s better than going on your own.” He shifted his hand to lightly grasp her wrist and tug her around so that he could see her face. “Finding out about this woman is so important to you?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”
“I know.”
He hesitated, and she knew again the fear that he would forbid her to continue her inquiries. But all he said was, “I would ask you to be careful.”
“I will. I promise.”
He nodded. “You are unusually sensible for a woman . . . however ill advised your political ideas are.”
She knew he had said it to provoke her. But she only smiled and refused to rise to the bait.
“My goodness,” gasped Lady Jarvis, shrinking back in a cloud of pale azure satin as the boy slammed right into Hero.
“You there,” shouted the butler, starting forward, “watch where you’re going.”
But the boy was already off, feet flying, one hand held up to clamp his cap to his head as he disappeared around the corner.
“Brazen guttersnipes,” muttered Grisham, staring after him. “Whatever is the world coming to? I trust you suffered no harm, Miss Jarvis?”
“I’m fine,” said Hero, the folded missive slipped her by the boy carefully tucked out of sight.
Chapter 39
FRIDAY, 8 MAY 1812
“I sincerely hope so,” said Hero, then prudently whisked herself out of the room to avoid being sucked into an old and well-worn argument.
She evaded the watchdog set by her father simply by descending into the kitchens to confer with the housekeeper and then slipping out by the area steps. Walking briskly to the corner of Davies Street, she caught a hackney and directed the driver to Number 41 Brook Street.
It was most unseemly for a young unmarried woman to visit the house of an unmarried gentleman—particularly without her maid. Hero had given the situation considerable thought, but in the end decided there was no avoiding it. She had promised her father she would not put herself in danger, and Hero Jarvis kept her promises. Her major concern was that she might find Lord Devlin already gone from home.
Paying off the hackney, she rang an imperious peal on the Viscount’s door. It was opened almost at once by a military-looking majordomo who regarded her with unconcealed suspicion.
“Pray inform Lord Devlin that I am here to see him,” she said loftily.
“And whom shall I say is calling?”
“My good man,” said Hero at her most condescending, “if I wanted you to know my name, I would have given it to you.”
The majordomo hesitated. Fear of giving offense to a veiled noblewoman warred with the horror of ushering some grasping harpy into his master’s presence. Fear of giving offense won. He bowed and let her in. “One moment while I see if his lordship is receiving.”
He achieved a measure of revenge by leaving her in the hall rather than ushering her into a receiving room. He returned in a moment, his face giving nothing away, to lead her upstairs to the drawing room. “Tea will arrive shortly,” drawled the majordomo, and withdrew.
Pushing back her veil, Hero prowled the room. She studied the curious, intricately incised brass platter on one wall, the carved wooden head that looked as if it had come from Africa on another. A tea tray arrived along with a plate of bread and butter, but she ignored it, her attention caught by a painting over the mantel. It was by Gainsborough, of a laughing young woman with unpowdered golden hair and a braid-trimmed riding costume in the style of the last century. Hero could trace the resemblance to the Viscount in the flare of the woman’s cheekbones, the curve of the lips. So this was Devlin’s mother, Hero thought. They still talked about the long-dead Countess of Hendon in scandalized whispers.
She was so absorbed in her study of the painting that she failed to hear the door open behind her.
“I suspected it was you,” said an amused voice, “from my majordomo’s description. I don’t know that many tall, haughty gentlewomen with the manner of a Turkish pasha.”
She swung to face him. “I don’t know any Turkish pashas.”
“Which is probably a good thing,” he said, leaving the door open behind him. “They like their women obsequious and agreeable.”
“Like most Englishmen.”
“Like most men,” he agreed, advancing into the room.
He was dressed in doeskin breeches and a well-tailored dark coat, but his hair still curled damply away from his face. She said, “I’ve caught you at your bath.”
“Actually, you caught me still abed.” He glanced at the tea, which she hadn’t touched. “Join me?” he asked, pouring a cup.
She took it from his outstretched hand. “You haven’t asked why I’m here.”
He poured himself a cup and lifted one of the pieces of buttered bread from the plate. “I have no doubt it is your intention to enlighten me.”
He had a nearly limitless capacity for irritating her, and it did no good to remind herself that he provoked her intentionally. The urge to simply set down her tea and leave was overcome with difficulty; a promise was a promise. She said, “I’ve received a note from Tasmin Poole. A boy passed it to me as I was about to enter my carriage last night.”
He selected another slice of buttered bread. “She has located the missing Hannah Green?”
“So it seems. The woman is hiding in a cottage just off Strand Lane, and she has agreed to meet me there.”
The Viscount swallowed his bread and took a sip of tea. “You’re suspicious. Why?”
“I am to go there at midday with only one servant to accompany me. According to the note, these precautions are necessary because Hannah Green is frightened. I believe the note to be genuine, but I am aware of the possibility that it could be a trap.”
“It certainly sounds like one to me.”
“Yet if it’s not and I fail to go, the chance to meet Hannah Green will be lost.”
He reached for another slice of bread. “Are you certain you don’t want some of this?” he asked, nudging the plate toward her. “It’s really quite good.”
“Thank you, but I breakfasted hours ago.”
“Is that an insult? I wonder.”
“Yes.”
He laughed and finished the last of the bread. “I think I begin to understand. If you were anyone else, I might assume you had come to ask for my advice. On the strength of our limited acquaintance, however, I suspect you have already made up your mind to go and have simply come here to request that I accompany you”—his gaze took in her riding costume—“posing, I take it, as your groom?”