“Do you know the truth of what happened that night?” Edward asks.
Madame Severin pensively looks away; clearly the recollection is painful for her. Candlelight softly flickers on the precise and elegant planes of her face. The candle has burned well past the mark that Arlington made upon it.
“First,” Madame Severin begins, “you must know that Henriette-Anne was very unhappy in her marriage. The duc never loved her, as he could never love any woman. He flaunted his male favorites in front of her, in front of the entire court. Not only he but they treated her scandalously. The duc was jealous of the princess’s intimacy with his brother King Louis and sought to keep her his servant and slave. He had relations with her only to produce heirs; what should have been an act of love was instead an act of violence he used to control her. Before she was to go to Dover to be reunited with her brother, your king, the duc forced himself on her with the sole purpose of making her with child so that she would not be allowed to travel.
“She had only just realized her condition when King Louis granted her leave to visit the brother she had not seen in ten years. I was her sole confidante, and I helped her to conceal it. She felt unwell during the entire trip. King Charles asked Dr. Briscoe to attend to her, but the princess was careful to hide her pregnancy even from him. When we returned home, she vowed never to have another of the duc’s children. She asked me to procure for her those remedies that would bring on the terms.”
Madame Severin falls silent. She dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief; within its gossamer silk folds a tiny glint of silver sparkles as the candlelight catches a jeweled band on her finger. In spite of her efforts, two shining, crystalline tears slowly roll down her cheeks. Hannah finds herself captivated by them, and moved by a sympathy for Madame Severin that she would never have imagined she could feel.
“You gave this medicine to her?” Hannah asks.
“No. I did as she asked, but I hid it from her. I was afraid of what might happen to us if the duc or the king found out. We argued fiercely, and I thought that I had convinced her to carry the child despite her feelings for her husband. But she discovered where I hid the medicine and unwittingly took a deadly dose. Only a few hours later she was in unbearable agony, and the doctors could do nothing to save her.” She looks at Edward. “As you well know.”
So the Princess Henriette-Anne had taken her own life. Self-murder is a mortal sin, and the souls of those who commit it are believed to burn in Hell for eternity. The stigma of it would forever darken her name.
“Now you know why the king should like the truth of his sister’s death kept secret,” Arlington says. “He will not allow her memory to be tarnished by scandal. You have been told this in the strictest confidence. If you reveal what you have learnt to another living soul you will end up in the Tower, make no mistake.”
“But Madame Severin’s account begs a question, Lord Arlington,” Edward says. “If my uncle and the others were not killed to conceal the murder of the princess, then why, in fact, were they killed?”
“I have no idea. But even if I knew, Dr. Strathern, I would not be obliged to tell you.”
“But we are determined to bring this man to justice,” Edward says.
“You would do well to remember that there’s only one justice in this country, and that’s the king’s justice.”
“You could at least tell us who else is privy to this secret,” Hannah says. “Perhaps they will have the knowledge we seek.”
Arlington glances at Madame Severin as if seeking her opinion, or perhaps approval. Her tears have dried, and her face is once again set in an attitude of self-regarding hauteur. The minister appears to mull over Hannah’s request and come to a decision. “There’s only one other I am certain of,” he tells them. “Ralph Montagu.”
“Montagu!” Edward nearly spits out the name. “Of course, he was in Paris at that time. And where might we find him?”
“I thought that perhaps Mrs. Devlin would know,” Arlington replies in an insinuating tone, one eyebrow raised.
“How dare you.” Edward lunges at the minister.
Hannah grabs his arm. “Edward, please.” She addresses Arlington. “I have not seen Mr. Montagu since the night of the king’s dance. Do you not know where he is?”
“I have not seen or heard from him since his return from Paris last week. I assume he’s holed up with some doxy in the rooms he keeps near Newgate Market. Or perhaps he’s been dispatched like the others.” He eyes them suspiciously.
“You can’t imagine that we have anything to do with it,” Edward says.
“I have not made up my mind about anything, Dr. Strathern. But I do expect that both of you will stop meddling in this matter. The king has asked the Duke of York to oversee an inquiry into the murders.” Arlington sighs and scowls. “Which I’m sure he will do, in those rare moments when he is not occupied with his new mistress, Jane Constable.”
“Jane Constable?” Hannah repeats, unable to conceal her surprise. She looks at Madame Severin, whose composed expression changes not a whit. “Since when—”
“You have not heard?” Arlington inquires calmly, almost breezily. “She is to bear his child.” He looks at Hannah as if daring her to refute him. Madame Severin wears an enigmatic, almost imperceptible, smile.
“The duke’s child? But—”
“Yes, felicitations are in order,” Arlington interrupts again. “Unhappily you will not be able to deliver them yourself. As of tonight, Mrs. Devlin, your presence is no longer required at court.”
Chapter Forty-two
EDWARD’S COACH RATTLES along London’s dark, rutted streets. The tapers have been replaced, and they shed a warm, pungent light on the carriage’s lacquered walls and satiny brocade seats. Hannah settles back with a sigh. Their meeting with Arlington has left her exhausted.
Edward looks at her with concern. “You seem far away.”
She shakes her head. “No. I am only thinking on this strange affair of Jane Constable.”
“Who is she?”
“A maid to the late Duchess of York. A while ago she asked for my help, the kind of help only a physician or an apothecary could give her. She was with child, and desperate. She said the father would not marry her.”
“That’s not surprising, surely. I don’t imagine that the Duke of York intends to take a commoner as his second wife.”
“But I do not believe that the Duke of York is the father of her child. I am quite certain she would not have sought me out if he were. I remember clearly a remark she made about how only the king’s mistresses are allowed to have bastards, who are then made dukes. Something that is equally true for the Duke of York’s mistresses.”
“You think that this maid has somehow tricked the duke into believing the child his own?”
“With Severin’s and Arlington’s assistance, I am sure. At the dance, Madame Severin told me to forget Jane Constable entirely—she implied that the girl had been mistaken, and wasn’t with child after all. I didn’t believe her; I thought instead that Severin was going to procure a remedy for Jane. Although I was concerned for her, I must admit that I felt some relief to be left out of it.” She pauses, her brow wrinkling. “Strange, that what I thought the madame had done for Jane she had actually done for Henriette-Anne. And with such terrible consequences.” She shakes her head sadly. “If Arlington and Severin have convinced the Duke of York that Jane Constable bears his child, when the child is born he will acknowledge it and it will be made a duke, or a duchess. Jane and the child will be forever in their debt. It is nothing more than a political ploy, meant to extend their power.” She remembers her unsettling dream of Arlington and Severin looming over the courtiers on the dance floor. “They move everyone about as if they were pawns. Even us, though you would think we were not so important.”
Something tugs at her memory, a tiny, glimmering thing, something she knows is meaningful. Something to do with Madame Severin. Hannah recollects their earlier encounter: Severin
dabbed at her eyes, Hannah saw a glint of light, and then the tears. All at once she understands what she saw. The audaciousness of it makes her gasp.
“She was lying,” Hannah declares.
“Who?”
“Madame Severin. The story she told about Henriette-Anne was entirely false.”
“Not entirely, surely. I think we can be certain that the princess was poisoned.”
Hannah leans forward with passionate conviction. “But she’s lying about all the rest. It did not happen as she said.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“Her tears. She wiped her eyes and then there were tears on her cheeks. There was something, a small flagon, I think, concealed in her handkerchief. She put water in her eyes. She faked her tears.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, completely,” she says, amazed. “They’re trying to lead us astray. I do not think we can credit her story at all. Which means it’s still possible that Madame Severin is exactly as I thought: not to be trusted and very dangerous. What’s more, they intend for us to believe that Ralph Montagu is involved—perhaps even that he is the murderer.”
Edward’s expression darkens. “Or they know it to be Ralph Montagu.”
“You are quick to believe in that gentleman’s culpability.”
“Gentleman,” he scoffs. “He does not deserve to be so called.”
“Why are you so eager to believe the worst of him?”
“Because he is nothing but a rogue with pleasant manners.”
“That does not make him a murderer,” she points out.
“As ambassador, Montagu was intimately involved with the French court. A more scheming band of cutthroats is not to be found anywhere on the face of this earth. The French make the goings-on at Whitehall look like child’s play.”
“So he is to be condemned by association? You have said nothing so far that has convinced me of his guilt.”
“I have not had the opportunity,” he protests. “There are any number of reasons why someone like Montagu would be involved in this affair. He is perennially short of money and seems willing to stoop to the basest means in order to get it. Because of his position, he was well acquainted with the princess. Some said very intimately acquainted. Perhaps it was he who the Chevalier de Lorraine paid to place the poison in her cup.”
“And since then he has murdered everyone who knows or suspects him of this dreadful crime?”
“Precisely.”
“There is a flaw in your logic. My father was killed over a year ago. Ralph Montagu did not return from France until a few months ago.”
“Perhaps he did not return to stay; but that does not mean he was not in London when your father was murdered. As ambassador, I expect he often traveled between here and Paris. Indeed, I am certain that with little effort we could make a connection between Mr. Montagu and every one of the four men who were killed.”
Hannah’s face flushes with anger. “You are ready to attribute to Mr. Montagu every evil for reasons I believe have little to do with your philosophical principles. He is a charming man, with many attractions to his person, and I am willing to believe that there may be some indiscretion in his past attachments. But a murderer? If you knew him as well as I do you would know this to be impossible.”
Edward’s eyes smolder with resentment. “Exactly how well do you know him?”
She rings the coachman’s bell with a sharp pull on a braided rope, and the carriage comes to a halt. “I shall walk from here,” she says brusquely, gathering her skirts and pushing the door open.
“You don’t even know where we are!”
“It doesn’t matter. I know how to find my way home.” Hannah steps down to the street, slamming the door behind her, furious and confused. She can’t recall ever being so angry that she’s walked out on someone before. She stops to get her bearings—Portsmouth Street is only a few blocks to the south—and realizes that the coach remains in the street behind her. She hears the door open and shut again, hears Edward’s footsteps quickly approaching. She ducks into a narrow alley lined with brick buildings. It’s so dark that she can barely see two steps ahead.
“Hannah!” Edward calls. “Wait, please.”
She turns to face him. He’s a shadowy silhouette outlined in the faint orange glow from the coach lanterns.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “The last thing I want to do is to offend you.”
“You had no right to say that.”
“I know. Please forgive me.” He moves so close that she can feel his chest rising and falling, each warm breath grazing her forehead before it dissipates into the star-filled sky. “And allow me to take you home. This is no place for you to be walking alone.”
He’s right—these murky, deserted alleys near Lincoln’s Inn Fields are unsafe, especially on a moonless night, but neither of them makes a move to return to the carriage. They look into each other’s eyes, and neither seems able to break away. It feels like the first time they’ve truly been alone. Perhaps it’s the engulfing darkness of this place, its forlorn silence, but as Hannah gazes at Edward she feels as if they are the only two people in the world. Everyone else is a figment, a shade, a fleeting ghost. The world itself is, perhaps, imaginary. Only they are real and warm and alive. She fights an overwhelming longing to touch his face; the obstacles that divide them are too great. Edward is engaged, he is an aristocrat, he cannot marry her—all of this should persuade her to put her feelings aside. And yet she finds herself wishing, Just this once. If only I could have him just this once.
“Hannah,” Edward says. In his voice she hears both a plea and a confession. “I cannot deny my feelings for you.”
“Though you should.”
“I do not know anymore what I should or should not do—I only know what I want.” His eyes search hers. “You have bewitched me.”
“That was not my intent,” she says softly. “But whatever I have done to you, you have done to me, too.”
Her admission makes him bolder. He grips her shoulders and pulls her closer. It seems to take an eternity for his lips to touch hers. When they do, Hannah feels surprised by their frank, simple warmth, the scratchy reality of his stubbled chin and cheek brushing against her own softer skin. Surprised by how a kiss can mean so many different and conflicting things: longing, desire, hope, regret, the sad awareness that their first kiss may be their last. She is surprised by her own desire, a sudden, ravenous presence in every part of her body: in her hands that reach to touch him, in her breasts that strain against the confines of her dress, in her mouth that returns Edward’s kisses in a delicious delirium. Surprised by his passion that equals her own.
Edward breaks away, then embraces her to speak softly into her ear. “Please, let me take you home.”
They take the coach to the north end of Portsmouth Street and, like figures in a dream, slip through the street’s indigo shadows to her front door. Inside, Hannah lights a candle and holds it aloft as they creep quietly up the stairs, past the closed doors of Hester and Mrs. Wills and her mother. Stepping lightly, they enter her attic bedroom. She carefully shuts the door and sets the candle down on her desk.
They face each other solemnly. “Are you sure?” Edward asks softly.
She understands what his question implies: he has obligations, there is nothing more for them than this one night, no consequences, no ties.
“Yes.” It’s a bargain she’s already made.
“But I regret that I cannot—”
“Shhh.” She places a fingertip against his lips. She can accept tonight for what it is, but she does not want to hear him say the words.
First the gloves, then coat and cloak, his cravat, her neck scarf. Slowly, silently, they remove their clothing: shoes are slipped off, his waistcoat unbuttoned and tossed aside. Carefully, quietly, Edward unfastens the clasps on Hannah’s bodice, five hooks in a straight line from her breastbone to her navel. He helps her shimmy out of her dress, which settles in folds around her ankle
s, like a shed skin. There’s nothing left to remove except for their blousy cotton undershirts and Hannah’s pale stockings, gartered at the thigh. The room is so quiet that when the candle suddenly gutters and sizzles, it startles them.
Edward reaches out and delicately traces the dark areoles of her breasts, visible through the sheer gauze of her undergarment. “May I?” he asks. Hannah nods and he takes hold of her undershirt and pulls it up. She raises her arms, and as the blouse is whisked away over her head it feels like freedom and release. She stands naked before him, shivering a little in the attic’s chill air. Edward’s gaze roams freely and appreciatively over her small but shapely breasts; the tight curve of her abdomen; her generous, firm hips; and well-turned legs.
“I knew you would be beautiful,” he says, “but I did not know you would be this beautiful.” He tilts his head down to kiss her, gently at first, then more passionately, and wraps her in the warm safety of his arms. They break away just long enough for Edward to remove his shirt—it falls haphazardly over the chair and then to the floor—and move to the bed, still kissing. Beneath the flickering shadows that play among the rafters, they lay together silently, carefully learning each other’s bodies, two musicians inspecting new and wondrous instruments. Edward has a muscular build and strong, elegant, capable hands: a surgeon’s hands. Hands that explore Hannah’s body with a sureness and sensitivity beyond what she expected.
Sensation leads to sensation. Edward’s warm lips on her lips, then on her throat. His lips move slowly down her chest, stopping briefly to take one caramel nipple into his mouth, then travel lower still, teasing, tantalizing. His hands caress her thighs, then gently press her legs open. Edward bows his head, brushing his lips against her most secret and sensitive part, and Hannah shivers with pleasure. He slips both hands under her buttocks and hugs her body to his mouth for a deep kiss that she feels as wave after wave of pleasure, pleasure so intense that she must bite her own fist to silence herself. It is too much, it is too much, she shudders violently from the pleasure of it, it is too much. Edward tightens his hold on Hannah as she struggles underneath him, it is too much. Just when she thinks she must tell him to stop, that it is too intense, that she cannot withstand any more, the little death overtakes her and she is spinning, lost, free, unable to stifle her own cries. It seems an eternity before she is stilled and calm; but even then, the merest touch could set her off again, spinning away, out of control.
The Devlin Diary Page 35