When Maidens Mourn (19 page)

Devlin flexed the hand of his injured arm, testing it. “Why’s that?”

“Because if he is, how did the Tennysons get up to the moat in the first place? The logical conclusion is they could only have driven up there in the company of their murderer.”

“The same could be said of Sir Stanley Winthrop. If he is the killer, then how the devil did the Tennysons get to Enfield?”

Lovejoy cleared his throat. “My colleagues at Bow Street are of the opinion that it is ridiculous even to suggest that Sir Stanley might be involved in any way.”

Devlin laughed. “There’s no doubt it would negatively impact the nation’s war effort, to have one of the King’s leading bankers arrested for murder.”

Lovejoy studied the blood seeping through the Viscount’s makeshift bandage. “Don’t you think you should perhaps have that properly attended to, my lord?”

Devlin glanced down and frowned. “I suppose you’re right. Although I fear the coat is beyond help.”

“You’re certain you heard them speaking French?” asked Paul Gibson, his attention all for the row of stitches he was laying along the gash in Sebastian’s arm.

“I’m certain.” Sebastian sat on a table in the front room of Gibson’s surgery. He was stripped to the waist, a basin of bloody water and cloths set nearby.

Gibson tied off his stitches and straightened. “I suppose it could have been a ruse to mislead you.”

“Somehow I don’t think the intent was to allow me to live long enough to be misled. I suspect my questions are making someone nervous.”

Gibson reached for a roll of bandages. “Someone French, obviously.”

“Or someone involved with the French.”

“There is that.”

“Of course,” said Sebastian, watching his friend work, “just because my questions are making someone nervous doesn’t necessarily mean that particular someone is the killer. He could simply have something to hide.”

“Yet it does tell you this ‘someone’ isn’t afraid to kill to keep his secrets.”

“Powerful men usually do have a lot of secrets…and there are several powerful men whose names seem to keep coming up in this.”

Gibson tied off the bandage and frowned. “Who else besides d’Eyncourt and Sir Stanley?”

Lord Jarvis,
Sebastian thought, although he didn’t say it. He slipped off the table and reached for his shirt. “Isn’t that enough?” He pulled the shirt on over his head. “Have you finished the autopsy of Miss Tennyson’s body?”

“I have. But I’m afraid there’s not much more I can tell you. She was stabbed through the heart sometime Sunday. No other sign of injury. Whoever killed her made no attempt to force himself on her.”

“Well, at least the poor woman didn’t need to suffer that.”

Gibson scratched behind his ear. “There is one thing I noticed that may or may not prove relevant.”

Something in his voice caused Sebastian to look up from buttoning his shirt. “Oh? What’s that?”

“I said she wasn’t forced before her death. But then, neither was she a maiden.”

Sebastian expected Hero to have long since retired for the night. Instead, she was sitting cross-legged on the library floor surrounded by a jumbled sea of books and papers. She had her head bent over some manuscript pages; a smudge of ink showed along the edge of her chin, and she was so intent on what she was doing that he suspected she hadn’t even heard him come in.

“I thought you had planned a musical evening with your mother,” he said, pausing in the doorway.

She looked up, the brace of candles burning on a nearby table throwing a soft golden light over her profile and shoulders. “That finished hours ago. I decided I might as well get started looking at Gabrielle’s research materials. I can’t help but think that the key to what happened to her and the boys is here somewhere.” She looked up, her eyes narrowing at the sight of his arm reposing in a sling. “You’re hurt.”

“Nothing serious. Two men jumped me in Covent Garden and tried to kill me.”

“And you consider that not serious?”

He went to sprawl in a chair beside the empty hearth. “The attempt to kill me was definitely serious. The wound to my arm is not.”

“Who were they?”

“I don’t know for certain about the one I killed, but the one who got away was swearing at me in French.”

She was silent for a moment, lost in thoughts he could only guess at. She was far too good at hiding away bits of herself. Then she pushed up from the floor and went to pour a glass of brandy that she held out to him, her gaze on his face. “There’s something else that you’re not telling me,” she said. “What is it?”

He took the brandy. “Am I so transparent?”

“At times.”

She sank into the chair opposite and looked at him expectantly. He was aware of the lateness of the hour, of the quiet darkness of the house around them, and of the absurd hesitation he felt in speaking to his own wife about the sexuality of her dead friend.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Paul Gibson finished the postmortem of Miss Tennyson’s body. He says she was not a virgin.”

He watched her lips part, her chest rise on a sudden intake of breath. He said, “You didn’t know?”

“No. But then, we never discussed such things.”

“Yet the knowledge still surprises you.”

“It does, yes. She was so determined never to marry.”

“She may have been involved in a youthful passion long forgotten.”

Hero tipped her head to one side, her gaze on his face. “Are such youthful passions ever forgotten?”

“Perhaps not.”

She rose to her feet, and for a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of the soft swelling of her belly beneath the fine muslin of her gown. Then he realized it was probably an illusion, a trick of
the light or the drift of his own thoughts. For it was the child growing in her belly—conceived in a moment of fear and weakness when together they had faced what they’d thought was certain death—that had brought them here, to this moment, as husband and wife.

She went to pick up the papers she’d been reading, including a notebook whose pages showed signs of much crossing and reworking. He said, “What is that?”

“Gabrielle’s translation of
The Lady of Shalott
.”

“Ah. I’ve discovered the identity of the Frenchman she befriended, by the way. He’s a cavalry officer named Philippe Arceneaux.”

She looked around at him. “You found him?”

“I’d like to take credit for it, but the truth is, he found me. He says they met in the Reading Room of the British Museum. He was helping her with the translation.”

Hero stood very still, the notebook in her hand forgotten. “Do you think he could have been her lover?”

“He says no. But he admits he was at least half in love with her. He seems to have made a practice of timing his walks in the park to coincide with when she took the boys to sail their boats on the Serpentine. And a week ago last Sunday, he drove up to Camlet Moat with her to see the site—although he’ll never admit it since it was a flagrant violation of his parole.”

She fell silent, her gaze fixed on something far, far away.

“What is it?” he asked, watching her.

She shook her head. “I was just thinking about something Gabrielle told me once, perhaps a month or more ago.”

“What’s that?”

“She asked if I ever had the sense that I was missing something—something important in life—by choosing to devote myself to research and writing, rather than marrying. She said lately she’d begun to feel as if she were simply watching life, rather than
actually living it. She said it was as if she spent her days staring at the pale shadows of other people’s lives reflected in a mirror—entertaining at first, perhaps, but ultimately empty and unsatisfying. And then she said…”

“Yes?”

“She said, ‘Lately, I find I’ve grown half sick of shadows.’”

Her gaze met his. He was aware, again, of the stillness of the night around them. And he found himself thinking of the exquisite softness of her skin, the silken caress of her heavy dark hair sliding across his belly, the way her eyes widened in wonder and delight when he entered her. He gazed deep into her wide, dark eyes, saw her lips part, and knew her thoughts mirrored his own.

Yet the latent distrust that had always been there between them now loomed infinitely larger, fed by the unknown currents swirling around Gabrielle Tennyson’s death and the lingering poisons of Jarvis’s unabated malevolence and Sebastian’s own tangled, sordid past. They had come to this marriage as two wary strangers united only by the child they had made and the passion they had finally admitted they shared. Now it seemed they were losing even that. Except…

Except that wasn’t quite right, either. The passion was still there. It was their ability to surrender to it that was slipping away.

He said, his voice oddly husky, “And what did you tell her, when Gabrielle asked if you ever had the sense you were missing something in life?”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I lied. I said no.”

He thought for one aching moment that she would come to him. Then she said, “Good night, Devlin,” and turned away.

The next morning, a constable from Bow Street arrived to tell Sebastian that one of his Covent Garden attackers had been identified. The dead man’s name was Gaston Colbert, and he was a French prisoner of war free on his parole.

Wednesday, 5 August

J
arvis was at his breakfast table when he heard the distant peal of the bell. A moment later, Hero entered the room wearing a shako-styled hat and a walking dress of Prussian blue fashioned à la hussar with epaulettes and double rows of brass buttons up the bodice. She yanked off her gloves as she walked.

“Good morning,” Jarvis said, calmly cutting a piece of steak. “You’re looking decidedly martial today.”

She came to flatten her palms on the table and lean into them, her gaze hard on his face. “Last night, two men tried to kill Devlin. Do you know anything about that?”

He laid his knife along the top edge of his plate. “It is my understanding that the assailant whom Devlin dispatched with his typically lethal efficiency was a French officer on his parole. What makes you think the incident has anything to do with me?”

“Because I know you.”

Jarvis took a bite of steak, chewed, and swallowed. “I confess I would not be sorry to see someone remove your husband from the landscape. But am I actively attempting to put a period to his existence? Not at the present moment.”

She held herself very still, her gaze still searching his face. “Do you know who is?”

“No. Although I could speculate.”

She drew out the nearest chair and sat. “So speculate.”

Jarvis carved another slice of meat. “You’ve noticed the broadsheets that have appeared around town of late, calling for King Arthur to return from Avalon and lead England in its hour of need?”

“Do you know who’s behind them?”

“Napoléon’s agents, of course.”

“And are you suggesting these agents have set someone after Devlin? Why?”

“Those who make it a habit of poking sticks into nests of vipers shouldn’t be surprised when one of those vipers strikes back.”

“You think that if Devlin finds whoever is behind the broadsheets, he’ll find Gabrielle’s killer?”