London
Monday, 3 August
Driven from his sleep by troublesome dreams, Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, leaned into his outstretched arms, fingers curling around the sill of his wife s open bedroom window. He d learned long before of the dangers that lurk in those quicksilver moments that come between darkness and the dawn. When the world hovers between night and day, a man could get lost in his own tortured memories of the past if he wasn t careful.
He drew a deep, shuddering breath into his lungs. But the dawn was unusually warm, the air too parched and dusty to bring any real relief. He was aware of a sheen of sweat coating his naked skin; a humming like bees working a hive droned behind his temples. The urge to wrap his hand around a cool glass of brandy was strong.
He resisted it.
Behind him, the woman who just four days before had become his Viscountess stirred in her bed. Their marriage was so recent and the reasons behind it so complicated that he sometimes found himself still thinking of her not as Hero Devlin but as Miss Jarvis, formidable daughter of Charles, Lord Jarvis, the brilliant but ruthless cousin of the King who served as the acknowledged power behind the fragile regency of the Prince of Wales. Once, Jarvis had sworn to destroy Sebastian, however long it might take. Sebastian knew that his marriage to Jarvis s daughter had not changed that.
Looking over his shoulder, he watched now as Hero came slowly awake. She lay motionless for a moment. Then her eyelids fluttered open and she shifted her head against the pillow to stare at him from across a darkened room hung with blue silk and gilded mirrors and scented with lavender.
Did I wake you? he asked. I am sorry.
Don t be ridiculous.
Sebastian huffed a soft laugh. There was nothing either indulgent or coquettish about Hero.
She slipped from the bed, bringing with her the fine linen sheet to wrap around her nakedness as she crossed to him. In the darkness of the night, she could come to him without inhibition, a willing and passionate lover. But during the day
During the day they remained in many ways essentially strangers to each other, two people who inhabited the same house yet were self-conscious and awkward when they chanced upon each other in the hall or met over breakfast. Only at night could they seem to put aside the wary distrust that had characterized their relationship from the beginning. Only in darkness could they forget the deep, dangerous antagonism that lay between his house and hers and come together as man and woman.
He was aware of the gray light of dawn stealing into the room. She hugged the sheet tighter around her.
You never sleep, she said.
I do. Sometimes.
She tipped her head to one side, her normally tidy brown hair tangled by last night s lovemaking. Have you always had such troublesome dreams, or only since marrying the daughter of your worst enemy?
Smiling faintly, he reached out to draw her to him.
She came stiffly, her forearms resting on his naked chest, creating some distance between them. She was a tall woman, nearly as tall as Sebastian himself, with her powerful father s aquiline countenance and Lord Jarvis s famous, disconcerting intelligence.
He said, I m told it s not uncommon for men to dream of war after they ve returned home.
Her shrewd gray eyes narrowed with thoughts he could only guess at. That s what you dream of? The war?
He hesitated. Mainly.
That night, he had indeed been driven from his bed by the echoing whomph of cannonballs, by the squeals of injured horses and the despairing groans of dying men. Yet there were times when his dreams were troubled not by the haunting things he d seen or the even more haunting things he d done, but by a certain blue-eyed, dusky-haired actress named Kat Boleyn. It was an unintentional but nonetheless real betrayal of the woman he had taken to wife, and it troubled him. Yet the only certain way for a man to control his dreams was to avoid sleep.
The daylight in the room strengthened.
Hero said, It s difficult for anyone to sleep in this heat.
He reached up to smooth the tangled hair away from her damp forehead. Why not come with me to Hampshire? It would do us both good to get away from the noise and dirt of London for a few weeks. He d been intending to pay a visit to his estate all summer, but the events of the past few months had made leaving London impossible. Now it was a responsibility that could be delayed no longer.
He watched her hesitate and knew exactly what she was thinking: that alone together in the country they would be thrown constantly into each other s company. It was, after all, the reason newlywed couples traditionally went away on a honeymoon so that they might get to know each other better. But there was little that could be termed traditional about their days-old marriage.
He expected her to say no. Then an odd, crooked smile touched her lips and she surprised him by saying, Why not?
He let his gaze rove over the smooth planes of her cheeks, the strong line of her jaw, the downward sweep of lashes that now hid her eyes from his sight. She was a mystery to him in so many ways. He knew the formidable strength of her intellect, the power of her sense of justice, the unexpected passion his touch could ignite within her. But he knew little of the life she had lived before their worlds became intertwined, of the girl she had once been or the forces and events that had fashioned her into the kind of woman who could without hesitation or compunction shoot a highwayman in the face.
He said, We can leave for Hampshire today.
She shook her head. I m to meet Gabrielle Tennyson up at Trent Place this morning. She s been consulting with Sir Stanley on the excavations of a site on his property called Camlet Moat, and she s promised to show me what they ve discovered.
Sebastian found himself smiling. Hero s driving passion would always be her clearheaded, logical commitment to reforming the numerous unjust and cruel laws that both handicapped and tarnished their society. But lately she d also developed a keen interest in the need to preserve the rapidly vanishing legacies of England s past.
He said, They ve discovered something of interest?
When you consider that Camlet is a recent corruption of Camelot, anything they find is intriguing.
He ran the backs of his fingers along her jawline and smiled when he saw her shiver in the heat. If I remember my Morte d Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory identified Camelot with what is now Winchester.
She wrapped her hand around his wrist, effectively ending the caress. Gabrielle thinks Malory was wrong.
From the street below came the scent of fresh bread and the tinkling bell of the baker s boy crying, Hot buns.
Sebastian said, Tomorrow, then?
By now, the golden light of morning flooded the room. Hero took a step back out of the circle of Sebastian s arms to hug the sheet tighter around her, as if already regretting her commitment.
All right. Tomorrow.
But it was barely an hour later when a constable from Bow Street arrived at the house on Brook Street with the information that Miss Gabrielle Tennyson had been found dead.
Murdered, at Camlet Moat.