War was very much the topic of conversation that evening in the reception rooms of Lord Jarvis s Berkeley Square residence. War in Europe, war on the high seas, war in America.
Hero discussed Wellington s successes in Spain with Castlereagh, the depredations of those damnable upstart Americans on British shipping with Bathurst, and Napol on s newest rampage against Russia with Liverpool. Most of the members of Liverpool s government were in attendance, along with the city s premier bankers, for war was very much a financial enterprise.
She found the night almost unbearably hot and close, the air in the crowded rooms unusually stifling. The hundreds of candles burning in the chandeliers overhead only added to the heat, and she could feel her cheeks start to burn. Ignoring the discomfort, she was working her way through her father s guests to where she could see Sir Stanley Winthrop in conversation with her mother, Lady Jarvis, when the Earl of Hendon stopped her.
I d hoped I might find my son here with you tonight, said Devlin s father, his intensely blue St. Cyr eyes narrowed with a combination of anxiety and hurt. She did not understand the obvious estrangement that had grown between father and son, yet at the same time she didn t feel quite right inquiring into it.
I fear it will take more than a mere wedding to affect a rapprochement between Devlin and my father, she said lightly.
But he is well?
Devlin, you mean? He is, yes.
I heard he was set upon the other night in Covent Garden.
A minor wound. Nothing serious.
Hendon sighed. I ll never understand why he continues to involve himself in these murder investigations. Is it boredom? Some quixotic delusion that he can somehow make all right with the world?
I don t think Devlin suffers from any such delusions. She tipped her head to one side. Who told you of the attack on Devlin in Covent Garden?
An uncharacteristic softness stole over his features. A mutual friend, he said, then bowed and moved on, leaving her staring thoughtfully after him.
She was brought out of her preoccupation by a woman s voice saying, My dear Lady Devlin, please allow me to offer my felicitations on your recent marriage.
Hero turned to find herself being regarded by Sir Stanley Winthrop s wife, who was looking hot and vaguely sweaty in a gown of pink tulle and satin made high at the neck and with long sleeves.
It was the knowledge that Lady Winthrop would be at tonight s dinner that had inspired Hero to attend.
Why, thank you, said Hero, smiling as she drew the banker s wife a little to one side. I m so glad you were able to come tonight; I ve been wanting to talk to you about Gabrielle Tennyson.
Lady Winthrop s own somewhat ingratiating smile vanished, her gaze darting anxiously from left to right as if she were embarrassed by the thought that someone might have overheard Hero s remark. But do you think this is quite the proper place to discuss
Did you know her well? Hero asked, ignoring the woman s discomfiture.
Lady Winthrop cleared her throat and swallowed. Not well, no.
But you are an intimate of Miss Tennyson s cousin, Mary Bourne, I believe.
I don t know if I would describe myself as an intimate, precisely
No? I thought someone told me you frequently study the Bible together with the Reverend Samuel at Savoy Chapel.
We do, yes. God s chosen ones may be saved by his irresistible grace, but with God s grace comes an imperative to examine and consider the wisdom and beauty of his teachings. Particularly in these dangerous times, when so many are tempted by the blandishments of Satan and the lure of those ancient pagan beliefs so hostile to God.
Ah, yes; I d heard Mrs. Bourne is the author of a pamphlet warning of the dangers of Druidism written under a pseudonym, of course. Is she familiar, I wonder, with the legends associating Camlet Moat with the ancient Celts? Hero let her gaze drift, significantly, to where Sir Stanley, looking splendid in silk knee breeches and tails, stood in conversation with Liverpool.
Lady Winthrop followed her gaze, her jaw hardening; something very like hatred flashed in her eyes as she stared across the room at her tall, handsome husband. I m not certain I understand precisely what you mean to imply, Lady Devlin, she said, her voice low.
Only that it s fascinating, don t you think, the subtle linkages that can connect one person to the next?
We are all joined together in sin.
Some more so than others, I suppose, said Hero wryly.
Lady Winthrop s nostrils flared on a quickly indrawn breath. Gabrielle Tennyson was a woman separated from God. St. Paul tells us that it is a woman s place to receive instruction with utter submission. The Lord does not allow women to teach or exercise authority over men, but enjoins them to remain quiet. Eve was created after Adam, and it was she who was deceived and fell into transgression. That is why a godly woman does not seek to go forth into the world and challenge men, but submits herself to a husband and devotes herself to the care of her household. I sometimes find myself wondering, if she had lived, what Miss Tennyson would have done, once her brother married. I don t imagine his recent betrothal sat well with her.
What recent betrothal?
A slow, unpleasant smile slid across the other woman s features. Oh, dear; have I betrayed a confidence? I knew the betrothal was being kept quiet due to the death of Miss Goodwin s maternal grandmother, but I had assumed that as an intimate of Miss Tennyson s, you would have known. Did she not tell you?
No, said Hero. She did not. How came you to know of it?
Emily Goodwin s mother is a dear friend of mine.
Kat Boleyn was wiggling a heavy costume of purple velvet trimmed with gold braid over her head when Sebastian slipped into her cramped dressing room at Covent Garden Theater and closed the door behind him.
I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make it before rehearsal, she said, turning her back to him and lifting the heavy fall of auburn hair from her neck. Here. Make yourself useful.
It was a natural request, for she was pressed for time and they were old friends. As his fingertips brushed against her warm body, he tried to think of her as an old friend as a sister, although he knew only too well that she was not.
You ve learned something? he asked, his voice strained.
She busied herself clasping a bracelet around her wrist. You were right about Jamie Fox. He is indeed involved with a group of smugglers plying the Channel. They work out of a small village near Dover, running mainly French wine and brandy. She hesitated a moment, then added, But there s something more going on something I can t tell you about.
He swung her around to face him, his narrowed gaze studying the gentle curve of her cheek, the childlike upturned nose, the full, sensuous lips. I thought you knew you could trust me that nothing I learn from you will ever go any further, no matter what it is.
This confidence is not mine to betray. Her familiar blue eyes narrowed with some emotion he could not name.
The only thing I can tell you is that what s going on here is dangerous very dangerous. Jamie Knox is dangerous. He s loyal to no one except himself and perhaps to his friend, a fellow rifleman named Jack Simpson.
I ve met him.
She touched his arm lightly. I heard you were set upon the other night and hurt. Are you all right?
Where did you hear that?
She gave him a jaunty smile. Gibson told me.
Gibson has a big mouth. It s just a scratch.
Uh-huh.
A warning bell sounded in the distance. He hesitated a moment, then took her hand in his and kissed her fingers. Thank you, he said, and turned toward the door.
Sebastian
He paused to look back at her.
They say Jamie Knox s hearing, eyesight, and reflexes rival yours. And we both know he looks enough like you to be your brother or at least your half brother. What s going on here?
All the noise of a theatrical troupe about to begin a dress rehearsal echoed around them quickly stifled giggles, a hoarse shout for some missing prop, the thump of hurrying feet on bare floorboards. Sebastian said, I don t know. He claims his father was a cavalry captain.
But you don t believe him?
I don t know what to believe. Amanda told me once that my father was probably a groom.
Kat s lip curled. That sounds like something Amanda would say, just to be hurtful. Sebastian s sister, Amanda, had hated him from birth for being male, for being eligible to inherit their father s title and riches, and, as Sebastian had learned recently, for being living evidence of their mother s endless, indiscriminate infidelities.
He said, That doesn t mean it couldn t be true.
Sebastian was standing before the empty hearth in his library, a booted foot on the cold grate, a glass of brandy in his hand, when he heard a carriage draw up before the house and Hero s quick steps mount to the front door. A single brace of candles burned on the mantel; the rest of the room lay in shadow. He listened to her low-voiced consultation with Morey. Then she appeared at the entrance to the library, one gloved hand raised to release the throat catch of her evening cloak.
You re home early, he said, straightening as he turned toward her.
I m glad I found you, she said, advancing into the room. I ve just learned the most astonishing information.
In spite of himself, Sebastian found himself smiling. Really? What?
She swung off her cloak and draped it over the back of a nearby chair. Hildeyard Tennyson isn t just courting this Miss Goodwin; they re betrothed!
I know.
Hero stared at him, dawning indignation chasing incredulity across her features. You knew!
Tennyson mentioned it when he first arrived back in London. He said the betrothal was arranged shortly before he left for Kent, but was never formally announced due to the sudden death of Miss Goodwin s grandmother in the midst of the settlement negotiations.
But if you knew, why didn t you tell me?
I thought I did.
No. You told me he d formed an attachment to the daughter of one of his colleagues; you said nothing of a betrothal.
I beg your pardon. I suppose I didn t consider it significant. You obviously disagree; why?
Think about it. Gabrielle was still in the schoolroom when she took over the management of her father s household after her mother died. She was mistress of the Tennyson town house in the Adelphi and their small estate in Kent for something like thirteen years. Can you imagine a woman like Gabrielle meekly turning over to her brother s new eighteen-year-old bride the reins to two houses she d considered hers for years, and then continuing to live there in any kind of comfort?
Sebastian took a slow sip of his brandy. To be honest, I never gave a thought to the effect his marriage would inevitably have on his domestic arrangements.
The look on Hero s face said so clearly, Men, that he almost laughed out loud.
He said, So tell me exactly what all I ve missed by being so, well, male about this.
She jerked off her long gloves and tossed them on the chair beside her cloak. The thing is, you see, if Gabrielle were penniless, she would have had no option but to continue living at the Adelphi with her brother and his new bride. But Gabrielle wasn t penniless; her father had left her an independent income. It might not have been excessive, but it was enough to enable her to live on her own, or
Or with the man she loved, said Sebastian.
And under the circumstances, I can t see his qualms about being seen as a fortune hunter stopping him. The inclination to laugh was gone.
Hero walked to where she had left the book of English Cavalier poets lying on the table beside the chair. I was thinking about that poem Arceneaux gave Gabrielle, the one by Robert Herrick. He copied out the last three stanzas to give to her. But it s the first three that I think may be important. She flipped through the book. Here it is; listen:
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be:
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I ll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
To honor thy decree
Sebastian recited the poem from memory along with her, his gaze locked with hers, their voices blending together, tenor and contralto.
Or bid it languish quite away, / And t shall do so for thee.
Bloody hell, he said, and drained his brandy to set the glass aside with a snap.