by C. S. Harris
“What was the quarrel about?”
“If I tell you, you must assure me that it will go no further.”
“Within reason, of course.”
Ambrose hesitated, then said, “I was angry because Jane had paid a visit to the Princess of Wales.”
Whatever Sebastian had been expecting, it wasn’t that.
Caroline, Princess of Wales, was the Regent’s estranged wife and mother to Princess Charlotte. Once she had been highly sought after by members of the ton, an enthusiastic hostess famous for giving unusual, amusing dinner parties frequented by everyone from men of letters such as Lord Byron and Walter Scott to the painter Thomas Lawrence and Whig politicians like Brougham and Wallace. But when the Prince of Wales became Regent, most of Society dropped her cold. Few cared to alienate the Prince, who was now both head of state and head of the royal family—and who had a reputation for holding a grudge forever and exacting petty revenges.
“The Regent’s patronage is important to a man in my profession,” Ambrose was saying. “You know the way he treats those who dare have anything to do with Caroline. What husband in my position wouldn’t have been angry?”
“When did Jane visit Charlotte’s mother?”
“I don’t recall precisely. Sometime last week.”
“Why?”
Ambrose looked as if the question puzzled him. “I’ve no idea. What does it matter why she went? Do you imagine the Prince cares what her motives might have been?”
“It matters if it had something to do with her death.”
Ambrose brought up a hand to rub his forehead. “Oh, yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking of that.”
“No. I can see you weren’t.”
A faint flush touched the other man’s cheeks, but he remained silent.
“Did you know Lord Wallace was planning to employ Jane to instruct one of his daughters?”
“Wallace?” What looked like a habitual kind of fury hardened the other man’s eyes. “No. She didn’t tell me. Good God, what was she thinking?”
“To deal with someone who has made himself such a public enemy of the Prince, you mean?”
“Yes!”
“Perhaps she didn’t care.”
“Obviously.”
“Any chance she was romantically involved with another man?”
Ambrose let his hand drop, his jaw tightening. “You can’t be serious. What are you suggesting now?”
The playwright was either oblivious to his wife’s friendship with Liam Maxwell, or very good at hiding uncomfortable truths he didn’t want known. Rather than answer, Sebastian said, “A day or two before she was killed, your wife was raped. Did you know?”
Ambrose stared at him. “No.”
“She didn’t say anything to you about it?”
“Good Lord, no.”
“It wasn’t you by any chance, was it?”
Ambrose took a hasty step forward, his hands curling into fists. “I should call you out for that.”
“I wouldn’t advise it,” said Sebastian dryly.
“Get out. Get out of my house. Now.”
Sebastian inclined his head and turned toward the door. But he paused to glance back and say, “One more thing: You told me you were here on Thursday afternoon. But I don’t recall your saying where you were that evening.”
Ambrose stayed where he was, his breath coming in hard, angry pants. “I was still here, damn you.”
“In your library working on your libretto?”
“Yes!”
“Alone?”
“Of course.”
In a household such as this, without a butler or footmen, the door was typically answered by a housemaid with numerous other duties, which meant that Ambrose could easily have left the house and come back hours later without any of the servants knowing.
Sebastian said, “I’m curious as to why you led me to believe Jane’s family was dead when her brother Christian Somerset is still very much alive.”
“Why do you think? For the same reason I objected to her visit to Princess Caroline.”
“Yes, of course. And how did you learn of that visit, by the way?”
“Jane mentioned it to me.”
“On the steps of the Opera?”
Ambrose hesitated a moment too long, then said, “Yes.”
“Without also mentioning why she went?”
“I told her I didn’t want to know.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
Ambrose gave a short, bitter laugh. “You should know as well as anyone the swirl of intrigue that surrounds Caroline.”
“Are you suggesting Jane was involved in that?”
“I don’t know and, frankly, I don’t care to know. If you think it so important, I suggest you ask the Princess yourself.”
“I intend to,” said Sebastian.
Ambrose simply stared back at him, his jaw set hard and his eyes now hooded.
Chapter 20
Wrapped in a warm carriage robe and with a hot brick at her feet, Hero crossed the frozen city in a horse-drawn sleigh. The farther east she traveled, the more wretched were the snow-filled lanes and courts, the more desperate the bleak eyes raised to watch her pass. This part of the city had long been a crumbling, overcrowded morass of grinding, soul-destroying poverty and aching want. Now, after endless paralyzing weeks of cold, life there was becoming unbearably grim. Near St. Giles, a water main had broken during the night, flooding the street with what had become a thick sheet of ice. Those few lucky children with shoes were running and sliding across the frozen surface, arms windmilling, voices shrieking with laughter. But their mothers stood watching solemnly, faces tight with fear, for a broken main meant no water in addition to no food and no heat.
Jenny Sanborn, the cooper’s wife Hero was coming to see, lived at the end of a noisome alley in a miserable one-room hovel that looked as if it had been built as a lean-to shed for animals. When they drew up before the shed’s rough door, Hero could hear the muffled sounds of a woman weeping within. Exchanging a quick glance with her coachman, Hero looped the handle of her food basket over one arm and went to knock on the door.
The door was opened by a skinny, ragged girl of about six whom Hero remembered from the other night. “Hullo,” said Hero, crouching down until she was level with the child. “You’re Sarah, aren’t you? I’ve brought your mum a present.” Then Hero looked beyond the little girl to where the mother, Jenny Sanborn, lay curled up in a ball on the room’s only pallet.
The woman was as thin as a fence board, with limp fair hair and a face swollen and blotched with tears. She was probably no more than thirty, although she looked fifty or more. Her newborn babe lay beside her, and Hero didn’t need more than a swift glance to tell her the child was dead.
“When?” Hero asked.
The woman dragged in a ragged breath that shuddered her thin chest. “Last night.”
Hero rose slowly to her feet, her throat so tight she couldn’t seem to force out any words.
“Is all that food for us?” asked the little girl, her eyes round.
“Sarah—,” began her mother.
“It is, yes,” said Hero, summoning up a smile that trembled a bit around the edges as she handed the basket to the girl. “And my coachman’s got a bag of coal for you, as well.”
“Gor,” breathed one of the girl’s brothers, coming to stand beside her.
“I don’t rightly know how to thank you,” said Jenny Sanborn, pushing herself up with difficulty. “Your ladyship has already done so much for us. We’d never have made it through this dreadful cold spell without you.”
Hero wanted to say, Please don’t thank me. For a sack of coal and a simple basket of food I will never even miss? Do you have any idea how guilty I feel, knowing that women like me will never be in danger of seeing our husban
ds snatched off the streets and forced to serve in a war that means nothing to them? Knowing I’ll never need to worry about my son growing up to someday suffer the same fate? I should be here begging your forgiveness—we all should, although no one ever will.
Except of course she could say none of those things. So she said instead, “This freeze can’t last much longer.” And it sounded so weak even to her own ears that she wished she’d said nothing at all.
* * *
“You did what you could,” Alexi said later that afternoon as she and Hero walked beside the frozen moat of the Tower of London.
Hero shook her head, her exhalation billowing around her in the cold air. “It wasn’t enough.”
“No. But we can only try. One woman, one child at a time.”
Hero turned to stare out over the masts of the ships frozen fast in the river below London Bridge. “This blasted war. Sometimes I think it will never end. For how many years can the nations of Europe continue fighting each other? Some of the men dying today must be the grandsons of those who fell two decades ago.”
“What a horrid thought.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
They walked on in silence, each lost in her own thoughts, the air heavy with the smell of woodsmoke from the fires lit in an attempt to keep the Tower’s lions and other exotic animals alive. The surrounding streets were nearly deserted, the battlements of the castle walls stark and empty against the heavy white sky. But Hero was becoming increasingly aware of a creeping feeling of unease that she finally realized came from a sense of being stared at—although when she looked around she could see no one.
“What is it?” Alexi asked when Hero looked behind her for the third or fourth time.
“I don’t know. I have the oddest sensation—as if someone were watching me.”
Alexi let her gaze drift over the rows of ancient houses pressing in on the castle. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Nor do I. I’m probably being fanciful.”
“You? That I find impossible to believe.”
Hero smiled.
“How is your article coming?” asked Alexi.
“Honestly, I’ve barely given it a thought.”
Alexi squinted up at the heavy clouds pressing down on the city. “Are you still interested in interviewing the wives of men who’ve been impressed?”
Hero glanced over at her. “I am, yes. You know of another woman?”
The Frenchwoman nodded. “A young girl named Amy Hatcher. She’s originally from Devon, but after her baby was born she came up to London, hoping to trace her husband. If you want to talk to her, we’ll need to hurry.”
“Why? Is she ill?”
Alexi’s lips flattened into a hard line. “She’s in Newgate. She was arrested before Christmas trying to steal a ham and is scheduled to hang on Tuesday.”
* * *
Sebastian arrived back at Brook Street to find Hero seated at his desk and calmly cleaning the brass-mounted flintlock pistol given to her years before by her father. It was a small weapon of a type known as a “muff gun,” designed to be carried concealed in a woman’s fur muff.
“Is this routine maintenance?” he asked, watching her. “Or did you shoot someone?”
Hero carefully replaced the barrel and locked it in place. “I think someone might be following me. I don’t know for certain because I didn’t see them. But under the circumstances I thought it best not to take any chances.”
Sebastian tried to keep any sign of the raw panic he felt flare within him from showing on his face. “I’ll assign two of the footmen to—”
“No,” she said, setting the pistol aside and wiping her hands.
“But—”
She gave him a long, steady look. “Someone tried to kill you earlier today. Do you intend to take two footmen with you wherever you go from now on?”
He found himself smiling. “Point taken. But you will be careful?”
“I suspect I’ll be far more cautious than you,” she said, returning his smile.
And he realized that was another point he couldn’t argue.
* * *
That night, unable to sleep, Hero stood at her bedroom window as a fresh fall of snow hurtled down from out of a heavy white sky. She thought it must be near dawn, although it had been hours since she’d heard the watch’s cry. She hoped the old man had retreated to his box for warmth. Either that, or he’d frozen to death.
She clutched her cashmere wrap tighter against the cold radiating off the frosted glass. Frustration and sorrow swirled within her, along with a healthy dose of raw, throbbing anger. She heard the shifting of the mattress behind her, felt Devlin’s arms slide around her waist to draw her back against his warm, hard body. He kissed her hair and said simply, “Hero.”
She tipped her head back against his shoulder, her throat so tight it hurt. “I’ve always thought of myself as a fiercely rational being, driven by intellect rather than emotion and sentimentality. But I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps I don’t know myself quite as well as I’ve always believed.”
Any other man would assume she was spooked at the thought that someone was following her. But Devlin knew her well. He pressed a kiss against her neck. “Discovering that a babe you fought so hard to save has died anyway would be enough to overset most people.”
“But I’m not supposed to be like most people,” she said with a wry smile. The smile faded. “Alexi warned me the baby would die, that he was too tiny, too poorly nourished in the womb to survive. But I’d hoped if I could help his mother . . .”
He nuzzled his face against her neck. “I know.”
“It’s not right, what we do. Kidnapping men and carrying them off as essentially slaves to serve on our warships, all without a thought to the wives and children they leave behind to starve. As if their hopes and dreams—as if their very lives—matter not at all. We killed that baby—everyone who has ever kept silent about impressment, who accepts it as just or even an unfortunate necessity. We killed him.”
“That’s why you’re writing this article.”
She felt tears sting her eyes. “I fear it won’t do any good.”
“Not right away, no. But it’s a start. If no one criticizes or even questions the wrongs of our society, it will never change.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m simply tilting at windmills.”
“Only sometimes?”
She gave a soft gurgle of laughter and turned in his arms to hug his naked male body close. “You’ll catch cold,” she said, sliding her splayed hands over the now icy flesh of his back.
“I’m tough.”
She lifted her head to meet his gaze. He had the most beautiful eyes, a rich tawny gold, with an animal’s ability to see clearly in the dark and over great distances. Strange, feral eyes that had captivated her from the moment she first saw him.
She said, “Make love to me.”
Wordlessly he took her hand and drew her to the fire’s side. There, in the warm glow from the coals, he cradled her face in his palms. Tenderly he kissed her eyelids, kissed cheeks wet with tears she hadn’t even realized she’d let fall. Then his mouth took hers, gentleness giving way to a growing hunger and carnal urgency. She was dimly aware of the shawl slipping from her shoulders as his hands swept over her. She pressed herself against him, one leg coming up to wrap around his thigh.
With a groan, he bore her down before the fire, his body covering hers. Her world filled with firelight gleaming golden over hot sweaty flesh, catching breaths, and an exquisitely tightening spiral of pleasure. It was a desperate affirmation of life in the face of death, of love in the face of selfish indifference and greed.
And afterward, as he cradled her in his arms, she slept.
* * *
Sunday, 30 January
The next morning dawned clear and calm but paralyzingly
cold.
Hero ate a simple breakfast, then took refuge with Simon beside the fire in the morning room. “Who’s the birthday boy?” she cooed, bouncing the baby up and down on her lap.
“Mm-ga-ga-gee,” he gurgled, reaching out a hand toward the big black cat that sauntered up to sit tantalizingly just out of the boy’s reach.
“Shame on you, Mr. Darcy,” said Hero as the cat flicked his magnificent tail back and forth, his slitted green eyes on the child. “You are a heartless tease.”
“Mm-ga-ga-gee,” said Simon again.
Hero stared at the cat as enlightenment dawned. “Good heavens. Mr. Darcy. He’s ‘Mm-ga-ga-gee’?”
“Mm-ga-ga-gee,” agreed the boy, squirming now to get down.
“One year old and beyond brilliant,” said Devlin, joining her with a cup of tea in his hand and the look of a man whose morning ablutions had been less than satisfactory. “Calhoun tells me the water pipes to the house have frozen. I suppose we should be thankful they didn’t break.”
“Not yet.” Hero set Simon on his feet and watched the boy totter over to the cat. “According to the footmen who went out this morning to fetch water, the river has frozen so solid that some brave souls are venturing out onto the ice and the bridges are packed with people watching them. Unfortunately, they told this tale within the hearing of the scullery maid, who immediately fell into hysterics, convinced it’s never going to warm up and we’re all going to die.”
“Lovely,” said Devlin, his eyes narrowing as Simon plopped down beside the cat. Mr. Darcy stretched to his feet and butted his head against the baby’s hand with an uncharacteristically loud purr.
Mr. Darcy virtually never purred.
Hero’s gaze met Devlin’s, and they both laughed.
She watched as he set aside his teacup and pushed to his feet. She said, “You’re going to ask the Princess of Wales about Jane?”
“I am.” Swooping down, he swung his squealing, laughing son high in the air. “Hopefully with the better part of the city’s population ogling the river, there will be no one to see me put myself beyond the pale by paying a visit to Her Ostracized Highness.”
