by C. S. Harris
“Until you saw her again,” said Hero softly, although what she really wanted to say was, Why? Why are you telling me this now?
He nodded. “Eventually I found out the truth about what had happened all those years ago—that she had lied to drive me away from her. I asked her again to marry me, but she still refused. She said nothing had really changed, that she loved me too much to allow me to ruin myself by marrying a woman off the stage. In my arrogance, I was convinced I could change her mind, eventually. Only . . .”
“Then you discovered she was Hendon’s daughter.”
She watched him reach for his drink and down half the glass in one long pull. The tension in the air was like an unnatural hum that had nothing to do with the storm.
He said, “I knew that in all fairness, I couldn’t blame Hendon for the blood relationship between them—after all, he was the one who’d been trying to drive Kat and me apart for years. But it took me a long time to forgive him for the undisguised satisfaction he showed at finally achieving what he had worked so hard to accomplish.”
She started to say, But if you have forgiven him, then why are you still estranged from him? Only, something in his face made her hold her peace.
He drained his glass and went to pour himself another brandy, as if he felt the need to put some distance between them. He said, “And then, last May, I discovered that in December of 1781, Hendon sailed for America on a secret mission for the King.”
Hero stared at him. Jarvis had sailed on that mission too. She tried to recall if she’d known the date of their sailing, if she knew when—
He said, “I will turn thirty next month. I assume you can do the sums?”
She watched him set aside the brandy decanter, watched him carefully replace the stopper, and understood finally what he was trying to tell her. “Are you certain Hendon’s not—”
“Yes. He tried to deny it at first, but in the end he was forced to admit the truth.”
“Do you know who—”
“No. My mother never said.” He stared at her from across the length of the room.
His mother, Hero knew, had disappeared at sea years ago, when Devlin was still a child.
Hero was suddenly aware of the fury of the storm, of the wind rattling the windowpanes in their frames and the rain pounding on the terrace paving. He said, “I would have told you before we married, had the circumstances been different. But as it was . . .”
She said, “Jarvis knew. He was on that ship with your father. So he’s always known.”
“Yes.”
Yet he hadn’t told her. Why? she wondered. Aloud, she said, “And the Bishopsgate tavern owner? Jamie Knox? Where does he fit in all this?”
“I honestly don’t know. He could conceivably be my half brother. Or a cousin, perhaps. I find it difficult to believe the resemblance between us is nothing more than a coincidence. Unfortunately, his own paternity is . . . cloudy.”
When she remained silent, he said, “I will understand if this knowledge alters your opinion of me.”
“It hasn’t lowered it, if that’s what you mean.” She drew a deep breath that shuddered her chest. “Why now? Why did you decide to tell me this now?”
“Because I realized I don’t want this secret between us anymore.”
She suddenly felt both humbled and oddly, buoyantly hopeful. “I’ve kept secrets from you,” she said quietly.
“You’ve kept your father’s secrets. There is a difference.”
Then the full implications of what he’d told her struck her. “So Kat Boleyn is not your half sister?”
“No. And Hendon knew it all along, damn his hide. He knew it, and he kept it to himself because he realized he’d finally hit upon the one sure thing that would keep us apart.”
And that, Hero now realized, was what had caused this new, intractable estrangement between the two men.
She said, “Hendon could have repudiated you years ago, but he didn’t. It could only be because he cares for you—loves you—as a father. He did what he thought was right for you.”
“Hendon did what he thought was right for the St. Cyr name and the St. Cyr bloodline. Nothing is more important to Hendon than fulfilling what he believes is owed to his heritage. Nothing.”
“But the cousin who stands behind you in succession—”
“The distant cousin who would become Viscount Devlin in my stead is in reality a vicar’s by-blow, whereas my mother was herself a St. Cyr, through her grandmother. So you see, St. Cyr blood does flow in my veins, even if it didn’t come from Hendon himself.”
“I think you do Hendon an injustice. Kat Boleyn is his daughter. If you had married her, then your child—your heir—would have been his own grandson.”
Devlin gave a soft, humorless laugh. “An actress’s son as the future Earl of Hendon? Hendon would stop at little short of murder to prevent such an abomination from ever coming to pass.”
She turned to stare out the window at the storm-thrashed garden. “Yet if Yates hangs for this murder, you could now marry Kat . . . if you weren’t married to me.”
“Hero . . .” He came to stand behind her. She was aware of his hands hovering for a moment over her shoulders without touching her. Then he turned her in his arms and drew her close. She felt his breath warm against her cheek, the beating of his heart against hers. He said, “I’ve loved Kat since I was twenty-one. There was a time I’d have sworn I could never learn to love anyone again. But . . . I was wrong.”
She touched her fingertips to his lips. “You don’t need to tell me what you think I want to hear.”
He gave her a strange, crooked smile. “I hope it is what you want to hear, because I’m telling you how I feel.”
She said, “It’s what I want to hear.”
He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss against her palm. “‘Rise up, my love, my fair one,’” he quoted softly, his features growing taut, his eyes half-lidded, intense, “‘and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.’”
A loud clap of thunder shook the room, and they laughed together.
She wrapped her other hand around his, their fingers entwining. “‘The flowers appear on the earth,’” she whispered. “‘The time of the singing of birds is come, and the vines with the tender grape give good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.’”
“I think you left out a couple of lines,” he said, pressing her back against the wall so that he could get at the ties of her dressing gown.
She brought up one bare leg to wrap around his hip and let it slide slowly, provocatively down the hard length of his thigh. “I was in a hurry,” she said, and caught his laugh with her kiss.
Chapter 45
Friday, 25 September
E
arly the next morning, Hero walked into the dining room of Jarvis House in Grosvenor Square to find her father looking over a stack of reports while consuming a solitary breakfast. Wordlessly, she closed the door in the footman’s face and leaned back against it.
“This is ominous,” said Jarvis, his gaze still fixed on the papers in his hand.
She pushed away from the door and came to stand in front of him. “You knew Devlin was not Hendon’s son, yet you chose not to tell me. Why?”
He looked up, his face—as always—inscrutable. “Under the circumstances, I saw no point. Are you suggesting it would have altered your decision to marry, had you known the details surrounding his birth?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
He dropped the report he held beside his plate and leaned back in his chair. “So Devlin finally told you himself, did he?”
“Yes.” She pulled out the chair beside him and sat. “Devlin says he doesn’t know who his father is. Do you?”
“Unfortunately, no. Believe me, I have tried over the years to discover the man’s identity. One never knows when such information might prove useful. But none of my attempts have thus far met with success.” He
templed his hands before him. “Did Devlin also tell you that his mother still lives?”
“She what?”
“Omitted that little detail, did he?” Jarvis reached for his snuffbox and calmly opened it with the flick of a finger. “Oh, yes. She’s still quite alive. Although as it happens, he does not know where she is.”
Hero watched him lift a delicate pinch to one nostril. “But you do, don’t you?”
He inhaled sharply and smiled. “I think perhaps I shouldn’t answer that question.”
Her gaze met his. “You just did.”
It occurred to Sebastian that the more he learned about Daniel Eisler, the more he found it a wonder that someone hadn’t killed the nasty bastard years before.
Eisler’s life had been populated by an endless stream of desperate men and women upon whom he inflicted financial ruin, sexual degradation, and burning humiliation. Sebastian knew the names of some of his victims—but only some. The number of people who’d wished the man dead must have been beyond counting. And Sebastian had less than twenty-four hours to find the one who’d finally given in to his—or her—lethal urges.
Both Blair Beresford and Jacques Collot had admitted wanting to kill the diamond merchant. Would someone who actually followed through on his murderous impulses admit to them? Sebastian didn’t think so. But then, he’d learned long ago the fallacy of assuming others shared his own nature.
Yet he also found himself wondering, Why now? After decades of successfully cheating, blackmailing, and exploiting those unfortunate enough to stumble into his web, why had Eisler finally paid the ultimate price for his greedy machinations? Had he simply misjudged the wrong man? Or had he fallen afoul of forces too powerful for him to control?
Sebastian was seated at his breakfast table pondering these questions when a distant peal sounded at the front door. A moment later, Morey appeared to clear his throat and bow.
“A gentleman to see you, my lord. Colonel Otto von Riedesel apologizes for the incivility of calling upon your lordship at this hour but wishes to stress the importance of his errand.”
“Show him in—and bring him a tankard of ale.” Sebastian glanced down at the black cat seated on the rug at his feet. “And you behave.”
Green eyes gleaming, the cat flicked its tail and looked vaguely evil.
The colonel came in with a quick step that jangled the spurs at his boots and swirled the black cape he wore thrown over his shoulders. “Please, do not get up,” he said. “My apologies for interrupting your repast.”
“May I offer you something, Colonel?”
“Thank you, but no.” He held his black shako beneath one arm; raindrops quivered on the ends of his mustache and on the high blue collar of his black dolman. “I require only a moment of your time.”
“Please, sit down.”
“Thank you.”
Von Riedesel sat, bringing with him all the scents of a rainy morning mingled with the odor of warm horseflesh, as if he had only just come in from exercising his hack in the park. He smoothed the splayed fingers of one hand down over his face, wiping the moisture from his mustache. Then he hesitated, evidently at a loss as to how to begin.
Sebastian said, “I take it you’ve heard of the death of Jacques Collot?”
Von Riedesel nodded, his normally ruddy cheeks pale.
“You knew him?”
“Me? No. But I knew of him—of his involvement in the theft at the Garde-Meuble.” The man’s voice was strained, his accent more pronounced than usual. “Vhy vas he killed? Do you know?”
“Presumably because someone was afraid that he might talk.”
The Brunswicker rested his forearms on the tabletop and leaned into them. “But vhat could he know?”
“Well, he knew the late Duke once possessed a certain large blue diamond.”
“Sir!” Von Riedesel sat back sharply. “If you mean to suggest—”
“That you had a reason to kill him? Well, you did, didn’t you?”
The Brunswicker surged to his feet. “I refuse to stay here and—”
“Sit down,” said Sebastian. “Since you’re here, you might as well answer some of my questions. Unless, of course, you prefer that I address them to the Princess?”
“I ought to call you out for this!”
Sebastian chewed and swallowed. “But you won’t, because that would draw the attention of the public—not to mention the Prince Regent—precisely where you don’t want it. Sit.”
The colonel sat.
Sebastian cut another slice of ham. “Daniel Eisler had a nasty habit of collecting damaging information about people—especially important, vulnerable people.” He paused to glance over at the colonel, who sat staring rigidly ahead. “It occurs to me that he could have discovered something Princess Caroline did not want publicly known. Something such as the details of the sale of her father’s jewels, perhaps? Or was it proof of her extramarital dalliances?”
“Whoever told you Eisler had damaging information about the Princess was lying.”
“Actually, you told me.”
“Me? But I never—”
“Otherwise, why are you here?”
New beads of moisture had appeared on the Brunswicker’s full cheeks. Only, this time it was sweat, not rain.
Sebastian said, “Eisler wasn’t your typical blackmailer. He liked to use his information to torment people, or to bend them to his will. So what did he want from the Princess?”
“I can’t tell you that!”
“Did she give him what he wanted?”
Von Riedesel pressed his lips into a thin, flat line, then nodded curtly. “Yes.”
Sebastian gave up on his breakfast and leaned back in his chair. “You’ve served and protected the Duke’s daughter for more than a decade. I can’t see you standing idly by while a nasty little diamond merchant threatened her.”
“You are suggesting—vhat? That I vent to his home Sunday night and put a bullet through him?” If the Brunswicker’s face had been pale before, it was now suffused with color. “As it happens, I spent last Sunday evening in the company of a voman of my acquaintance—and no, I have no intention of telling you her name.” He pushed to his feet, the movement so violent the chair toppled over, startling the cat. “Good day to you, sir!”
He had almost reached the door when Sebastian said, “Tell me this: Did the Prince know about Eisler’s interest in his wife’s affairs?”
Von Riedesel paused at the door to look back at him. “No. But I’ll tell you who did know.”
“Who?”
A gleam of malicious triumph flashed in the Brunswicker’s small brown eyes. “Jarvis. Jarvis knew.”
Half an hour later, Sebastian was on the verge of leaving to make a formal call on his father-in-law when he received a message from Sir Henry Lovejoy. Jud Foy had been discovered sprawled against one of the tombstones in St. Anne’s churchyard.
Dead.
Chapter 46
S
ebastian found Sir Henry standing in the lee of the church’s soot-stained, redbrick walls, his shoulders hunched and the collar of his greatcoat turned up against the morning drizzle.
Jud Foy still lay sprawled where he had been discovered, half-propped against a mossy tombstone like a man who’d stretched out for a nap. Except that his eyes were wide and staring, and someone had bashed the side of his head into a bloody pulp.
“Given your interest in the fellow, I thought you’d want to know,” said Sir Henry when Sebastian walked up to him.
“Who found him?”
“The sexton. He tells us he heard a commotion late last night but saw nothing when he went to investigate. It was only this morning he noticed the corpse.”
Sebastian went to hunker down beside the body. In death, Foy seemed to have shriveled to little more than a loose collection of rags drummed into the mud by the previous night’s rain. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out to touch the dead man’s sunken cheek.
He was cold.
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Looking up, Sebastian squinted through the drizzle to where a couple of constables were working their way across the overgrown churchyard. “Have they found anything?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid.” Sir Henry paused. “I heard about last night’s shooting in St. Giles. You weren’t hurt?”
Sebastian shook his head. “They weren’t shooting at me.”
Sir Henry nodded to the dead man beside them. “Does this make any sense to you?”
“None of it makes any sense to me.”
The magistrate frowned. “One wonders what he was doing in a churchyard.”
“Meeting someone, perhaps?”
“Surely a tavern would have been more suitable . . . not to mention warmer and dryer?”
“It would also have been more public.”
“There is that.” Sir Henry reached for his handkerchief and wiped his nose with a sniff.
Sebastian said, “You’ll be sending the body to Gibson?”
The magistrate’s eyes narrowed in a thoughtful frown. But all he said was, “Indeed. I’ve just dispatched one of the lads to the Mount Street dead house for a shell.”
Sebastian was pushing to his feet when something half-hidden beneath the dead man’s greasy, ragged coat caught his eye. He reached for it and found himself holding a small leather pouch embossed with the stylized initials DE. He’d seen the device before; it was Daniel Eisler’s.
Loosening the pouch’s rawhide tie, he shook some half a dozen small stones into the palm of one hand. They winked up at him, somehow snatching a measure of light from the dreary, overcast day and turning it into a brilliant rainbow of fire.
“What is it?” Lovejoy asked, leaning forward to see.
“Diamonds,” said Sebastian. “I think they’re diamonds.”
After the men from the dead house had carried off what was left of Jud Foy toward Tower Hill, Sebastian bought Sir Henry a cup of hot chocolate from a coffeehouse on Leicester Square.
