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  Hero was torn between her natural tendency for blunt honesty and the need not to alienate Rachel’s sister. Whatever she thought of the absurd posturing of Lord Byron himself, Hero found his poem both lyrically written and profoundly emotionally evocative. She compromised by simply saying, “I have read it, yes.”

  “The profane, too, have their place in God’s plan,” intoned Miss More with all the moral authority of a woman who’d spent the last thirty years of her life writing improving religious tracts. “They serve to confirm the truths they mean to oppose.”

  “Vice enhancing virtue by contrast?” said Hero drily.

  Miss More’s pinched lips stretched into a smile. “Exactly.”

  Hero suppressed the urge to shift restlessly in her striped silk chair. She could hardly bring up Rachel with the two Evangelical ladies present. Yet propriety limited Hero’s own visit to fifteen minutes. If they didn’t leave soon—

  As if on cue, Miss More and Lady Jane rose to their feet and, after reassuring themselves of Lady Sewell’s plans to attend the next meeting of the London Society for the Promotion of Christianity Among the Jews, took their leave. Hero waited until she heard their footsteps descending the stairs, then said, “I met your sister Rachel the other day.”

  Lady Sewell sat very still. “My sister?”

  Hero pushed on. “You are very different from each other, are you not?”

  Lady Sewell smoothed her skirt over her knee with a hand that was not quite steady. “That’s right. Rachel takes after our mother.”

  Hero studied the other woman’s composed features. Either Lady Sewell was an incredibly cold woman, or she had no idea where Hero was going. She said more gently, “You haven’t been told, have you?”

  “Been told? Been told what?”

  How did you tell a woman her little sister had been murdered? Hero had never been very good at this sort of thing. She said bluntly, “I’m sorry. Rachel is dead.”

  Lady Sewell’s mouth sagged open, then closed, the muscles jumping along her tight jaw. “There must be some mistake.”

  “I was with her when she died.” Hero leaned forward. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Lady Sewell rose very slowly and walked across the room to stare out the window, one hand clutching into a fist around the striped silk of the curtain at her side. Instead of answering, she said, “You say you were with Rachel when she died. When did this happen?”

  “Last Monday. At the Magdalene House.”

  Lady Sewell whirled to face her. “At the what?”

  “The Magdalene House. It was a refuge for women wishing to leave their life on the streets.”

  “I know what it was.” Hero watched as horror and disbelief flickered through those beautiful green eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Where did you think she’s been all this time?” said Hero. “You knew she wasn’t in Northamptonshire.”

  “I’d hoped . . .” Lady Sewell’s voice caught. She swallowed, her throat working convulsively. “You said you were with Rachel. What were you doing at this refuge?”

  “I’ve been conducting research for a bill to be introduced to Parliament. I’ve discovered that women tend to enter prostitution for two reasons. For some, it’s quite straightforward; they simply can’t earn enough money to stay alive any other way. The second reason is more complicated. It’s as if for some women life on the streets becomes a form of never-ending penance. It’s as if they see themselves as ruined and give up any hope of ever leading a respectable life.”

  Lady Sewell stood stiffly, her chest jerking with each convulsively indrawn breath.

  Hero pushed on. “If Rachel needed money or a refuge, surely she could have come to you. Couldn’t she?” When the woman remained silent, Hero said again, “Couldn’t she?”

  Lady Sewell reached out one hand to grip the back of a nearby chair.

  Hating herself for what she was doing, Hero said, “Why did your sister leave home?”

  Lady Sewell swallowed again, then shook her head and said in a hoarse whisper, “I don’t know. She was happy with her betrothal. At least, I thought she was.”

  “Did she quarrel with your father, perhaps?”

  Sudden fury flared in the other woman’s eyes, bringing a flush of hot color to her pale cheeks. “What do you mean by that?” She pushed away from the chair, then drew herself up short. “If you’re suggesting—” She broke off.

  Hero stared at the other woman in confusion. “Suggesting—what?”

  Lady Sewell brought one hand to her forehead in a distracted gesture and turned half away. “Why are you here? Asking these questions? Involving yourself in this?

  “Because your sister died in my arms. She was shot.”

  Rachel’s sister spun back around, all trace of color leaving her face again. “But . . . the Magdalene House burned.”

  “The fire at the Magdalene House wasn’t an accident. Those women were murdered, although because of what they were, no one seems to care.”

  For one telling moment, Lady Sewell’s gaze met hers, then wavered away. “I . . . I’d like to be alone now.”

  Hero rose to her feet. She discovered that her hands were tingling, and tightened her hold on the strings of her reticule. “If you’re interested, Rachel was buried by the Society of Friends, at their meetinghouse in Pentonville.”

  “Please, just . . . go.”

  Hero inclined her head and turned toward the door. Lady Sewell still stood tall and rigid beside the windows.

  But when Hero glanced back at the woman’s masklike face, she saw the glistening of silent tears.

  Charles, Lord Jarvis was in the courtyard of Carlton House, preparing for the arrival of the Spanish minister, when Colonel Bryce Epson-Smith walked up to him, the heels of his boots tapping a military-like staccato as he crossed the paving.

  “There have been some developments,” said Epson-Smith, his voice pitched low.

  Jarvis swung his head to study the Colonel’s lean, sun-darkened features. “Not here.”

  They walked away from the turmoil of the reception area, into the lee of the portico. “Now what?” snapped Jarvis as the cool shadows of the coming evening closed around them.

  “The assailant who survived last night’s attack is dead.”

  “Did you learn anything from him?”

  “Unfortunately, he died before we could reach him.” Epson-Smith stared off across the courtyard entrance of the palace. “There’s more.”

  “What else?”

  “This afternoon, one of our men—Farley—was following Miss Jarvis when she met up with Lord Devlin. Farley . . . lost them.”

  Jarvis was silent long enough that a muscle jumped along the Colonel’s jaw. “Where did this happen?”

  “Near the Tower. Miss Jarvis initially encountered Devlin at the surgery of an Irishman, Paul Gibson. Farley trailed them from there to the church of St. Olave on Seething Lane.”

  “What? What on earth were they doing there?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I suspect it was merely a stratagem. When Farley followed them into the church, Devlin back-tracked and cut the cinch on Farley’s saddle. Our man didn’t catch up with them until some time later, at Bow Street.”

  “Bow Street?”

  “Yes, my lord. Sir William has been murdered. I’m afraid Miss Jarvis was there when the body was discovered.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Miss Jarvis?” The question seemed to surprise the Colonel. “Of course, my lord.”

  Out on Pall Mall, the new gas lamps had been lit, their flares feeble flickers just visible in the last gasps of daylight. “Your man’s an idiot,” said Jarvis.

  “Yes, sir. But I thought you should know that it is evidently Miss Jarvis’s intent to elude our protection.”

  Jarvis drew out his snuffbox and flipped it open with one expert flick of his finger. He didn’t look at Epson-Smith, although he was aware of the man beside him. Epson-Smith was coldly efficien
t and utterly ruthless. He didn’t usually fail. Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril, sniffed, and said, “I don’t care if you need to set a regiment to follow Miss Jarvis through the streets of London. This is not to happen again. Understood?”

  Something flickered in the other man’s eyes, then was gone. “Yes, sir. And Lord Devlin?”

  Jarvis snapped his snuffbox closed and turned back toward the Colonel. “I told you, I’ll deal with Devlin.”

  Chapter 37

  Sebastian was crossing Margaret Street, headed toward a meeting with Sir Henry at Queen Square, when he heard himself hailed by an impervious voice.

  “Lord Devlin.”

  Sebastian turned.

  Attired in evening dress and a silk-lined cape that fluttered open with each angry step, Lord Fairchild strode purposely toward him across New Palace Yard. “This must stop,” the Baron blustered as he came up to Sebastian. “Do you hear me, sir? It must stop.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Lord Fairchild’s face darkened to a hue somewhere between magenta and purple. “Don’t play me for a fool.” He spat the words out like bullets. “You know full well of what I speak.”

  “If you mean my investigation into the murder of your d—”

  Lord Fairchild made a low growling sound deep in his throat. “Not here, for God’s sake,” he snapped, drawing Sebastian farther up the pavement. “Is that what this is all about?” His voice dropped to an acid whisper. “Do you seek to damage me by attacking my daughter’s reputation?”

  “What this is about,” said Sebastian, his gaze searching the other man’s mottled, distorted features, “is justice. Justice for a murdered woman lying in an unmarked grave.”

  The Baron clenched his teeth together so tightly his jaw quivered. “My daughter is in Northamptonshire. You hear me? Northamptonshire. If you persist in insinuating otherwise, I swear to God, I’ll call you out for it.”

  Sebastian studied the beefy, red-faced lord before him. He thought about the short, tragic life of Rachel Fairchild, and about Lord Fairchild’s “fondness” for little girls, and he knew a revulsion so swift and profound it turned his stomach.

  Once, Sebastian had thought the link between father and child one of the closest bonds in nature, second only to that between a mother and her children. Sebastian’s relationship with his own father had never been an easy one; he’d always known he both baffled and disappointed Hendon. There had even been a time, in the dark days after the death of the last of Sebastian’s brothers, that Sebastian would have said Hendon hated him—hated him for living when Hendon’s other sons had died. Yet through it all, Hendon’s devotion to the preservation of his remaining son—and the pledge he represented to the future—had endured. Sebastian had always believed it must be so for all fathers. It was only in the past year that he had come to realize just how fragile—and secondary—paternal devotion could sometimes be.

  The bells of Westminster began to chime the hour, the melodious notes echoing out over the city. “I understand there’s an important debate this evening on the Orders in Council,” said Sebastian evenly. “You’re missing it.”

  Lord Fairchild opened his mouth and closed it, then swung away, his jaw held tight, his head thrust forward like a bull’s.

  Sebastian waited until the Baron had taken several strides before calling after him, “I hear you’re the one who discovered your wife’s body. How . . . tragic.”

  The Baron swung back around, his massive frame quivering with fury. “If you mean to insinuate—”

  “I insinuate nothing,” said Sebastian, and continued on his way to Queen Square.

  “It’s quite an innovation,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, nodding to the rows of flickering gas lamps that bathed the interior of McCleod’s Coffee Shop in a soft golden glow. Gas lamps had already replaced the oil lamps along Pall Mall and in the surrounding streets, but few shop owners were as innovative—or as courageous—as the proprietors of McCleod’s. The sputtering gas jets and occasional explosions and asphyxiations generally limited the introduction of gas to the outdoors. “I’ve heard it said that someday, not only every street in London, but every house in London will be lit by the gasworks.”

  Sebastian shifted his weight against the booth’s unpadded back. “I’ve heard it said that the runoff from the gasworks is what’s killing the fish in the Thames.”

  Sir Henry brushed away the suggestion of pollution with an impatient hand. Apart from the law, the only other passion in the little magistrate’s life was science, and he brooked no criticism of it. “There are always naysayers.”

  Sebastian simply smiled and raised his coffee to his lips.

  Sir Henry cleared his throat. “I understand it was your misfortune to discover Sir William this afternoon. It’s why you’ve sought me out, isn’t it, and bought me this coffee?”

  Sebastian laughed. “I’d have bought you a brandy but I know you don’t imbibe.”

  A fervently devout man, Sir Henry had secret leanings toward the Reformist Church, although he generally kept his views to himself. Being anything other than High Church wasn’t good for one’s career. He said, “I take it you think this death is somehow linked to what happened at the Magdalene House on Monday.” The barest hint of a smile tugged the edges of the Queen Square magistrate’s mouth. “I know you have continued to involve yourself in the investigation.”

  Sebastian took another sip of coffee. “It was my understanding there was no investigation.”

  “Not officially. But according to Sir William’s clerk, Sir William was intrigued by what happened.”

  Sebastian knew a flicker of surprise, although when he thought about it, he realized it made sense. By instructing Sir William to shut down any speculation about the fire, Lord Jarvis had obviously sparked the magistrate’s curiosity.

  “Officially,” Lovejoy was saying, “the fire was just a fire. But Sir William was nevertheless pursuing a few discreet inquiries.”

  “Obviously not discreet enough.”

  “You think it’s why he was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  Sir Henry cleared his throat again. “It’s rather embarrassing, you know. Having the chief magistrate of Bow Street murdered in his own public office.”

  “Is that why it’s been released that Sir William died of an apoplectic fit?”

  “There will be rumors, of course. But then, there would have been rumors even if he had died of an apoplectic fit.”

  “Very true.”

  Lovejoy fixed him with an uncompromising stare. “Tell me about the Magdalene House fire.”

  Sebastian gave the magistrate a carefully edited version of what he had so far discovered. He left out all mention of Russian sables and Irish thieves, but the tale he wove was still sordid—and utterly inconclusive. In the end, the magistrate removed his wire-framed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It is all rather complicated. It’s as if it goes off in six different directions at once.”

  Sebastian said, “I’m obviously missing something. Something important.”

  Sir Henry fit his glasses back on his face and cleared his throat again. “I’ve been offered the position of Bow Street magistrate.”

  Sebastian raised one eyebrow. “Congratulations.”

  “It is an honor, of course. I wouldn’t be chief magistrate—Sir James will replace Sir William in that capacity. But . . . well, if truth were told, I suspect I might somewhat miss Queen Square.”

  “So you haven’t decided yet whether or not to accept?”

  “No. The prestige means nothing to me. But . . .” The magistrate hesitated, and Sebastian knew he was remembering certain incidents in the past, when Bow Street had interfered in Sir Henry’s own investigations in a high-handed and contemptuous manner.

  “It is tempting,” said Sebastian.

  “Yes.”

  The door to the coffee shop swung inward to admit another customer, who brought with him the smell of coming rain and a great gust
of wind that snuffed out three of the gas lamps on the nearest wall.

  “The fault’s in the design of the gas jets,” said Sir Henry as the proprietor bustled forward with a taper to relight them. “With a better design that wouldn’t have happened.” When Sebastian remained silent, he added, “Imagine the reduction in crime the city will experience once every street is illuminated by gas.”

  “As long as there’s no wind,” said Sebastian.

  “I tell you, the fault’s in the design of the jets,” insisted Sir Henry.