decided to devote a few hours to setting to rest the question of Captain and Mrs. John Talbot.
The captain, Lovejoy discovered, was a tall, handsome man in his early thirties, the youngest son of a small Devonshire landowner. With a commission in the Horse Guards, he’d had a promising future ahead of him until he’d made the mistake of running away with an heiress named Melanie Peregrin. His superiors hadn’t looked kindly upon this romantic adventure. Captain Talbot’s career had languished, while Melanie’s father had been so infuriated by what he termed his daughter’s perfidy that he cut her off without a penny and refused to allow her to cross his threshold again.
It was snowing heavily by the time Lovejoy reached the Talbots’ narrow brick townhouse off Upper Union Street in Chelsea. The house was small and undoubtedly hired, but the front door had been painted a cheery red, the knocker polished until it shone, and someone with an artistic eye had placed two potted rosemaries on either side of the entrance. Lovejoy noted these details and stowed them away for future analysis. They didn’t sit well with the image of the weeping, battered wife Sir Christopher had painted for him.
Nor did the calm, self-possessed young woman who introduced herself as Melanie Talbot.
He was fortunate enough to find her at home, and alone. Lovejoy apologized for the lateness of his call; Mrs. Talbot apologized for the dishevelment in which he found her.
“I’m afraid I’m somewhat of a messy painter,” she said, her smile sweet and almost impish as she rubbed her thumb against the splotch of paint that showed dark blue against a pale inner wrist. Lovejoy might have been misled into believing she’d been indulging a genteel, feminine interest in watercolors, except that when he’d first arrived he’d caught a glimpse of her up on a ladder, painting the walls of her dining room.
“I am grateful you’ve consented to see me on such short notice,” said Lovejoy, taking the seat she indicated in the small, pleasant sitting room overlooking the snow-filled street. The furniture in the room was old-fashioned and battered, he noticed, but tasteful, with good clean lines—the kind of thing one might find tucked away in the attics of some ancient country estate, or for sale, cheap, in the markets of Hatfield Street. If Melanie Talbot’s love match had proved to be an unhappy one, it certainly wasn’t preventing her from working hard to make her home pleasant and comfortable, whatever her reduced financial circumstances.
She sank into the chair opposite him, a lithe, unusually attractive young woman with very fair hair and large blue eyes set wide in a delicately molded face. Exactly the kind of female to inspire any young buck—and more than a few old ones—with the desire to cast himself in the role of her knight in shining armor.
She gave Lovejoy a broad, beautiful smile. “And how, precisely, may I help you, Sir Henry?”
“I have a few questions I’d like to ask about Lord Devlin.”
Lovejoy, watched, fascinated, as a gust of fear passed across her lovely features. She threw a quick, nervous glance toward the narrow hall, as if to reassure herself that no one could have overheard. Then her smile broadened again, bright and utterly false. “I’m not sure how much I can help you. Lord Devlin and I are the merest of acquaintances only.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Talbot? I have it on excellent information that you and his lordship are considerably more than that. And let me hasten to reassure you that if you fear your husband—”
“And what makes you think I would have reason to fear my husband, Sir Henry?” she asked sharply.
Lovejoy returned her firm, direct gaze. “I know what happened at the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball last year.”
“Ah.” Her chest hitched on a small sigh as she sat silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Then her gaze lifted to his again, her jaw hardening. “Very well. Devlin and I are friends, good friends. But nothing more.”
Lovejoy kept his expression impassive. “It’s my understanding that your husband and Lord Devlin fought a duel last Wednesday morning.”
Her smile, this time, was neither impish nor sweet. “Surely, Sir Henry, you are aware that we wives are never told of such things?”
“But you knew.”
She stood abruptly, going to stand before the painted mantel where a small fire burned feebly on the hearth, providing little warmth. “You must understand, Sir Henry,” she said, her gaze on the fire. “I promised my husband I would sever all contact with Lord Devlin.”
Lovejoy studied the slim, taut line of her back. “And when did you make this promise?”
“On Monday last.”
“You didn’t see Lord Devlin on Tuesday?”
“No. Of course not. I am a good and obedient wife. That’s what’s expected of a woman, isn’t it?” she said, the sneer in her voice as much for herself as for the society in which she lived.
“So you wouldn’t be able to tell me where his lordship spent that evening?”
“No.” She swung to face him, and he was shocked by the strength of the emotion he could see in her face. “But I can tell you how he
“So sure, Mrs. Talbot?”
She pushed out a harsh breath, her eyebrows twitching together in thought. “Who told you about the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say.”
“But you know—you know what brought Sebastian and me together?”
Lovejoy nodded, noting her unconscious use of the Viscount’s first name.
“He’d just come back from the war.” She paused. “We both had demons we needed to deal with. I like to think that I helped him at least half as much as he helped me.”
“The demons a man brings home from war can sometimes drive him to do terrible things.”
She shook her head. “The kind of demons that haunt Lord Devlin aren’t the sort that drive a man to rape and murder.” She paused, then pushed on resolutely, her head held high. “I would actually have given myself to him, if he’d have had me. Does that shock you, Sir Henry? There was a time I would have been shocked by it. Only . . .” She swallowed, then shook her head and left the rest of the sentence unsaid. “But he wouldn’t. So tell me, Sir Henry; is that the kind of man who rapes a woman in front of an altar?”
“I don’t know,” said Lovejoy, meeting her tortured gaze. “I don’t know what kind of men do such things. But they do exist.” He nodded toward the snowy darkness. “One of them is out there right now, walking around. Perhaps it’s Lord Devlin. Perhaps it’s someone else—some man buying a sausage at his local pub, or perhaps sitting down to dinner with his wife and family. And no one—
Lovejoy removed his hat and hung it on the hook beside his office door, then simply stood there for a moment, lost in thought, his gaze focused on nothing.
They were back again, all those niggling little doubts about Lord Devlin’s guilt, that feeling that there was more going on in the death of Rachel York than any of them had yet grasped. He knew it was unscientific, unempirical, maybe even irrational. But his intuition had been right too many times in the past for him to ignore it now.
With a shrug, he jerked his mind away from the sad-eyed woman he’d just met and set to work unwinding his scarf. He had his coat half-unbuttoned when his clerk, Collins, stuck his head around the corner.
“What is it?” asked Lovejoy, looking up.
“It’s about the Cyprian who got herself killed in that church, sir—that Rachel York. Constable Maitland thought you might like to know.”
Lovejoy paused with his coat half on, half off. “Know what?”
“We’ve just heard from the sexton of St. Stephen’s, sir. They’ve had grave robbers. Last night. And it was
“Are you telling me someone has stolen Rachel York’s body?”
“Yes, sir. Constable Maitland, he thinks it’s just a coincidence, but—”
Collins let his voice trail away into nothing, for Sir Henry, his coat gripped distractedly in one hand, was already gone, leaving his hat and scarf still swaying on their hooks beside the door.
