“Well,” said Kat, “Mr. Donne didn’t like women much, did he?”
Devlin smiled. “He was a clergyman. It’s something of an occupational hazard.”
Kat ran her fingers through the dark curls at the nape of his neck, felt the tension coiled within him. “The young man who was killed down in Kent last April…” She left the rest of the question unsaid.
“Was found with a papier-mache star in his mouth.”
“Dear God.” She came around to curl up on the rug at his feet, her hands folded together on his knee, her head tilted back so she could see his face. “What does it all mean?”
He closed the book and set it aside. “I wish I knew.”
She rested her cheek against his leg. “Tell me about today.”
He told her in soft, measured tones. When he finished, she lifted her head and said. “‘Get with child a mandrake root.’ It’s the second line of the poem. Why would the killer skip one line of a poem he’s obviously following so deliberately?”
“Lovejoy thinks there must have been a similar killing someplace in England between April and June, a killing he simply hasn’t heard about yet.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
She sat back, her hands trailing down his leg in a gentle caress. Turning her head, she stared into the fire. For a moment she thought of the clergyman’s son in Avery, the lines of Donne’s poem running over and over in her head. But it wasn’t long before her thoughts slid away to her own problems, to Jarvis’s threat and her meeting with O’Connell tomorrow.
Devlin touched her hair, his hand cupping her chin to turn her face to him again. “What is it?” he asked.
She gave a startled laugh and shook her head. “What do you mean?”
“Something’s troubling you. Something you’re trying to hide from me.”
She laid her hand over his and shifted to plant a kiss against his palm. She kept her voice light, her smile in place. “Are you suggesting I’m a poor actress?”
“I’m suggesting I know you.”
“Do you?” She took his hand and placed it on the swell of her breast. “What does this tell you?”
His hand tightened over her breast, caressing her through the thin muslin of her gown. She saw the leap of desire in his eyes and let her own eyes slide shut, her head tipping back as she sucked in a quick, delighted breath.
He slipped from the chair, his knees denting the carpet beside hers, his lips warm against the bare flesh of her throat. His hands found the tapes of her high-waisted gown, loosened them. He eased the gown from her shoulders, taking with it the light chemise she wore beneath it.
Her lips closed over his, hungry now. Pressing her naked body against his clothed one, she drove all thoughts but
Later, as she lay naked and spent in his arms, he traced the features of her face with one softly sliding finger and said, “Marry me, Kat.”
A pain swelled in her chest, a pain of want and longing that could never be eased. But she was an actress, and so she was able to summon up a smile, even though her voice shook slightly. “You know why I can’t.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, his fierce eyes glowing in the dying light of the fire. “My aunt Henrietta has found another suitable bride for me. A Lady Julia Something-or-other.” He entwined his hand with hers and kept his tone light, although she knew he was intensely serious. “If you truly loved me, you would rescue me from the matrimonial machinations of my family by marrying me yourself.”
“You need a Lady Something-or-other as a wife.”
“No. I need you.”
“I would destroy you.” Her voice was a torn whisper.
He slid his hands beneath her, drawing her up close so that he could bury his face in her hair. “No,” he said, all hint of lightness gone from his own voice. “Not having you in my life would destroy me.”
WEDNESDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER 1811
Early the next morning, Sir Henry Lovejoy was just leaving his bed when one of his constables banged at his door.
“What is it, Bernard?” Henry asked when the constable came stomping in, bringing with him the cold damp of the morning.
“You know that case you was telling us about yesterday? The one you think might be linked to some poem about mermaids and mandrake roots?”
Henry felt a twist of anxiety deep within his being. “Yes.”
Bernard ran a hand across his beard-roughened face. “I think there’s somethin’ down near the docks you need to see.”
In the dim light of dawn, the forest of masts out on the river were mere ghostly things without form or function. Sir Henry Lovejoy thrust his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and suppressed a shiver. The mist coming off the water swirled around him, cold and damp and smelling strongly of hemp and tar and dead fish.
“Oye. You there.” The bulky form of a constable appeared out of the gloom. “T’ain’t nobody allowed any farther ’ere. Orders of Bow Street.”
