Mixing with the lowest dregs of society? Nosing around for information like some common village constable?”
Sebastian kept his own voice steady. “We’ve been through all this before, sir.”
Hendon worked his lower jaw back and forth in thought. “You’re bored—is that it?”
“Not exactly—”
“Because if it is, there’s no denying the Foreign Office could use a man with your talents. I don’t need to elaborate. I know what you did in the Army.” He paused. When Sebastian said nothing, he added gruffly, “We are still at war, remember?”
“I remember.”
“Napoleon has a new spymaster in London, replacing Pierrepont. Did you know that?”
“I had assumed he would.”
Hendon sat forward. “Yes, but whereas we knew of Pierrepont and could keep an eye on those he contacted, this man’s identity continues to elude us.”
Sebastian stared out the window at a ragged boy sweeping manure from the crossing. His next step, Sebastian had decided, would be to pay a visit to Lord Stanton—
“Devlin. Did you hear what I said? Even if Jarvis is able to persuade this actress to betray Napoleon’s man, your contribution to—”
“What?” Sebastian brought his gaze back to his father’s face. “What actress?”
“I don’t know her name. I gather she was passing information to Pierrepont before he fled the country last winter. Jarvis has given her until tonight to give up the man’s name or suffer the consequences.”
Sebastian’s hand tightened around the swaying carriage strap beside him. He was only dimly aware of his father’s voice continuing. A succession of images from last February flickered through Sebastian’s memory: Kat holding out a red leather book she’d somehow known to retrieve from its hiding place…Kat dressed in black, her face pale after Rachel York’s funeral…
Kat as she’d been these last few days, nervous and afraid.
“
Sebastian sat forward abruptly. “Tell your coachman to draw up.”
“What? What are you doing?” Hendon demanded as Sebastian thrust open the carriage door.
Charles, Lord Jarvis leaned forward to study the row of hieroglyphs emblazoned against the brilliantly painted red and green tones of the sarcophagus. “Late seventh or sixth century B.C. wouldn’t you say?”
He turned to the curator at his elbow, a painfully thin man whose shrunken skin and bony features reminded Jarvis of the Egyptian mummies the scholar had dedicated his life to studying. “I’d say so, yes,” agreed the curator, clearing his throat.
The sarcophagus was part of a shipment of Egyptian artifacts only recently arrived at the British Museum, and Lord Jarvis was amongst the first in London to see them. His passion for Egyptology was one of the few distractions from statecraft Jarvis allowed himself.
He turned to the enigmatic statue of a cat displayed on a nearby plinth, its eyes, ears, and collar picked out in gold. “Ah. Lovely. Just lovely.”
The sound of footsteps echoing through the empty corridors brought the curator’s head around, his features twisted by a look of annoyance mingled with nervousness. When Jarvis requested a private showing, he did not like to be disturbed. “Sir. The museum does not open to the public again until Octo—”
“Leave us,” said Viscount Devlin, pausing in the doorway to the chamber, his fierce yellow gaze focusing on the curator.
The curator opened and closed his mouth several times, then scuttled away.
Jarvis uttered a bored sigh. “I trust you have a good reason for this interruption, Lord Devlin.”
He was already turning back to the sarcophagus when the Viscount moved, so rapidly as to be but a blur at the periphery of Jarvis’s vision.
Jarvis was a large man, tall and bulky with years of comfortable living. Yet by reaching across to grab a handful of Jarvis’s waistcoat, Devlin managed to bring him spinning back around. Jarvis saw the flash of a blade, felt cold steel at his throat.
“Very well,” he said dryly. “You have my full attention. Now what is this about?”
“I know you’ve threatened Kat Boleyn,” said Devlin, his lips peeling back from his teeth as he spit out each word. “And I know why. But if you want the name of Napoleon’s new spymaster in London, you’re going to have to find another way to get it.”
“If you think—” Jarvis began.
Devlin cut him off with a quick jerk of the knife that caused the edge of the blade to nick Jarvis’s flesh. “No. The matter is not open for discussion. I’m here to tell you the new situation. All you do is listen.”
Jarvis felt rage boil up within him, hot and impotent. He held it in check.
“By this time next week, Kat Boleyn will be my wife. You make a move to harm her or threaten her again in any way and I’ll kill you. It’s as simple as that. You know I’m a man of my word, and you know I’ll do it. I trust I make myself clear.”
Jarvis returned the man’s hard stare.
“Of course,” Devlin continued, “you could try to have me killed. But I don’t think you’re that stupid. The consequences for you if your lackey were to fail would be fatal.”
With one smooth motion, Devlin withdrew the knife from Jarvis’s throat and stepped back. It was with difficulty that Jarvis resisted the urge to bring his hands up to his throat.
The Viscount was already crossing the room. Jarvis stopped him before he reached the door. “You would do that? You would marry that traitorous whore?”
The Viscount’s hand moved. Jarvis felt a passing breath of air, followed by an ugly
“Call her that again,” said Devlin, “and the next knife bites flesh.”
Sebastian found her in the shadows near the stage door. The air was heavy with the scent of dust and greasepaint. She had the hood of her cloak drawn up as if she were cold. Her pale face and haunted eyes were those of a woman with no hope, no future.
He walked up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. What she must have seen in his eyes caused the little color she had left in her face to drain away.
“I know why you’ve been afraid,” he said. “It’s over now. Jarvis won’t bother you again.”
He felt her tremble beneath his hands. “God save us. Please tell me you didn’t kill him.”
“Not yet. But I think I’ve convinced him of the folly of threatening my wife.”
“Your
“I’ve found a bishop who’s agreed to marry us by special license on Monday evening at seven. I pushed for sooner, but he insists he has other engagements.”
“You can’t marry me.”
“You’ve been saying that for months, and I’ve respected it. But no longer. This is why you refused me before, isn’t it? Because of your arrangement with the French.”
She drew in a breath that shuddered her chest. “Oh, God. Partially. But only partially, Devlin. You know what I am, what I have been. An actress. A whore—”
He pressed his fingers to her lips. “Don’t. Don’t say it.”
She stared up at him. “Why not? It’s the truth. Would you have me live a lie?”
“No. I would have you live a life defined not by what you’ve been, but by what you are.”
“My past is a part of what I am.”
“A part. But only a part.”
He slid his hands down her shoulders to capture her hands in his. “Marry me, Kat. It’s the only way I can truly
