Where Serpents Sleep

were only women of ill repute.”

“How do you know the fire wasn’t an accident?”

“Because I was there, in the house. One of the women and I escaped through a window and ran down the alley.”

There was a moment’s silence while he digested this. She said, “You haven’t asked why I was there.”

“Very well, Miss Jarvis: Why were you there?”

“I have been conducting research for a bill to be presented in Parliament at the next session, for the relief of indigent women. Centuries of sanctimonious moralists and ministers thundering from their pulpits have convinced society that women become prostitutes because they suffer from some innate moral depravity. I, on the other hand, believe that the unpalatable truth is most women enter the profession only as a last, desperate resort. Unable to earn a living wage by any of the other means our society makes available to them, they soon realize they can either steal, sell their bodies, or starve.”

Sebastian glanced at her tightly held face. It seemed an unlikely subject to stir the passions of Lord Jarvis’s daughter. But then, Sebastian really knew little about this woman. “What happened to the girl you say escaped with you?”

“She was shot and killed before we reached the street. Fortunately, I’d left my maid in the carriage—she’s so sour and censorious she tends to discourage the women from talking. Otherwise, I’ve no doubt she would have been killed, as well.”

Sebastian stared off across the park, considering this. It was an unfashionable hour for a drive; except for a middle-aged man in a shabby gig teaching a half-grown boy to drive, the gravel road lay deserted in the fitful morning sunshine.

After a moment, Sebastian said, “You’ll have to forgive me, Miss Jarvis, if I find all this rather difficult to believe. You see, it seems to me that if anyone had dared take a shot at Lord Jarvis’s daughter last night, every magistrate and constable in England would be out, even as we speak, scouring the back alleys and flash houses of the city until those responsible were brought to justice.”

She twitched her parasol back and forth in short, sharp jerks, a tinge of angry color touching her cheeks. “My father was disconcerted at the prospect my presence at the Magdalene House might become public knowledge —”

“Disconcerted?” said Sebastian, arching one eyebrow.

“Disconcerted,” she said again, with emphasis.

“Given Lord Jarvis’s attitude toward social reform, I suspect dismayed might be a more fitting description.”

“My father understands that my politics are different from his.”

Sebastian simply smiled.

“He has requested Sir William Hadley personally take charge of the investigation,” she said.

“Then you may rest easy. As the chief magistrate of Bow Street, Sir William has proved himself to be crude, ruthless, and very effective.”

“I fear I haven’t made myself clear. Sir William has been ordered to make certain that there is no official investigation, as any such inquiries would inevitably lead to my name being bandied about in connection with the incident. Instead, my father intends to take care of the men responsible himself. He wants it done quietly. Very quietly.”

“Lord Jarvis is highly effective at ‘taking care’ of people quietly,” said Sebastian. “I don’t think you need concern yourself with the matter any further.”

“My father’s sole interest is in killing those who endangered my life.”

“And that’s not sufficient?”

She turned toward him, her gray eyes as intelligent—and inscrutable—as her father’s. “One of the women I interviewed last night was called Rose. Rose Jones. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years of age, tall and slender, with brown hair and green eyes. I would swear she was wellborn. Very wellborn.”

“She may have been. Unfortunately, Miss Jarvis, gently born women are frequently reduced by circumstances to prostitution.” Sebastian completed his second circuit of the park in silence, then turned back toward the Strand. “Clergymen’s daughters, daughters of impoverished solicitors and doctors, the widows and orphans of officers killed in the war . . . all are far more common in Covent Garden than you obviously imagine.”

“That may be. But when we first heard those men breaking into the Magdalene House last night, Rose said to me, ‘Oh, God. They’ve found me. They’re here to kill me.’ Then, later, I heard the men say, ‘She’s not here,’ and, ‘She must be upstairs.’ I believe Rose Jones is the reason those women were killed. I want to know who she was and why those men were after her.”

“Why?”

“Why?” The question appeared to surprise her.

“Yes. Why do you want to know? Vulgar curiosity?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

She was silent for a moment, the damp breeze ruffling her plain brown hair as she stared off across the misty parkland. She drew in a deep breath that flared her nostrils, then said, “I held that woman in my arms as she was dying. It could so easily have been me. I suppose I feel I owe her something.”

It was a heartfelt performance, and if it had been delivered by anyone other than Jarvis’s daughter, Sebastian probably would have believed it. He said, “So why, precisely, have you sought me out?”

She turned to face him, the hint of humanity he thought he’d momentarily glimpsed now gone. “It’s the