“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 efficient 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.
