“Then we wait.”
The lower lip came into play again. “We shoulda brought the kittens.”
But in the end, they had no need to wait. A moment later, a tall, lean gentleman in the gold frogged, dark blue tunic of a hussar appeared at the door of the coffeehouse and turned to walk briskly toward Whitehall.
“You’re certain?”
“ ’Course I’m certain. I told you, I don’t pay no attention to names. But I never forget a face.”
Sebastian regarded her thoughtfully. She was not, despite all appearances to the contrary, quite as lacking in sense as a fencepost. He said, “You wouldn’t happen to know how Rose Fletcher killed the man in her room that night, would you?”
“She stabbed him,” Hannah whispered, leaning forward as if someone could overhear. “Stabbed him with a pair of sewing scissors. Leastways, that’s what she said.” She sat back again, the anxiety on her face fading as her thoughts turned to a more pleasant topic. “Do you think Mrs. Calhoun would let me keep one of the kittens?”
Chapter 54
A slow drizzle fell that evening, glazing the paving stones and footpaths of Mayfair with a wet sheen that reflected the light of the wind-flickered streetlamps and passing carriage lanterns. Dressed in knee breeches and a white silk waistcoat with buckled shoes at his feet and a chapeau-bras tucked under one arm, Sebastian set forth for the ball being given that evening by Lady Burnham in her Park Lane home.
The rain had thinned the crowds gathered on the footpath outside to watch, but it still took Sebastian’s carriage an inordinate amount of time to press its way forward, for some five hundred people had been invited to the ball. He had no doubt that Patrick Somerville’s well-married sister, Lady Berridge, would be in attendance, with her reluctant brother in tow.
As he entered the ballroom, the first person he saw was his aunt Henrietta, who immediately gasped and groped for the quizzing glass she always wore around her neck, even when decked out in mauve silk and lace and a towering turban. “Good heavens. Devlin, whatever are you doing here? First Almack’s and Lady Melbourne’s breakfast, now Lady Burnham’s ball?” She drew in a deep breath that swelled her massive bosom and gave him an arch smile. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally taken it into your head to look for a wife?”
“No,” he said baldly, his gaze raking the crowded ballroom beyond her. In actual fact he was looking for a murderer, but he wasn’t about to tell his aunt that. His eyes narrowed as he spied Patrick Somerville talking to a pale-haired young matron near the bank of French doors that overlooked the rear terrace. “If I change my mind, believe me, Aunt, you’ll be the first to know.”
Excusing himself, he pushed on through the laughing, chattering crowd. But as ill luck would have it, he had only worked his way around half of the room when he came upon Miss Jarvis.
“Good heavens,” she said in a tone that exactly matched his aunt’s, except that Miss Jarvis was not smiling. “What are you doing here?”
“I received an invitation.”
“Yes, but you never attend these things.” She was wearing an emerald green silk gown that became her surprisingly well, and had crimped her hair so that it softened the angular planes of her face. But there was nothing soft about her expression. She frowned. “You’re looking for someone, aren’t you? Who is it?”
He deliberately turned his back on the row of French doors. “Perhaps I’ve suddenly taken it into my head to enjoy a bit of dancing.”
“Nonsense.” She cast a quick glance around. “We can’t talk here. Escort me to the refreshment room.”
He was too much of a gentleman to refuse her, and she knew it. Lending her his arm, he led her through the crush to a chamber that had been set aside for refreshments. He was hoping to find it crowded. It was nearly deserted.
“I want you to tell me what happened last night in Orchard Street,” she said, accepting a glass of lemonade. “You do know, don’t you?”
She would have read about the fire in that morning’s papers, of course. He picked up a plate and surveyed the delicate tidbits offered by their hostess to sustain her guests until supper. “I think the abbess was the intended target,” he said as calmly as if they were discussing the orchestra or the silver streamers decorating the ballroom. “Do you like shrimp or crab?”
“Shrimp, please.” He didn’t expect her to know what an abbess was, but in that, he reckoned without the research that had embroiled her in this murderous tangle to begin with. She said, “They killed her?”
“Yes.” He selected three fat shrimp, then added a slice of ham and some melon. “Along with a fair number of others.”
“Because they thought she could identify them? Is that it? If she could, it’s a wonder they let her live so long.”
“I suspect she didn’t know their names. She only became a threat as we began to circle around toward them.” He let his gaze wander over the table. “Would you like an ice?”
“No, thank you.” She took the plate he’d prepared for her. “Do you think they’ll go after Hannah Green again?”
“They would if they knew where to find her. Fortunately, they don’t.”
She applied herself to the refreshments with a healthy appetite. “How is she, by the way?”
“Hannah? Last time I saw her, she was in rapture over the stable cat’s litter of black-and-white kittens.”
