way her eyes widened in wonder and delight when he entered her. He gazed deep into her wide, dark eyes, saw her lips part, and knew her thoughts mirrored his own.
Yet the latent distrust that had always been there between them now loomed infinitely larger, fed by the unknown currents swirling around Gabrielle Tennyson's death and the lingering poisons of Jarvis's unabated malevolence and Sebastian's own tangled, sordid past. They had come to this marriage as two wary strangers united only by the child they had made and the passion they had finally admitted they shared. Now it seemed they were losing even that. Except...
Except that wasn't quite right, either. The passion was still there. It was their ability to surrender to it that was slipping away.
He said, his voice oddly husky, `And what did you tell her, when Gabrielle asked if you ever had the sense you were missing something in life?'
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. `I lied. I said no.'
He thought for one aching moment that she would come to him. Then she said, `Good night, Devlin,' and turned away.
The next morning, a constable from Bow Street arrived to tell Sebastian that one of his Covent Garden attackers had been identified. The dead man's name was Gaston Colbert, and he was a French prisoner of war free on his parole.
Chapter 24
Wednesday, 5 August
Jarvis was at his breakfast table when he heard the distant peal of the bell. A moment later, Hero entered the room wearing a shako-styled hat and a walking dress of Prussian blue fashioned à la hussar with epaulettes and double rows of brass buttons up the bodice. She yanked off her gloves as she walked.
`Good morning,' Jarvis said, calmly cutting a piece of steak. `You're looking decidedly martial today.'
She came to flatten her palms on the table and lean into them, her gaze hard on his face. `Last night, two men tried to kill Devlin. Do you know anything about that?'
He laid his knife along the top edge of his plate. `It is my understanding that the assailant whom Devlin dispatched with his typically lethal efficiency was a French officer on his parole. What makes you think the incident has anything to do with me?'
`Because I know you.'
Jarvis took a bite of steak, chewed, and swallowed. `I confess I would not be sorry to see someone remove your husband from the landscape. But am I actively attempting to put a period to his existence? Not at the present moment.'
She held herself very still, her gaze still searching his face.
`Do you know who is?'
`No. Although I could speculate.'
She drew out the nearest chair and sat. `So speculate.'
Jarvis carved another slice of meat. `You've noticed the broadsheets that have appeared around town of late, calling for King Arthur to return from Avalon and lead England in its hour of need?'
`Do you know who's behind them?'
`Napoléon's agents, of course.'
`And are you suggesting these agents have set someone after Devlin? Why?'
`Those who make it a habit of poking sticks into nests of vipers shouldn't be surprised when one of those vipers strikes back.'
`You think that if Devlin finds whoever is behind the broadsheets, he'll find Gabrielle s killer?'
Jarvis reached for his ale and took a deep swallow. `It might be interesting.'
`And convenient for you if Devlin should manage to eliminate them.'
He smiled. `There is that.'
She collected her gloves and rose to her feet.
Jarvis said, `Have you told Devlin of my interaction with Miss Tennyson last Friday evening?'
Hero paused at the door to look back at him. `No.'
Her answer surprised and pleased him, and yet somehow also vaguely troubled him. He let his gaze drift over his daughter's face. There was a bloom of color in her cheeks, an inner glow that told its own story. He said suddenly, `You do realize I know why you married him.'
Her lips parted on a sudden intake of breath, but otherwise she remained remarkably calm and cool. `I can't imagine what you mean.'
`Your former abigail confessed her observations on your condition before she was killed.' When Hero only continued to stare at him, he said, `Is the child Devlin's?'
Her pupils flared with indignation. `It is.'
`Did he force himself upon you?'
`He did not.'
`I see. Interesting.'
She said, `The situation is complicated.'
`So it seems.'
He reached for his snuffbox.
`And the child is due when?'
`February.'
Jarvis flipped open the snuffbox, then simply held it, half forgotten. `You will take care of yourself, Hero.'
Her eyes danced with quiet amusement. `As much as ever.'
He gave her no answering smile. `If anything happens to you, I'll kill him.'
`Nothing is going to happen to me,' she said. `Good day, Papa.'
After she had gone, he sat for a time, lost in thought, the snuffbox still open in his hand. Then he shut it with a snap and closed his fist around the delicate metal hard enough that he heard it crunch.
Lieutenant Philippe Arceneaux was playing chess with a hulking mustachioed hussar in a coffee shop near Wych Street when Sebastian paused beside his table and said, `Walk with me for a moment, Lieutenant?'
The black and brown dog at Arceneaux's feet raised his head and woofed in anticipation.
`Monsieur!' protested the mustachioed Frenchman, glaring up at him. `The game! You interrupt!'
The hussar still wore the tight Hungarian riding breeches and heavily decorated but faded dark blue dolman of his regiment. At each temple dangled braided love knots known as cadenettes, with another braid behind each ear. The cadenettes were kept straight by the weight of a gold coin tied at the end of each braid, for Napoléon's hussars were as known for their meticulous, flamboyant appearance as for their ruthlessness as bandits on horseback.
`It's all right,' said Arceneaux in French, raising both hands in rueful surrender as he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. `I concede. You have thoroughly trounced me already. My situation is beyond hope.'
Sebastian was aware of the hussar's scowl following them to the coffee shop's door.
`Who's your friend?' Sebastian asked as they turned to stroll toward the nearby church of St. Clements, the dog trotting happily at their heels.
`Pelletier? Don't mind him. He has a foul disposition and a worse temper, but there's no real harm in him.'
`Interesting choice of words,' said Sebastian, `given that two of your fellow officers tried to kill me in Covent Garden last night.'
Arceneaux's smile slipped. `I had heard of the attack upon you.' He nodded to the arm Sebastian held resting in a sling. `You were wounded?'
`Not badly. Yet I now find myself wondering, why would two French officers on their parole want to kill me?'
