Sophie had lied to him, no matter how cruel and destructive her betrayal and abandonment, the protective urge he'd felt for her as a boy still flared in him.
`And that Christmas?' he asked, keeping his voice level with difficulty, his gaze still fixed on the scene outside the window.
`I actually can't recall.'
He watched the long canes of the arbor's climbing roses bend in the wind, watched the raindrops chase each other down the window glass.
Amanda rose to her feet. `You really want to know who begat our mother's precious little bastard? Well, I'll tell you. It was her groom. A lowly, stinking groom.'
Turning, he looked into her familiar, pinched face and didn't believe her. Refused to believe her.
She must have read the rejection of everything she'd said in his eyes, because she gave a harsh, ringing laugh. `You don't believe me, do you? Well, I saw them. That autumn, on the cliffs overlooking the sea, in Cornwall. He was lying on his back and she was riding him. It was the most disgusting thing I've ever witnessed. Jeb, I believe his name was. Or perhaps Jed, or something equally vulgar.'
He stared into his sister's hate-filled blue eyes and knew a revulsion so intense as to be physical. `I don t believe you,' he said out loud.
`Believe it,' she sneered. `I see him every time I look at you. Oh, his hair might have been darker than yours, and he might not have been as tall. But there has never been any doubt in my mind.'
A sudden gust of wind blew rain against the window with a startlingly loud clatter.
He wanted to say, `Was the groom a Gypsy?' But he couldn't so betray himself to this cold, angry woman who hated him more than she'd ever hated anyone in her life. So instead he asked,
`What happened to him?'
`I neither knew nor cared. He went away. That was all that mattered to me.'
Sebastian walked to the door, then paused to look back to where she still stood, her hands clenched at her sides, her face red and twisted with hatred and some other emotion.
It took him a moment to recognize it, but then he knew.
It was triumph.
Sir Henry Lovejoy hesitated at the entrance to the Bow Street public office, his face screwing into a grimace as he stared out at the ceaseless torrent driven sideways by the force of the wind. Water sluiced in sheets from the eaves, swelled in the gutters, pinged off the glass of the building's tall windows. Sighing, he was about to unfurl his umbrella and step out into the deluge when he became aware of a gentleman crossing the street from the Brown Bear toward him.
A tall, military-looking gentleman, he seemed oblivious to the elements, the numerous shoulder capes on his coat swirling about him as he leapt the rushing gutter. `Ah, Sir Henry, is it not?' he said, drawing up on the flagway. `I am Colonel Urquhart.'
Swallowing hard, Lovejoy gave a jerky bow. The Colonel was well-known as Jarvis's man. `Colonel. How may I help you?'
`I'm told you are heading up the search for the killer of the Tennyson family.'
`I am, yes. In fact, I was just about to...'
Urquhart tucked his hand through Lovejoy's elbow and drew him back into the public office. `Let's find someplace dry and private where we can have a little chat, shall we?'
Chapter 41
It had become Kat Boleyn's habit of late to frequent the flower market on Castle Street, not far from Cavendish Square. She'd discovered there was a rare, elusive peace to be found amidst the gaily colored rows of roses and lavender and cheerful nosegays. Sometimes the beauty of a vibrant petal or the faintest hint of a familiar scent was so heady it could take her far back in time to another place, another life.
The morning's rain had only just eased off, leaving the air cool and clean and smelling sweetly of damp stone. She wandered the stalls for a time, the handle of her basket looped casually over one arm. It wasn't until she paused beside a man selling small potted orange trees that she became aware of being watched.
Looking up, she found herself staring at a tall gentlewoman in an exquisitely fashioned walking gown of green sarcenet trimmed in velvet. She had her father's aquiline nose and shrewd gray eyes and a surprisingly sensuous mouth that was all her own.
`Do you know who I am?' asked Devlin's new Viscountess in a husky voice that could have earned her a fortune on the stage, had she been born to a less elevated position in society.
`I know.'
By silent consent, the two women turned to walk toward Oxford Market, pushing past a Negro band and shouting costermongers hawking everything from apples to fried eels. After a moment, Kat said,
`I assume you have sought me out for a reason.'
`I wonder if you know someone nearly killed Devlin last night.'
Kat felt a quick stab of fear that left her chest aching, her breath tight. `Is he all right?'
`He is. But the man who was standing beside him is dead, shot through the heart from a distance of some three hundred yards.'
Kat knew of only one man with the ability to make such a shot. Two, if she counted Devlin. But she kept that knowledge to herself.
The Viscountess said, `I believe you are familiar with a tavern owner named Jamie Knox.'
`I have heard of him,' Kat said warily.
The Viscountess glanced over at her. `I should tell you that I know quite a bit about Russell Yates and his various activities.' She paused, then added, `My information does not come from Devlin.'
Kat understood only too well what that meant. Kat's own encounters with this woman's father, Lord Jarvis, had been brutal, terrifying, and nearly fatal. He had promised her torture and a heinous death, and while that threat had abated, it had not disappeared. Kat knew he was simply waiting for the right opportunity to strike. She had to call upon all of her years of theatrical training to keep her voice sounding calm. `And?'
`I gather this Knox is one of your husband's... shall we call them associates?'
Kat drew up abruptly and swung to face her. `Exactly what are you trying to say?'
The Viscountess met her gaze. `I think Knox is a danger to Devlin. I also think you know more about the man than you are willing to let on even to Devlin.'
Kat was aware of the darkening clouds pressing down on them, promising more rain. She could feel the dampness in the breeze, smell the earthy scent of the vegetables in the market stalls.
When she remained silent, the Viscountess said, `I can understand the problems that are created by divided loyalties.'
Kat gave a startled laugh and turned to continue walking. `Well, I suppose that's one more thing you and I have in common, is it not?'
`My father at least is not trying to kill Devlin.'
Kat glanced over at her. `Can you be so certain?'
Something flared in the other woman's eyes, quickly hidden. They continued along the side of the square for a moment; then the Viscountess said, `I don't know exactly what happened to cause the estrangement between you and Devlin last winter. But I believe you still care for him at least enough not to want to see him hurt. Or dead.'
`I think you underestimate your husband.'
`He s mortal.'
Kat stopped again. The wind was flapping the draping on the market stalls, scuttling handbills across the wet cobbles. She said, `Why did you come here?'
A gleam of unexpected amusement shone in the woman's eyes.
`I should have thought that was rather obvious.'
`My God,' whispered Kat as understanding suddenly dawned. `You love him.'
