“I hear you’re at it again,” she said, her head turning as she let her gaze scan the crowded dance floor. She could bear to look at him for only a limited amount of time. “Involving yourself in the sordid details of a murder investigation, like some grubby little Bow Street Runner.”
Following her gaze, Sebastian watched his niece, Stephanie Wilcox, coming down the set of the country dance on the arm of Lord Smallbone. Just finishing her first London Season at the age of eighteen, Stephanie was everything Amanda had never been: delicate and winsome and breathtakingly beautiful . . . and so much like Sebastian’s long-vanished mother, Sophie, that it made his chest ache just to look at her.
Earlier in the Season there’d been talk of a match between the young Miss Wilcox and Smallbone. But no announcement had as yet been forthcoming, and Sebastian knew Amanda was growing anxious. “What’s the matter, Amanda?” he said gently. “Worried I’ll somehow scuttle my niece’s chances of landing a good catch?”
He had the satisfaction of seeing an angry flush touch his sister’s cheeks. “Don’t be vulgar,” she snapped. “Although I don’t suppose you can help it.”
“Oh? Why’s that, Amanda?”
Her lips tightened into a thin line. Rather than answer, she simply turned and left him staring after her, and wondering what she knew, and how she knew it.
“An interesting display of sibling affection,” said Miss Hero Jarvis, walking up to him. “Or lack thereof.”
She wore a stunning sapphire blue gown of satin trimmed with velvet ribbons, and was regarding him with her frank, faintly amused gray eyes.
“Definitely a ‘lack thereof,’ ” he said dryly. The country dance came to an end with a flourish, disgorging a wave of flushed and perspiring dancers upon them. “Here,” he said, cupping a hand beneath her elbow to draw her away from the crush.
“I thought you made it a practice to avoid these functions,” she said, gently removing her arm from his grasp.
“Actually, I was looking for you.”
“Then you’re fortunate to have found me. I’m here only because I was looking for Lord Quillian. The Duchess of Isling is his sister. Or didn’t you know?”
“No,” said Sebastian, who relied on his aunt Henrietta to remind him of the intricate familial ties that bound one member of the Upper Ten Thousand to the next. “And precisely why, Miss Jarvis, were you searching for Lord Quillian?”
“Did you never find it something of a coincidence that Reverend Earnshaw should have decided to demolish the charnel house on the north side of St. Margaret’s and discovered Sir Nigel’s body at just this moment?”
“No,” Sebastian admitted. “But you’re right; it is something of a coincidence that it should all happen now, just when the Bishop was being considered for elevation to the Archbishopric of Canterbury—and preparing to present a Slavery Abolition Act to Parliament.”
“You told me once that when it comes to murder, you don’t believe in coincidences.”
“I did?”
“You did. So I decided to drive out to Tanfield Hill this afternoon, to offer my condolences to Mrs. Earnshaw on the sad loss of her husband.”
Sebastian turned to stare at her. “Really? And did she believe you were sincere?”
“She did. You’re not the only one who can playact, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know full well what I mean, Mr. Taylor. The woman was upset, obviously, but not disconsolate. I had no difficulty encouraging her to talk about the construction work on the church.”
“And?”
“She said the Reverend had been wanting to make the changes for years, only he’d been frustrated by a lack of funds—and by a lack of cooperation from the Bishop himself.”
“Interesting. But not exactly damning.”
“No, but listen to this: According to Mrs. Earnshaw, the Reverend was very excited because he was able to secure a private donor. After much wrestling with his conscience, he decided to simply go ahead with the construction without informing London House.”
“Let me guess. The private donor was Quillian.”
Her face fell. “You knew?”
“No. But it was the obvious conclusion, given that you’re here looking for him.” He studied the dark, full sweep of her lashes, the graceful line of her long neck and bare white shoulders. “Tell me, Miss Jarvis: Why have you involved yourself in the Bishop’s death?”
She looked away. “I told you. He was my friend.”
“Are you certain that’s the only reason?”
She gave a polite laugh. “What other reason could there be?”
“I thought it might have something to do with the interesting interview I had this afternoon with Dr. Daniel McCain and his wife.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing her blanch, although she recovered almost immediately. Miss Jarvis, it seemed, was very good at what she called “playacting.” Lifting one eyebrow in an expression that was hauntingly evocative of her father, she said airily, “Dr. McCain? You mean from the Chelsea Royal Hospital? What, pray tell, is your interest in him?”
“I’ve discovered the Bishop of London called upon Dr. McCain and his wife the afternoon before his death.” Sebastian paused, watching her reaction. “Did you know?”
“No,” she said smoothly. “Although I’m not surprised, given that it was Bishop Prescott who first encouraged me to look into the dreadful situation at the Royal Hospital—and who introduced me to Dr. McCain.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Because it seems the good Bishop traveled down to Chelsea last Monday on a different errand entirely.”
“Oh?” Her smile was that of someone who was politely puzzled. But there was a shadow of something that looked very much like fear glittering in her eyes. “And what was that, my lord?”
He met her gaze and held it, his voice pitched low. “I think you know, Miss Jarvis.”
Chapter 34
She held herself very still, her lips parting as she drew in a quick, steadying breath. But her awe-inspiring composure never slipped. “I can’t think what you mean, my lord Devlin.”
“Perhaps we should continue this conversation someplace more private,” he suggested. “May I escort you down to dinner, Miss Jarvis?”
“I think not.” She cast a significant glance about. “We do, however, seem to be attracting an inordinate amount of attention. It might be better if you were to invite me to dance.”
“Dance?” he repeated in something between shock and horror.
“Why, yes.” She gave him an icy smile and extended her hand. “Thank you, my lord.”
There was nothing for it but to escort her onto the floor, where two long lines were forming.
They faced each other across a space of perhaps six feet, he in the gentlemen’s line, she in the ladies’. She said, “You are entirely wrong in your supposition, you know.”
The chamber orchestra struck up, the sweet notes of the violin barely filtering through the chattering roar that filled the ballroom. The row of gentlemen bowed. The ladies sank into gracious curtsies. Sebastian had to wait until it was their turn to come together in the center of the line to whisper, “I hardly think the dance floor is the place to be having this conversation.”
Her smile widened. “Actually, I find the setting quite appropriate, under the circumstances.”
They circled each other back-to-back, turning counterclockwise on the jeté. He said, “You know I cannot speak freely.”