“I tell you, the fault’s in the design of the jets,” insisted Sir Henry.
But Sebastian only laughed.
Chapter 38
That evening shortly before dinner, Hero was working in the library when her father entered the room. Lord Jarvis rarely dined at his own home. Looking up, she had little doubt as to why he was here, now.
He stared at the books she had scattered across the library table and frowned. “What is all this?”
Hero laid down her pen and sat back. “Some research I’m doing.”
Lord Jarvis grunted. “Why can’t you arrange flowers and embroider seat covers like other women?”
“Because I’m your daughter,” she said, gathering the books into a neat stack.
He didn’t even smile. Pressing both hands flat on the tabletop, he leaned into them, his gaze hard on her face. “What exactly is Devlin’s interest in the deaths of the Magdalene House women?”
Hero stared up at him without flinching. His lackey had obviously wasted no time reporting back to him. “The same as mine. To see justice done.”
Pushing away from the table, he swiped one big hand through the air, like someone brushing aside an annoying gnat. “There is no justice in this world. There are only the strong and the weak. Those women were weak.”
“Which is why it is the obligation of the strong to fight for them.”
Lord Jarvis let out his breath in a scornful huff. “I told you I would deal with those responsible.”
Hero pushed to her feet. “Because of me. Not because of them.”
“What difference does that make?”
She found herself oddly reluctant to explain to him the effect her meeting with Rachel Fairchild had had upon her, or the guilt that drove her to try to understand what had gone wrong in the young woman’s life. She said instead, “Has your Colonel Epson-Smith discovered those responsible?”
“Not yet. But he will.” He turned away to pour himself a glass of brandy. “You broke our agreement. You went to Bow Street.”
“On a slightly different errand. You heard Sir William is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he was involved with one of the women killed?”
Jarvis looked over at her. “Who told you that? Devlin?”
“No. Someone else.”
Jarvis grunted. “You brought Devlin into this?”
“Yes.”
“How much does he know?” he asked, decanter in hand.
“You mean, does he know I was at the Magdalene House when it was attacked? Yes.”
Lord Jarvis poured himself a measure of brandy, then replaced the stopper in the decanter and set it aside without looking at her. She knew he was choosing his words carefully. “Devlin wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you to get at me. You know that, don’t you?”
She chose her words with equal care. “I know he is your enemy. But I do not believe he would hurt me to get at you. He’s not”—she started to say, like you, then changed it to—“like that.”
She expected him to laugh at her again. Instead, he merely looked thoughtful. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze turned now to study her face in a way that made her uncomfortable. He said, “Why Devlin?”
Because he’s the one man in this country who isn’t afraid of you, she thought. But again, she didn’t say it. She said, “He has achieved good results in the past, in similar situations.”
“And did you ask yourself why he agreed to help?”
“I know why he agreed. To get back at you.”
“Yet you say he wouldn’t hurt you.”
“That’s right.”
He went to sit in one of the upholstered chairs near the empty hearth, his glass cradled in his palm. “I set Farley to follow you this afternoon for your own protection. You knew that. Yet you evaded him. Why?”
“I know something of your Colonel’s methods. The last thing I would ever want to do is unwittingly furnish him with a few more hapless victims.”
Lord Jarvis pressed his lips together in a frown. “That’s not the intent here.”
She met his gaze squarely. “It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”
He glared right back at her. “And your exposing yourself to danger is a risk I’m not willing to take.”
“Papa.” She went to lean over the back of his chair, her arms looped around his neck. “I was never in any danger this afternoon and you know it.”
He brought up one of his big hands to cover hers. With anyone else, he would have been overbearing and coldly threatening, but he’d learned long ago that didn’t work with Hero. She was too much like him. He said, “Where did you go this afternoon?”
“To meet a woman I hoped would help me make some sense of what happened at the Magdalene House.”
He took a long swallow of his brandy. “With Devlin?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose it’s better than going on your own.” He shifted his hand to lightly grasp her wrist and tug her around so that he could see her face. “Finding out about this woman is so important to you?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”
“I know.”
He hesitated, and she knew again the fear that he would forbid her to continue her inquiries. But all he said was, “I would ask you to be careful.”
“I will. I promise.”
He nodded. “You are unusually sensible for a woman . . . however ill advised your political ideas are.”
She knew he had said it to provoke her. But she only smiled and refused to rise to the bait.
That night, Hero and her mother were descending the steps of their Berkeley Square house toward the carriage that had been ordered to take them to a fashionable soiree when a malodorous little boy came pelting down the footpath toward them.
“My goodness,” gasped Lady Jarvis, shrinking back in a cloud of pale azure satin as the boy slammed right into Hero.
“You there,” shouted the butler, starting forward, “watch where you’re going.”
But the boy was already off, feet flying, one hand held up to clamp his cap to his head as he disappeared around the corner.
“Brazen guttersnipes,” muttered Grisham, staring after him. “Whatever is the world coming to? I trust you suffered no harm, Miss Jarvis?”
“I’m fine,” said Hero, the folded missive slipped her by the boy carefully tucked out of sight.
Chapter 39
FRIDAY, 8 MAY 1812
The next day Hero dressed in her plainest riding gown topped by a particularly ugly hat with a dense veil that made her grandmother tut-tut and prophesy she was destined to end her days as an old maid.
“I sincerely hope so,” said Hero, then prudently whisked herself out of the room to avoid being sucked into an old and well-worn argument.