She evaded the watchdog set by her father simply by descending into the kitchens to confer with the housekeeper and then slipping out by the area steps. Walking briskly to the corner of Davies Street, she caught a hackney and directed the driver to Number 41 Brook Street.
It was most unseemly for a young unmarried woman to visit the house of an unmarried gentleman—particularly without her maid. Hero had given the situation considerable thought, but in the end decided there was no avoiding it. She had promised her father she would not put herself in danger, and Hero Jarvis kept her promises. Her major concern was that she might find Lord Devlin already gone from home.
Paying off the hackney, she rang an imperious peal on the Viscount’s door. It was opened almost at once by a military-looking majordomo who regarded her with unconcealed suspicion.
“Pray inform Lord Devlin that I am here to see him,” she said loftily.
“And whom shall I say is calling?”
“My good man,” said Hero at her most condescending, “if I wanted you to know my name, I would have given it to you.”
The majordomo hesitated. Fear of giving offense to a veiled noblewoman warred with the horror of ushering some grasping harpy into his master’s presence. Fear of giving offense won. He bowed and let her in. “One moment while I see if his lordship is receiving.”
He achieved a measure of revenge by leaving her in the hall rather than ushering her into a receiving room. He returned in a moment, his face giving nothing away, to lead her upstairs to the drawing room. “Tea will arrive shortly,” drawled the majordomo, and withdrew.
Pushing back her veil, Hero prowled the room. She studied the curious, intricately incised brass platter on one wall, the carved wooden head that looked as if it had come from Africa on another. A tea tray arrived along with a plate of bread and butter, but she ignored it, her attention caught by a painting over the mantel. It was by Gainsborough, of a laughing young woman with unpowdered golden hair and a braid-trimmed riding costume in the style of the last century. Hero could trace the resemblance to the Viscount in the flare of the woman’s cheekbones, the curve of the lips. So this was Devlin’s mother, Hero thought. They still talked about the long-dead Countess of Hendon in scandalized whispers.
She was so absorbed in her study of the painting that she failed to hear the door open behind her.
“I suspected it was you,” said an amused voice, “from my majordomo’s description. I don’t know that many tall, haughty gentlewomen with the manner of a Turkish pasha.”
She swung to face him. “I don’t know any Turkish pashas.”
“Which is probably a good thing,” he said, leaving the door open behind him. “They like their women obsequious and agreeable.”
“Like most Englishmen.”
“Like most men,” he agreed, advancing into the room.
He was dressed in doeskin breeches and a well-tailored dark coat, but his hair still curled damply away from his face. She said, “I’ve caught you at your bath.”
“Actually, you caught me still abed.” He glanced at the tea, which she hadn’t touched. “Join me?” he asked, pouring a cup.
She took it from his outstretched hand. “You haven’t asked why I’m here.”
He poured himself a cup and lifted one of the pieces of buttered bread from the plate. “I have no doubt it is your intention to enlighten me.”
He had a nearly limitless capacity for irritating her, and it did no good to remind herself that he provoked her intentionally. The urge to simply set down her tea and leave was overcome with difficulty; a promise was a promise. She said, “I’ve received a note from Tasmin Poole. A boy passed it to me as I was about to enter my carriage last night.”
He selected another slice of buttered bread. “She has located the missing Hannah Green?”
“So it seems. The woman is hiding in a cottage just off Strand Lane, and she has agreed to meet me there.”
The Viscount swallowed his bread and took a sip of tea. “You’re suspicious. Why?”
“I am to go there at midday with only one servant to accompany me. According to the note, these precautions are necessary because Hannah Green is frightened. I believe the note to be genuine, but I am aware of the possibility that it could be a trap.”
“It certainly sounds like one to me.”
“Yet if it’s not and I fail to go, the chance to meet Hannah Green will be lost.”
He reached for another slice of bread. “Are you certain you don’t want some of this?” he asked, nudging the plate toward her. “It’s really quite good.”
“Thank you, but I breakfasted hours ago.”
“Is that an insult? I wonder.”
“Yes.”
He laughed and finished the last of the bread. “I think I begin to understand. If you were anyone else, I might assume you had come to ask for my advice. On the strength of our limited acquaintance, however, I suspect you have already made up your mind to go and have simply come here to request that I accompany you”—his gaze took in her riding costume—“posing, I take it, as your groom?”
“And to beg the loan of a horse. I was forced to slip out the basement to avoid my watchdog.”
“We could take a hackney.”
“Then I would need a lady’s maid, not a groom,” she pointed out.
“True. Unfortunately, I don’t own any ladies’ horses.”
“Neither do I.” She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “If you have finished your tea and bread?”
“It’s a trap, you know,” he said, suddenly serious.
“Will you do it?”
“Drink your tea,” he told her, “while I transfer myself into a more humble attire.”
Lying just to the west of St. Clements, Strand Lane proved to be a narrow cobbled passage that wound a torturous path down toward the river.
The day was overcast and cold, with the kind of biting wind more typical of March than May. Pausing his gelding at the head of the lane, Sebastian let his gaze flick to the watch house and church of St. Mary’s that had been left marooned in the center of the Strand by the widening of the street. “It seems an unlikely place for a frightened prostitute to go to ground,” he said.
“Perhaps she grew up around here,” said Miss Jarvis, reining in her mount beside him.
He kneed his horse forward between aged gabled houses of timber and whitewashed daub that nearly met overhead. The buildings might be old, but they were well kept, the cobbles and worn doorsteps swept clean. A little girl dashed past, laughing as she chased a kitten through flowers tumbling out of green-painted window boxes. They passed a ramshackle old inn, the Cock and Magpie, and a livery. But within a hundred yards or so, the lane unexpectedly opened up to their right and Sebastian found himself staring out over a tumbledown stone wall at a stretch of open land.
“It’s a curious place for a meeting,” he said, reining in. He could see, scattered amidst rioting wisteria and lilacs, the broken, ivy-covered statues and rusted iron gates of an abandoned garden that stretched all the way to the terrace and neoclassical side elevation of Somerset House in the distance.