C Harris - When maidens mourn

As if becoming aware of Hero's scrutiny, he brought his gaze back to her face and cleared his throat. `As I said. And now, Lady Devlin, you really must excuse me.' Turning on his heel, he strode into the Pied Piper and shut the door behind him with a snap.

Hero stood for a moment, her gaze on the closed door. Then, digging her purse from her reticule, she walked over to the watercress girl. `How much for all your bunches?'

The girl straightened with a jerk, her mouth agape. `M'lady?'

`You heard me. You've what? A dozen? Tell me, do you always sell your watercress here, by the museum?'

The girl closed her mouth and swallowed. `Here, or at Bloomsbury Square.'

Hero pressed three coins into the girl s palm. `There's a shilling for all your watercress and two more besides. But don't let me catch you around here again. Is that understood? From now on, you peddle your bundles only at Bloomsbury.'

The girl dropped a frightened, confused curtsy. `Yes, m'lady.'

`Go on. Get out of here.'

The girl took to her heels and fled, the ragged skirt of her dress swirling around her ankles, her tray thumping against her thin body, her fist clenched about the coins in her hand. She did not look back.

Hero watched until the girl turned the corner and the receding patter of her bare feet was lost in the rumble of the passing carriages and carts, the shouts of the costermongers, the distant wail of the hurdy-gurdy player from the square.

But the uneasiness within her remained.

She was about to turn back toward her carriage when she heard a familiar low-pitched voice behind her say, `I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to find you here, but I must confess that I am.'

Sebastian stood with one shoulder propped against the brick wall of the pub, his arms crossed at his chest, and watched his wife pivot slowly to face him. The hot sun fell full across a face unusually pale but flawlessly composed.

`Devlin,' she said, adjusting the tilt of her parasol in a way that threw her features into shadow. `What brings you here?'

He pushed away from the wall. `I was hoping to find someone at the museum who could direct me to a certain unidentified antiquary who quarreled recently with Miss Tennyson. I take it that's the gentleman in question?'

`His name is Bevin Childe.' She stood still and let him walk up to her. `Post-Roman England is his specialty.'

`Ah, the Arthurian Age.'

`Yes. But I wouldn't let Childe hear you call it that. I suspect you'd get an earful.'

`Mr. Childe is not a fan of Camelot?'

`He is not.'

`How much do you know about him?'

They turned to walk together toward her waiting carriage. `Apart from the fact that he's a pompous ass?' she said with unladylike frankness.

Sebastian gave a startled laugh. `Is he?'

`Decidedly. As for what I know about him, I'm told his father is a Cambridge don. A doctor of divinity.'

`I wouldn't have expected such a man to have much to do with Miss Tennyson.'

He watched her brows draw together in a frown. `Meaning?' she asked.

`Meaning that however brilliant or accomplished she may have been, Miss Tennyson not only lacked a formal university education, but she was also female. And there's no need to scowl at me; I didn't say I agreed with that sort of prejudice, did I?'

`True. I beg your pardon.'

`What about Childe himself? Is he a clergyman?'

`I believe he was once rather reluctantly destined for the church. But fortunately for Mr. Childe, a maternal uncle managed to acquire a fortune in India and then died without siring an heir. He left everything to Mr. Childe.'

`Fortuitous, indeed for both Mr. Childe and the church. How do you come to know so much about the gentleman?'

`From Gabrielle. Her brother was up at Cambridge with Childe, and the two men have remained friends ever since much to Gabrielle s disgust, given that she has heartily detested the man since she was still in the schoolroom.'

`Any particular reason why?'

`She said he was arrogant, opinionated, self-absorbed, pedantic, and strange.'

`Strange? Did she ever explain exactly what she meant by that?'

`No. I asked her once, but she just shrugged and said he made her uncomfortable.'

`Interesting. And precisely how large of a fortune did the arrogant and pedantic Mr. Childe inherit?'

`A comfortable enough independence that he is now able to devote himself entirely to scholarship. I gather he currently divides his time between research here at the museum and a project he has undertaken for the Bodleian Library, which entails cataloging the library and collections of the late Richard Gough.'

`That's significant,' said Sebastian, studying her face. `Why?'

`Because amongst other things, Mr. Gough made a particular study of the Arthurian legends. And his home, Gough Hall, is near Enfield.'

`And Camlet Moat?'

`Precisely.'

Sebastian frowned. `So where does Mr. Childe live?'

`I believe he has rooms in St. James's Street.'

`He's unmarried?'

`He is, yes. Gabrielle told me several weeks ago that he had become quite vocal in his disparagement of her conclusions about Camlet Moat. And Childe himself says that they quarreled over the issue again just last Friday. But he also made some rather vague references to Gabrielle's secrets that I found disturbing.'

`Secrets? What secrets?'

`He declined to elaborate.'

They had reached her carriage. Sebastian shook his head at the footman who was about to spring forward; the man stepped back, and Sebastian opened the carriage door himself. `Any chance Childe could have been referring to a certain French prisoner of war with whom Miss Tennyson was apparently friendly?'

Hero turned to face him, her expression one of mingled surprise and puzzlement. `What French prisoner of war?'

`She never talked about him?' Pausing with one elbow resting on the carriage's open window, he gave her a brief summary of what he'd learned from the servants in the Tennyson household. `You're certain she never mentioned such a man to you?'

`Not that I recall, no.'

Sebastian let his gaze rove over the shadowed features of her face, the smooth curve of her cheek, the strong, almost masculine angle of her jaw. Once, he would have said she was telling him the truth. But he knew her well enough by now to know that she was keeping something back from him.

He said, `When Bow Street brought word this morning of Gabrielle Tennyson's death, I was surprised that you had no wish to accompany me to Camlet Moat. In my naivety, I assumed it was because you knew Lovejoy would be discomfited by your presence. But you had another reason entirely, didn't you?'

She furled her parasol, her attention seemingly all for the task of securing the strap. Rather than answering him, she said, `We agreed when we married that we would respect each other's independence.'

`We did. Yet your purpose in this is the same as mine, is it not? To discover what happened to Gabrielle Tennyson and her young cousins? Or is something else going on here of which I am not aware?'

She looked up at him, the light falling full on her face, and he saw there neither guile nor subterfuge, but only a tense concern.

`You've heard the authorities discovered the boys are missing?'

Sebastian nodded silently.

`When I asked Childe who he thought killed Gabrielle, he said that rather than focusing on Gabrielle's associates, I ought to consider who would benefit from the elimination of the children.'

Sebastian was silent for a moment, remembering a boy's flowing copperplate and armies of tin soldiers marching silently across a sunlit nursery floor. He refused to accept that the two little boys were dead too. But all he said was, `You've met them?'

`Her cousins? Several times, yes. I'm not one of those women who dote mindlessly on children, but George and Alfred are something special. They're so extraordinarily bright and curious and full of enthusiasm for learning about the world around them that they're a delight to be with. The thought that something might have happened to them too...' She broke off, and he saw the rare glaze of unshed tears in her eyes. Then she cleared her throat and looked away, as if embarrassed to be seen giving way to her emotions.