C Harris - When maidens mourn

Lying alone in her bed, Hero heard the wind begin to pick up just before midnight. Hot gusts billowed the curtains at her open window and filled the bedroom with the smell of dust and all the ripe odors of a city in summer. She listened to the charlie cry one o'clock, then two. And still she lay awake, listening to the wind and endlessly analyzing and reassessing all that she had learned so far of the grinding, inexorable sequence of shadowy, half-understood events and forces that had led to Gabrielle's death and the disappearance of her two little cousins. But as the hours dragged on, it gradually dawned on Hero that her sleeplessness had as much to do with the empty bed beside her as anything else.

It was a realization that both startled and chagrined her. Her motives for entering into this marriage had been complicated and confused and not entirely understood by anyone, least of all herself. She was not a woman much given to introspection or prolonged, agonized examination of her motives. She had always seen this characteristic as something admirable, something to be secretly proud of. Now she found herself wondering if perhaps in that she had erred. For who could be more foolish than a woman who doesn't know her own heart?

A loose shutter banged somewhere in the night for what seemed like the thousandth time. Thrusting aside the covers with a soft exclamation of exasperation, she crossed the room to slam down the sash. Then she paused with one hand on the latch, her gaze on the elegant, solitary figure strolling down the street toward the house.

The night was dark, the wind having blown out most of the streetlights and both oil lamps mounted high on either side of the entrance. But Hero had no difficulty recognizing Devlin's long stride or the lean line of his body as he turned to mount the front steps.

She knew a wash of relief, although she had been unwilling to acknowledge until now the growing concern his long absence had aroused. Then her hand tightened on the drapery beside her.

They were strangers to each other in many ways, their marriage one born of necessity and characterized by wary distrust leavened by a powerful current of passion, a grudging respect, and a playful kind of rivalry. Yet she knew him well enough to recognize the brittle set of his shoulders and the glitteringly dangerous precision of each graceful movement.

Eleven months before, something had happened in Devlin's life, something that had driven him from his longtime mistress Kat Boleyn and created a bitter estrangement between the Viscount and his father, the Earl. She did not know precisely what had occurred; she knew only that whatever it was, it had plunged Devlin into a months-long brandy-soaked spiral of self-destruction from which he had only recently emerged.

But now, as she listened to his footsteps climb the stairs to the second floor and heard the distant click of his bedroom door closing quietly behind him, she knew a deep disquiet.

And an unexpected welling of an emotion so fierce that it caught her breath and left her wondrous and shaken and oddly, uncharacteristically frightened.

Tuesday, 4 August

`My lord?'

Sebastian opened one eye, saw his valet's cheerful, fine-boned face, then squeezed the eye shut again when the room lurched unpleasantly. `Go away.'

Jules Calhoun's voice sounded irritatingly hearty.

`Sir Henry Lovejoy is here to see you, my lord.'

`Tell him I'm not here. Tell him I'm dead. I don't care what the hell you tell him. Just go away.'

There was a moment's pause. Then Calhoun said, `Unfortunately, Lady Devlin went out early this morning, so she is unable to receive the magistrate in your stead.'

`Early, you say? Where has she gone?' He opened both eyes and sat up quickly - not a wise thing to do under the circumstances. `Bloody hell,' he yelped, bowing his head and pressing one splayed hand to his pounding forehead.

`She did not say. Here, my lord; drink this.'

Sebastian felt a hot mug thrust into his free hand. `Not more of your damned milk thistle.'

`There is nothing better to cleanse the liver, my lord.'

`My liver is just fine,' growled Sebastian, and heard the valet laugh.

Calhoun went to jerk back the drapes at the windows. `Shall I have Morey tell Sir Henry you'll join him in fifteen minutes?'

Sebastian swung his legs over the side of the bed and groaned again. `Make it twenty.'

Sebastian found the magistrate munching on a tray of cucumber and brown bread and butter sandwiches washed down with tea.

`Sir Henry,' said Sebastian, entering the room with a quick step. `My apologies for keeping you waiting.'

The magistrate surged to his feet and dabbed at his lips with a napkin. `Your majordomo has most kindly provided me with some much-needed sustenance. I've been up at Camlet Moat since dawn.'

`Please, sit down,' said Sebastian, going to sprawl in the chair opposite him. `Any sign yet of the missing children?'

`None, I'm afraid. And that's despite the hundreds of men now beating through the wood and surrounding countryside in search of them. Unfortunately, Miss Tennyson's brother has offered a reward for the children; he's even set up an office in the Fleet, staffed by a solicitor, to handle any information that may be received.'

`Why do you say unfortunately?'

`Because the result is likely to be chaos. I've seen it happen before. A child is lost; with the best of intentions, the grieving family offers a reward, and suddenly you have scores of wretched children, sometimes even hundreds being offered to the authorities as the lost child.'

`Good God,' said Sebastian. `Still, I can understand why he is doing it.'

`I suppose so, yes.' Lovejoy blew out a harsh breath. `Although I fear it is only a matter of time until their bodies are discovered. If the children had merely been frightened by what they saw and run off to hide, they would have been found by now.'

`I suppose you must be right.' Sebastian considered pouring himself a cup of tea, then decided against it. What he needed was a tankard of good strong ale. `Still, it's strange that if they are dead, their bodies weren't found beside Miss Tennyson's.'

`I fear there is much about this case that is strange. I've spoken to the rector at St. Martin's, who confirms that Miss Tennyson and the two children did indeed attend services this past Sunday, as usual. He even conversed with them for a few moments afterward although not, unfortunately, about their plans for the afternoon.'

`At least it helps to narrow the time of her death.'

`Slightly, yes. We've also checked with the stages running between London and Enfield, and with the liveries in Enfield, but so far we've been unable to locate anyone who recalls seeing Miss Tennyson on Sunday.'

`In other words, Miss Tennyson and the children must have driven out to Camlet Moat with her killer.'

`So it appears. There is one disturbing piece of information that has come to light,' said Lovejoy, helping himself to another sandwich triangle. `We've discovered that Miss Tennyson was actually seen up at the moat a week ago on Sunday in the company of the children and an unidentified gentleman.'

`A gentleman? Not a driver?'

`Oh, most definitely a gentleman. I'm told he walked with a limp and had an accent that may have been French.'

For a gentlewoman to drive in the country in the company of a gentleman hinted at a degree of friendship, of intimacy even, that was quite telling. For their drive to have taken Gabrielle Tennyson and her French friend to Camlet Moat seemed even more ominous. Sebastian said, `I've heard she had befriended a French prisoner of war on his parole.'

`Have you? Good heavens; who is he?'

`I don't know. I've yet to find anyone who can give me a name.'

Lovejoy swallowed the last of his sandwich and pushed to his feet.