Chapter 13

Amongst London’s upper classes, it was considered rude and déclassé to make social calls before three o’clock, which was why Hero waited until that magic hour to pay a visit to the sprawling St. James’s Square mansion of Laura McInnis’s friend Veronica Goodlakes.

Hero found the wealthy widow dressed in an elegant high-waisted gown of pale pink silk and seated at a delicate inlaid Italian writing table positioned so that it overlooked the lush private rear gardens. By birth, Veronica was a Trent, from a proud old family connected to some of the grandest houses in Britain. But her father, the late tenth Baron Trent of Mollis, had gambled away most of his substantial inheritance by the age of thirty, then spent the next several decades plunging deeper and deeper into debt. Faced with the prospect of either eating the muzzle of his pistol or dying in debtors’ prison, his lordship had chosen instead to auction off his only daughter to the highest bidder. A socially ambitious Bristol shipbuilder named Nathan Goodlakes coughed up a small fortune for the privilege of joining his plebeian blood to that of the nobility. But in the end Goodlakes’s gambit failed, for despite eighteen years of trying, the union produced no offspring. When he succumbed to a nasty case of influenza at the age of sixty-nine, he left Veronica a very wealthy young widow.

“Lady Devlin,” she said now, rising quickly to come forward with both hands outstretched. “I was just writing to you.”

“Were you?” said Hero, taking the widow’s small, slim hands in hers. Now in her late thirties, Veronica was still a nice-looking woman with a headful of bright guinea-gold curls and a delicately curved mouth that smiled with gentle amiability. But unlike most people, Hero had long ago noticed the gleam of cold steel that could sometimes glitter in the woman’s pale gray eyes before being quickly hidden by lowered lashes. It was said that, at Nathan Goodlakes’s insistence, she had remained on easy terms with both her father and elder brother throughout her marriage. But she publicly cut both men immediately after Goodlakes’s funeral and had never spoken to either one since. And although Hero knew that Lord Trent had recently died, Veronica was obviously refusing to go into mourning for him.

“Do I take it you know why I’m here?” said Hero as the widow drew her over to sit on a blue silk–covered settee beside one of the cavernous room’s empty marble-framed fireplaces.

“I think I can guess. Laura McInnis was my dearest friend since we were in school together, and it’s not exactly a secret that Bow Street has involved Lord Devlin in their attempts to catch whoever is responsible for these shocking murders. I’d like to help in any way I can.”

“You know something that could explain what happened?”

“I might,” said Veronica, her hands coming up together, palm pressed to palm as she leaned forward. “Are you aware of Laura’s clashes with a certain master sweep?”

“You mean a chimney sweep?”

Veronica nodded. “Dobbs is his name; Hiram Dobbs. Sir Ivo brought the fellow in to sweep the chimneys in McInnis House this last spring, and Laura came upon him deliberately burning the bare feet of one of his little apprentices to make him go up the chimney! The poor child couldn’t have been more than four or five, and was so afraid of the chimneys that he wouldn’t go up them otherwise. Laura was horrified; she tried to get the authorities to take the boy away from the man, but they refused to interfere. And then a week or two later she discovered that the child had died. Laura was shattered—blamed herself for not having tried harder. She thought the sweep would be taken up for murder—or at least manslaughter. But he managed to convince the authorities the child had died of the flux, and the workhouse gave him another little boy.”

“Good heavens.”

“Shocking, isn’t it? Needless to say, Laura was in a rage about it. And when he found out she was trying to get his other apprentices taken away from him, Dobbs walked right up to her in the street one day and told her to her face that if she didn’t leave him alone, she’d regret it.”

“In those exact words?”

“Yes.”

“So did she? Leave him alone, I mean.”

“Oh, no. She truly was determined, even though he tried his best to intimidate her.”

“In what way?”

“Following her . . . watching her. That sort of thing.”

“Was Laura afraid of him?”

“I don’t know if I’d say she was afraid, exactly. But she was definitely concerned, yes. That’s why I was writing to you, because it seemed to me that Lord Devlin ought to know about this fellow.”

“You say his name is Dobbs? Where does he live?”

“Some mean court off St. Martin’s Lane, I believe.”

“Is he the only person you know of who might have wished her harm?”

Veronica thought about it a moment, then shook her head. “If there was anyone else, she never mentioned them to me.”

“Was she happy in her marriage, do you think?”

The widow dropped her gaze to her now-clenched hands and bit her lower lip. When she looked up again, her face was strained. She said, “How much do you know about Laura’s marriage?”

“Very little. Why?”

“Sir Ivo was essentially her father’s choice. If it had been up to Laura, she would have married a young officer she’d known most of her life.” A faint, wistful smile touched her lips. “I remember him quite well. Very tall and handsome he was, and quite dashing in his new regimentals. But he was a younger son of a younger son, with his way still to make in the world, and her father refused to agree to the match. Laura swore she’d wait for him and marry him as soon as she came of age, whether her father gave them his blessing or not. But then the young man went off to war, and she heard he’d been killed. She married Sir Ivo two or three years later.”

“Was she happy with him, do you think?”

Veronica gave a strange, hollow-sounding laugh. “How many women of our station are truly ‘happy’ in the marriages their parents arrange for them?”

It was a telling statement. “Content, then,” said Hero. “Do you think she was content?”

The widow gave a vague, dismissive jerk of one shoulder. “She didn’t seek to escape it, if that’s what you’re asking.” She hesitated, then added, “At least, not to my knowledge.”

“Would you know?”

Veronica’s brows drew together in a frown. “Honestly? Perhaps not. Laura kept a great deal to herself.”

“Did she ever tell you that Sir Ivo hit her?”

Veronica stared at her. “Good heavens, no. Did he?”

“So it appears, yes.”

“No, she never said anything to me about it. Oh, poor Laura. If only—” She broke off as her stout, middle-aged butler appeared carrying a heavy silver tray with tea things and a plate of small cakes, which he set with a flourish on the table before them.

Hero waited until he had withdrawn, then said, “When was the last time you saw Laura?”

Veronica reached for the teapot and began to pour. “Last week. It was either Tuesday or Wednesday, although I can’t recall precisely which.”

“How did she seem? Troubled in any way? Worried?”

“I wouldn’t have said so, no. I’ve been helping her to organize a benefit concert for the Foundling Hospital, you see, so that’s mainly what we discussed. She was telling me about the musicians and singers she’d convinced to volunteer their time; that sort of thing.”

Hero took the teacup held out by her hostess. “Have you always helped her with the concerts?”

“No, this was the first time; I was still in half mourning for Mr. Goodlakes last year. She’d been coaxing me to do it for years, but Mr. Goodlakes refused to countenance it. He used to say that while a nobleman’s wife could enhance her image as Lady Bountiful by lending her prestige to such an institution, a shipbuilder’s wife needed to take extra care never to be seen consorting with the low born.”

Even when the shipbuilder’s wife is herself a nobleman’s daughter? thought Hero. Interesting. She took a slow sip of her tea. “What about Laura’s efforts to convince Parliament to change the laws regarding apprenticeships? Were you involved in that?”

The widow had the grace to look vaguely discomfited and glanced away. “No. Given the circumstances, it didn’t seem wise.”

Hero was itching to ask What circumstances? but refrained. Instead she said, “I’m told Laura had run-ins with the directors of some of the parish workhouses. Would you happen to know which ones?”

“No, but if I had to guess, I’d say St. Martin’s was one of them. I mean, they’re the ones who apprenticed that poor little boy to Dobbs in the first place, then turned around and gave him another child when the first one died.”

“Yes, that makes sense.”

Veronica was silent for a moment, her tea forgotten in her hands, her gaze fixed unseeingly on something in the distance. Then she gave herself a little shake that was more like a shiver and looked over at Hero again. “I still can’t believe this happened. Laura was always so full of energy, so determined, so full of life. And now she’s . . . dead. And in such a senseless, frightening way.”

“You said you’d known her since you were at school together. Do you know if she ever had anything to do with a woman named Julia Lovejoy?”

“The woman who was killed in a similar way out at Richmond years ago, you mean? I don’t think she knew her, but obviously I could be wrong. It was so long ago now.”

“Fourteen years,” said Hero. “At the time, Laura would have been—what? Twenty-four or twenty-five?”

Veronica nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“Do you have any idea how old this fellow Dobbs is?”

“Forty or fifty, I’d say; something like that. He’s a short, stocky man with graying dark hair and a crooked nose.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Oh, yes. I was with Laura one time when he confronted her. We were coming out of Hatchards in Piccadilly, and he walked right up to her and said—” Veronica broke off, her eyes widening.

“And said—what?”

Veronica swallowed hard. “He said he’d given her a chance to back off and she’d refused to do it. So now she was going to pay.”

---

It was an hour or so later that Hero received an unexpected visit from her father, Charles, Lord Jarvis.

She was seated on the flagged terrace at the rear of the Brook Street house, enjoying the first stirrings of a cool evening breeze and watching the two little boys prowl through the shrubbery of the garden in pursuit of their long-haired black cat, when their majordomo, Morey, showed the Baron out to her.

“Grandpapa! Grandpapa!” shouted Simon, pushing himself up from beneath a holly bush to run up the broad, shallow steps to the terrace and fling himself against his grandfather’s legs.

“Simon! Simon!” mocked Jarvis with a laugh, catching the sweaty, dirty little boy around the waist and holding him at arm’s length. “Good heavens, how grubby you are. Vegetation in your hair” —he raked a twig from the boy’s dark curls—“and what, if I’m not mistaken, is mud ground into the knees of your dress.” He glanced over at Hero as he set the boy back on his feet. “You’re going to need to breech him, you know.”

“Yes, both of them. Very soon,” agreed Hero. She was aware of Patrick coming slowly up the stairs to stand quietly at a distance, watching them. Jarvis adored his grandson and now had his head bent, studying the caterpillar Simon held cradled in one grimy palm for his inspection. But as far as his lordship was concerned, Patrick didn’t exist.

“A lovely specimen,” Jarvis told Simon. “But I suggest you put him back where you found him while I talk to your mother.”

Simon gently closed his fist around his treasure with a laugh.

Jarvis stood for a moment, watching the boys run off together; then he tossed his hat on the glass-topped terrace table and settled in the chair opposite Hero. “I can only stay a moment,” he told her. “But I thought you’d like to know we’ve received confirmation that Napoléon did indeed surrender to the captain of one of our ships last week—the Bellerophon, off the western French port of Rochefort. They reached Devon this morning—Torbay, to be exact. One of the captain’s lieutenants has arrived at the Admiralty with dispatches and a letter from Napoléon for the Prince Regent.”

Hero was aware of a strange sense of light-headedness, so that for a moment she could only breathe. “So,” she said at last. “It truly is over. What will be done with him?”

“For the time being, he’ll be held on the ship, although I’d like to see the Bellerophon moved as soon as possible to Plymouth. It’s a much safer harbor, and the presence of the Navy there should preclude any possibility of him being rescued—or seized. But what happens to him after that has yet to be decided. According to his letter, Napoléon is seeking political asylum and wants nothing so much as to buy a small estate somewhere in England and settle down to the quiet life of a country gentleman.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Needless to say, there are more than a few who’d like to see him turned over to the Bourbons to be hanged.”

Hero studied her father’s impassive features. “But not you?”

Jarvis pressed his lips into a tight line and shook his head. “It sets a dangerous precedent, executing a deposed head of state. And even if one sees Bonaparte as a general and not as an emperor, the fact remains that he wasn’t captured. He surrendered to us voluntarily, and one does not execute generals who surrender.” He paused, then added, “Or at least, one should not.”

Hero said, “Apart from the stain it would be on our honor, it’s also basically a bad idea.”

“Undoubtedly. If the last hundred days have shown us nothing else, it’s how popular Bonaparte still is with the people of France and how unpopular King Louis XVIII and his family are. I can’t think of a better way to make Napoléon a martyr than for the Bourbons to hang him—especially if he were turned over to them by the very nation the French people have been fighting off and on for the last century and more.”

“So you favor—what? Sending him into exile again? Where?”

“A number of places have been suggested, from Malta and Gibraltar to the Cape of Good Hope. Personally, I favor St. Helena. The disgrace of exile—at a safe distance from Europe this time—would make him a far less dangerous figure than one who found glory in death. Thank God he didn’t die at Waterloo. They say he tried to poison himself at Fontainebleau after he was defeated last year, but the poison was old and only made him ill. I’m surprised he didn’t try again after Waterloo.”

“That might have been better.”

“Perhaps.” Jarvis heaved himself to his feet with a grunt. “At least he didn’t manage to escape to the United States, which we’re told was his plan. Ironically, if he’d set off for the coast immediately after he abdicated, rather than dithering at Malmaison for the better part of a month the way he did, he probably would have made it.”

Hero rose with him. “When will it be in the papers?”

“Tomorrow morning. Needless to say, the Prince is pleased. He can now go ahead with his plans for another grand celebration on the anniversary of the accession of the Hanovers to the throne of Britain.”

“Another one?”

“Another one. Combined with a celebration of our recent victory at Waterloo and the final defeat of Napoléon.” Jarvis reached for his hat, then paused. “I’m told Devlin has involved himself in these ghastly murders out at Richmond Park.”

“Did you think he would not?”

She was surprised to see a shadow of concern flit across Jarvis’s normally controlled, impassive features. “It’s disquieting, someone going around killing mothers and their children.”

“It is disquieting, yes. Which is why Devlin is determined to see whoever is responsible brought to justice.”

Jarvis fixed her with a steady look. “You will be careful.” It was not a question.

Hero smiled at him. “Of course. I’m always careful.”

Jarvis sighed and turned away. “No, you’re not.”