After returning home, Hero spent some time writing up the notes from her morning interview before sharing a pleasant nuncheon with Simon in the nursery. And then, planning her timing carefully, she ordered her carriage and set out for her father’s house in Berkeley Square.
As the carriage pulled away from Brook Street, she rested her head against the back of the tufted leather seat, her heart heavy with thoughts of the past. It had been more than six months now since her mother’s short illness and unexpected death. Six months. And yet somehow a part of Hero still couldn’t quite absorb the reality of her loss. Simon would do something clever or funny, and Hero would think, I must remember to tell Mama. For one fleeting instant, she would smile in anticipation of her mother’s pleasure. Then would come the crushing realization that she would never be able to share anything with her mother again; never again have the joy of watching her mother smile lovingly at her grandson; never again hear her mother’s gentle laughter or be able to seek out her quiet, simple wisdom.
Hero had lived with the crushing ache of this loss for months. But going to Jarvis House, knowing her mother would not be there, always gave that ache a painful twist.
She was aware of the coach drawing up in Berkeley Square, of the footman opening the door to let down the steps. And still she hesitated. Her father, she calculated, should be at Carlton House with the Prince Regent. But then she was here not to see Jarvis but her cousin Victoria Hart-Davis.
The two women were related through their mothers’ grandparents, which Hero supposed made them second cousins. But since Victoria had grown up in India, they’d never met until the previous September. Although only a few years older than Hero, Victoria had lived an adventurous life that carried her to Ireland, South America, and the Peninsula and had seen her bury two husbands. The first, Lieutenant Lester Boyne, died of fever in the Maratha Wars, while the second, Captain John Hart-Davis, son and heir of Lord Hart-Davis, had been killed last summer at the Siege of San Sebastián. It was when she’d been newly widowed for the second time and on her way from Spain to stay with her dead husband’s family in Norfolk that Victoria had stopped in London to visit her cousins. She’d been at Hero’s side when Lady Jarvis died.
Hero’s aged, arthritic, foul-tempered grandmother, the Dowager Lady Jarvis, rarely left her rooms these days and was incapable of taking up the burdensome task of managing Lord Jarvis’s large household. And so, Cousin Victoria had kindly offered to stay and help. Six months later, she was still there.
The young widow was crossing the entry hall, her focus on a sealed missive in her hand, when a footman opened the door for Hero. Looking up, she saw Hero and immediately turned toward her, a delighted smile sweeping across her face.
“Oh, what a lovely surprise!” she cried, quickly enfolding Hero in a warm embrace. A beautiful, exquisitely tiny woman with angel-fair hair, soft blue eyes, and porcelain skin, Victoria was so small—and Hero so tall—that even standing on tiptoe she could barely reach to kiss Hero’s cheek.
She drew back, the smile in her eyes fading to gentle concern as she searched Hero’s face. “We heard about Ashworth. How is Stephanie?”
“She’s handling it as well as can be expected,” said Hero, choosing her words carefully.
Victoria cast a quick glance at the footman and drew Hero upstairs to the drawing room.
“The poor, poor girl,” said Victoria as they settled before the fire. “Married less than a year and left with not one but two tiny babes. Are they all right? The twins, I mean. I’m told they were born dreadfully premature.”
“Amazingly healthy, considering,” said Hero, and left it at that. The two boys had come earlier than expected, but not nearly as early as most believed.
“Well, thank goodness for that at least. She doesn’t need any more grief. This dreadful murder! Any idea yet who might have been responsible?” Her words tumbled out in a rush the way they always did, for Victoria Hart-Davis came across to the casual observer as a vivacious young woman who was good-natured and gay but not particularly deep or intelligent. The impression was misleading, for she was a woman who read the works of Plato and Cicero in their original Greek and Latin and was fluent in half a dozen modern languages as well. Her mind was quick and clever, her reasoning ability acute. Yet few would ever guess it by listening to her happy chatter. Hiding away her strength and intelligence, she showed the world a face that was not real. In essence she was an actress playing a part, and she was very good at it. It was one of the reasons Hero could never feel comfortable around her, even after all these months.
“Devlin is looking into it,” Hero said carefully. “But it’s early days yet.”
They ordered tea and talked for a time of fashion and the Season, which was now in full swing. Only then did Hero casually bring the conversation around to the purpose of her visit, saying, “Have you met the Tsar’s sister yet?”
“Not yet,” said Victoria. “Although I did see her driving up Bond Street this morning in her barouche. I’m told she always drives with the top down so she can wave to the crowds. They adore her, of course. Jarvis says the Prince is quite put out about it.”
Hero took a slow sip of her tea. “I wonder why she’s come to England so far ahead of the others?”
“It’s curious, isn’t it? Did you hear she rejected the cutter Prinny sent to pick her up from Holland? She was beyond insulted—seems a paltry naval cutter is quite beneath the dignity of a Tsar’s daughter. Fortunately, one of the Royal Dukes came to the rescue by lending his frigate to the cause.”
“Charming. So that’s why they dislike each other?”
“Well, that was the beginning. The Prince then made the mistake of hurrying around to the Pulteney Hotel to meet her so quickly after her arrival in London that she hadn’t had time to change, with the result that he encountered her on the stairs in all her travel dirt.”
“And she was outraged by this as well?”
“Mmm. She treated him as if he were an overweight, aged buffoon, and he resented it.”
“Fancy that.”
Victoria let out a soft laugh, a gay melodic ripple of amusement that brought an impish smile to her face. “I understand everyone is all agog to see her up close at the Russian ambassador’s ball tonight—particularly since Countess Lieven is said not to be one of her admirers.” She paused, her head turning slightly at the sound of the front door opening below, followed by the low murmur of a man’s familiar voice in the entry hall and his heavy footsteps upon the stairs.
“Jarvis?” said Hero, feeling like a cat caught amidst the pigeons. “Already?”
He appeared in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Hero, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “This is a surprise.”
“Jarvis.” Victoria glanced over at him, her amusement still animating her face. “We were just gossiping about all the interest in the Grand Duchess. Countess Lieven’s ball tonight will doubtless be a dreadful squeeze.”
“It should definitely be more entertaining than the usual such fare,” he said. For one brief instant, his gaze met Victoria’s, and a silent message passed between them.
The exchange was meant to be private, but Hero caught it. And she knew her father well enough to understand that whatever Jarvis’s interest in the Grand Duchess, Cousin Victoria knew about it. And she’d just reassured him that she had given nothing away.