Later that evening, Sebastian was looking over a history of the French Revolution while Hero sat reading Abigail McBean’s English translation of The Key of Solomon. The black cat lay curled up on the hearth beside them.
“Listen to this,” she said, reading aloud. “‘I conjure you Spyritts by all the patryarchs, prophets, Apostles, evangelists, martyrs, confessors, vyrgyns, and wyddowes, and by Jerusalem, the holy cytty of godd, and by heaven and earth and all that therein is, and by all other vyrtues, and by the Elements of the worlde, and by St. Peter, apostle of Rome, and by the croune of thorne that was worne on godd’s head.’” She looked up. “I thought this was supposed to have been written by Solomon.”
“Details, details,” said Sebastian, looking up as a distant knock sounded at the front door.
“Expecting anyone?” asked Hero.
Sebastian shook his head.
A moment later, Morey appeared in the doorway. “The Earl of Hendon to see you, my lord.”
Sebastian was aware of Hero’s silent gaze upon him. In all the weeks of their marriage, Hendon had never yet paid a call on Brook Street, nor had Sebastian taken his bride to Hendon’s sprawling pile in Grosvenor Square. Yet she had never asked him that most obvious question: Why?
Morey cleared his throat. “His lordship says it is a matter of the utmost importance. I’ve taken the liberty of showing him to the library.”
Sebastian was aware of a deep sense of disquiet. After all that had been said between them, he could think of few developments that would motivate Hendon to come here.
None of them were good.
“Excuse me,” he said to Hero, and left the room.
He found the Earl standing before the library’s empty hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, his heavily jowled features sagged with worry.
“What is it?” asked Sebastian without preamble. “What has happened?”
“Kat was attacked this evening in Covent Garden Market.”
“Is she all right?” It came out sharper than he’d intended.
Hendon nodded. “Yes. Fortunately, the costermongers and stall keepers rallied and helped her drive the assailants away. She suffered a slight injury to her arm, but that is all.”
Wordlessly, Sebastian walked over to pour two brandies. He handed one to the Earl.
Hendon took it without hesitation. “She says she doesn’t know who the men were or why they attacked her.”
Sebastian took a long, slow swallow of his own brandy and felt it burn all the way down. “You don’t believe her?”
“I don’t know what to believe—although frankly I’m inclined to suspect it has something to do with this damned business about Yates.”
“If so, why wouldn’t she tell you?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping perhaps you knew the answer to that.”
Sebastian shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s far too much going on here that I don’t understand yet.”
Hendon stared down at his brandy. “She tells me you have undertaken to prove Yates’s innocence.”
When Sebastian remained silent, Hendon cleared his throat and said gruffly, “Thank you.”
“I’m not doing it for you.”
There was a long, pained pause. Then Hendon said, “No. Of course not.” He set aside the brandy untasted and reached for his hat. “Give my regards to your wife.” Then he bowed and left.
Sebastian sent at once for his carriage to be brought around. He was waiting with one arm propped against the mantel, his gaze on the cold hearth before him, his thoughts far away, when he felt the black cat brush against his leg and looked up to find Hero watching him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, straightening. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s a first.” She bent to scoop up the purring cat into her arms. “Has something happened?”
“Kat Boleyn was attacked this evening in Covent Garden. She’s unhurt, but it’s . . . worrisome.”
A frown line appeared between Hero’s eyes. “You think it’s connected in some way to Eisler’s murder?”
“Yes.”
She said, “Why would Hendon bring you word of Kat Boleyn?”
His gaze met hers. And he found himself thinking, When enemies become friends and then lovers, at what point do the last barriers drop? When are the final secrets revealed? She had been his wife for six weeks; she shared his bed every night and was carrying his child. Yet there was so much they did not know about each other, so many things he’d never told her, so much of which they’d never spoken.
And neither had ever uttered those three simple but powerful words, I love you.
He said bluntly, “Kat is Hendon’s natural daughter. None of us knew it until last autumn. To say the discovery was distressing would be one of the year’s great understatements.”
He saw the shock of comprehension in her eyes, along with something else he hadn’t expected.