She said, “Hendon could have repudiated you years ago, but he didn’t. It could only be because he cares for you—loves you—as a father. He did what he thought was right for you.”
“Hendon did what he thought was right for the St. Cyr name and the St. Cyr bloodline. Nothing is more important to Hendon than fulfilling what he believes is owed to his heritage. Nothing.”
“But the cousin who stands behind you in succession—”
“The distant cousin who would become Viscount Devlin in my stead is in reality a vicar’s by-blow, whereas my mother was herself a St. Cyr, through her grandmother. So you see, St. Cyr blood does flow in my veins, even if it didn’t come from Hendon himself.”
“I think you do Hendon an injustice. Kat Boleyn is his daughter. If you had married her, then your child—your heir—would have been his own grandson.”
Devlin gave a soft, humorless laugh. “An actress’s son as the future Earl of Hendon? Hendon would stop at little short of murder to prevent such an abomination from ever coming to pass.”
She turned to stare out the window at the storm-thrashed garden. “Yet if Yates hangs for this murder, you could now marry Kat . . . if you weren’t married to me.”
“Hero . . .” He came to stand behind her. She was aware of his hands hovering for a moment over her shoulders without touching her. Then he turned her in his arms and drew her close. She felt his breath warm against her cheek, the beating of his heart against hers. He said, “I’ve loved Kat since I was twenty-one. There was a time I’d have sworn I could never learn to love anyone again. But . . . I was wrong.”
She touched her fingertips to his lips. “You don’t need to tell me what you think I want to hear.”
He gave her a strange, crooked smile. “I hope it is what you want to hear, because I’m telling you how I feel.”
She said, “It’s what I want to hear.”
He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss against her palm. “‘Rise up, my love, my fair one,’” he quoted softly, his features growing taut, his eyes half-lidded, intense, “‘and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.’”
A loud clap of thunder shook the room, and they laughed together.
She wrapped her other hand around his, their fingers entwining. “‘The flowers appear on the earth,’” she whispered. “‘The time of the singing of birds is come, and the vines with the tender grape give good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.’”
“I think you left out a couple of lines,” he said, pressing her back against the wall so that he could get at the ties of her dressing gown.
She brought up one bare leg to wrap around his hip and let it slide slowly, provocatively down the hard length of his thigh. “I was in a hurry,” she said, and caught his laugh with her kiss.
Chapter 45
Friday, 25 September
E
arly the next morning, Hero walked into the dining room of Jarvis House in Grosvenor Square to find her father looking over a stack of reports while consuming a solitary breakfast. Wordlessly, she closed the door in the footman’s face and leaned back against it.
“This is ominous,” said Jarvis, his gaze still fixed on the papers in his hand.
She pushed away from the door and came to stand in front of him. “You knew Devlin was not Hendon’s son, yet you chose not to tell me. Why?”
He looked up, his face—as always—inscrutable. “Under the circumstances, I saw no point. Are you suggesting it would have altered your decision to marry, had you known the details surrounding his birth?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
He dropped the report he held beside his plate and leaned back in his chair. “So Devlin finally told you himself, did he?”
“Yes.” She pulled out the chair beside him and sat. “Devlin says he doesn’t know who his father is. Do you?”
“Unfortunately, no. Believe me, I have tried over the years to discover the man’s identity. One never knows when such information might prove useful. But none of my attempts have thus far met with success.” He templed his hands before him. “Did Devlin also tell you that his mother still lives?”
“She what?”
“Omitted that little detail, did he?” Jarvis reached for his snuffbox and calmly opened it with the flick of a finger. “Oh, yes. She’s still quite alive. Although as it happens, he does not know where she is.”
Hero watched him lift a delicate pinch to one nostril. “But you do, don’t you?”
He inhaled sharply and smiled. “I think perhaps I shouldn’t answer that question.”
Her gaze met his. “You just did.”