The names sounded vaguely familiar, but Sebastian couldn’t place them. “Who?”
“From Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice.”
“Don’t tell me you read romance novels too?”
Wyeth laughed. “Only the ones Miss Austen writes. They’re very clever—especially this last one.”
Sebastian stared at him. “Jane Austen is the author of this new book that’s taking the ton by storm?”
Wyeth pulled a face. “I forgot I wasn’t supposed to say anything. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
Returning to Brook Street, Sebastian found Hero writing up her interview notes at the library table, their infant son dozing contentedly in a basket beside her and the black cat she’d named Mr. Darcy lying stretched out like a dog nearby.
“How was your interview?” he asked, going to pour himself a glass of wine.
“Informative. This fellow has a donkey cart, which places him amongst the most prosperous of all costermongers.” She laid aside her quill and leaned back in her chair. “Care to tell me why you saw the need to send a footman to the park with Claire and Simon this morning?”
Sebastian came to stand beside the fire, his gaze on his sleeping son’s peaceful, innocent face. “A man who sounds like Diggory Flynn has been seen watching the house. I don’t know who he is or what he wants, but I’d feel better if you and Simon both kept someone with you.”
Hero stared at him for a long, quiet moment. “What makes you think he’s a threat to us? Not you, but us?”
Sebastian took a slow sip of his wine. “I keep thinking about the tale Jamie Knox told me, about the smuggler who ran afoul of Priss Mulligan and came home one day to find his wife missing and the dismembered bodies of his children strategically displayed around the house.”
“So you’re back to thinking Flynn works for Priss Mulligan?”
“I don’t know for certain who he works for. But I don’t want to take any chances.”
Beside them, Simon stretched and let out a soft gurgle.
Hero stared at Sebastian for a long, quiet moment, then went to lift the child from his basket and hold him in her arms, the blue wool skirts of her walking dress swirling about her ankles as she swung him gently from side to side and said, “Well, good afternoon, young man.”
Simon cooed and laughed in response, and for one long moment, Sebastian lost himself in looking at them.
Then he said, “Tell me about this character in Pride and Prejudice—I think his name is Wickham.”
She glanced over at him with a soft, startled laugh. “George Wickham? Whatever for?”
“Because everyone seems to keep referencing him, and I’ve just discovered Miss Jane Austen is the book’s author.”
“You can’t be serious. Who told you that?”
“Captain Wyeth. Ordinarily, I’d be inclined to question his reliability, but it makes sense of something Henry Austen said to me the other day.”
Hero brought Simon up so she could rub noses with him, her gaze on the laughing child. “George Wickham is an officer in the militia who is stationed near the Bennetts—they’re the family at the center of the story. At first he’s portrayed as handsome and charming and excellent in every way—except of course for his sad lack of fortune. But the reader gradually begins to realize that he is in truth a cunning and unscrupulous liar who uses others for his own ends without conscience or regret.” Simon gurgled happily, and she shifted the child’s weight, his eyes big and wide and golden as he grinned at Sebastian over her shoulder. “You think Captain Wyeth could be another George Wickham?”
“I’m told Jane Austen fears he might be. So who is Willoughby?”
“I suppose you could call him the villain of Sense and Sensibility—or one of them, at any rate. Like Wickham, he is charming, handsome, and impoverished, as well as being deceptive and breathtakingly selfish. Although I don’t think Willoughby is quite as conscienceless or calculating as Wickham. Needless to say, neither comparison reflects well on Captain Wyeth.”
“No. Which makes me wonder why he mentioned them.”
Wide-awake now, Simon reached out to close his tiny first around the thick silver chain at Hero’s neck and pulled hard.
“Ouch,” she said, laughing as she tried without success to loosen his hold on the necklace. “Your son has a shockingly strong grip.”
Sebastian set aside his wine. “Here; let me help.” It wasn’t until he came closer that he got his first good look at the intricately worked chain and the pendant that nestled at the base of her throat.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice sounding odd even to his own ears.
“My father gave it to me some time ago. Why?”
Sebastian carefully loosed his son’s hold on the centuries-old necklace. “I’ve never seen you wear it.”