“The catch was faulty. I only recently had it mended.” The frown lines were back between her brows. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Of course not.” He reached out, hesitantly, to touch his fingertips to the smooth bluestone disk with a closed silver triskelion set against it. And for one heart-wrenching moment, he imagined he could feel the familiar pulse of its legendary, inexplicable power.
She said, “Have you spoken to Miss Jane Austen about any of this?”
“What? Oh; no.” He dropped his hand and turned away to retrieve his glass.
“Would you like me to talk to her? After all, I have read the books.”
“It might be better.”
She tilted her head to one side, as if both puzzled and concerned by something she saw. “Sebastian, are you all right?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, and drained the rest of his wine in one long, burning pull.
Chapter 36
M iss Jane Austen was in the elegant parterre garden at the rear of her brother’s house, deep in earnest consultation with an aged, gnarled gardener who was gesturing wildly with his hands, when Hero arrived at Sloane Street.
“I’m interrupting you,” said Hero when a flustered young housemaid showed her to the terrace. “I do beg your pardon.”
“No, please,” said Miss Austen, hurrying forward to offer Hero a seat at a wrought-iron table positioned to catch the warmth of the rare spring sunshine. She wore a faded bonnet and a plain, old-fashioned gown, had a faint smudge of dirt across one red cheek, and was utterly unruffled. “Jenkins simply wanted my approval of some new plantings for the parterres. The garden is my cousin Eliza’s design, you know. She spent many happy years in France, before the Revolution, and I think it reminds her of those days.”
“It is lovely,” said Hero, unfurling her parasol against the sun’s rays. “How does your cousin?”
“Not well, I fear.” Jane Austen’s dark eyes pinched with a deep, quiet sorrow kept carefully tucked away.
“I’m sorry.”
Her hostess nodded, her face held tight against a threatened upsurge of emotions. “She’s lived a marvelously adventurous life, you know—born in India, then living through the Revolution. She’s always been so vibrant, so full of life. To see her like this is . . . painful.”
“It must be very difficult for your brother.”
“It is, yes. He has loved her almost his entire life.” She carefully smoothed the skirt of her faded gown. “Please tell me you aren’t here because Lord Devlin still thinks Henry had something to do with Stanley Preston’s death.”
The truth was, Devlin hadn’t ruled out anyone at this stage. But Hero simply adjusted the tilt of her parasol and said, “Actually, Devlin is interested in certain aspects of your novels.”
“My . . .” Miss Austen’s naturally ruddy cheeks darkened ever so slightly. “Who told you? My brother?”
“Indirectly—along with Captain Wyeth.”
“Ah.” She paused while the young housemaid reappeared bearing a hastily assembled tea tray, the delicate, rose-strewn china cups and plates clattering as the girl dumped the tray on the table. “Throughout history, we women have been endlessly scorned for our supposed readiness to reveal things which ought by rights to remain private. Yet I find that, in practice, men are equally—if not more—inclined to indiscretion.”
Hero laughed. “I suspect you are right. Although the truth is, your novels have excited so much interest in fashionable circles that I doubt you’ll be able to remain anonymous much longer.”
It was a thought that did not appear to trouble the author overly much, and Hero suspected the choice to publish anonymously had been prompted less by a desire to remain unknown than by the realization that society would condemn any spinster vicar’s daughter who appeared to be chasing fame and recognition.
Miss Austen eased the cover from the teapot and began to pour. “Surely Lord Devlin can’t think my novels have anything to do with this murder.”
“No, of course not. But your brother says you think Captain Wyeth might be another Wickham or Willoughby, and I assume it isn’t simply because the three men’s names all begin with the same consonant.”
Miss Austen kept her attention on the task of pouring the tea. “It would be more accurate to say I worry that he might be. Have you met him?”
“No.”
“He comes across as an agreeable, sensible man with good understanding and a warm heart. A man of strength and principle.”
“But?” prompted Hero.
Miss Austen looked up from the tea. “Who can answer for the true sentiments of a clever man?”
“Is he clever?”
“Very.”