“I’m not suggesting Vaundreuil is the killer.”
Sebastian studied her fine-boned, tightly held face. And he understood why she had withheld such a vital piece of information from him for so long. “I see. Not Vaundreuil, but Jarvis. That’s why you didn’t tell me before? Because you think Jarvis is the killer, and you feared I would betray you to him because he happens to be my father-in-law? Or is it because you suspected me of being in collusion with him?”
When she remained silent, he said, “I’d be the last person to deny that Jarvis is both ruthless and brutal. He would unblinkingly murder ten thousand men if he thought it would save England—or at least, England as he thinks it should be. But I can’t imagine him cutting out the hearts and gouging out the eyes of his victims for amusement.”
“I believe that was intended to throw suspicion on someone else.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not exactly an effective tactic, then.”
His words brought a flush of angry color to her cheeks. “I didn’t expect you to listen to me.” She set aside her wine untasted. But rather than leave, she said, “Have you given more thought to attempting to turn your child in its mother’s womb?”
The question took him by surprise. “I told Lady Devlin of your offer.”
“And?”
Sebastian looked beyond her, to where Hero now stood in the doorway.
Hero said, “You accuse my father of murdering your brother, then offer to help save my child. Why?”
Alexi Sauvage pivoted to face her. Physically, the two women could not have been more dissimilar. Where the Frenchwoman was small and almost unnaturally thin, Hero stood tall and strong. Yet both possessed a comfortable sense of self combined with a rare willingness to buck the conventions and expectations of their day.
Alexi Sauvage said, “I am a physician. That is what I do.”
“Yet you’ll understand, surely, if I distrust your motives?”
Something wafted across the Frenchwoman’s face. “If you are unwilling to allow me to attempt to turn the child, there are certain positions which sometimes achieve the same objective. You must kneel with your arms folded on the floor or mattress before you and your head resting on your hands. Do this for fifteen or twenty minutes, every two hours. It might be enough to nudge the child into turning itself.”
When Hero remained silent, Alexi Sauvage said, “Try it, please. But if the child still refuses to turn . . . Do not wait too long. I promise, I mean you no harm.” She glanced over at Sebastian. “Good evening, monsieur.”
Then she swept from the room.
They listened to her light step descending the front steps. Hero’s gaze met his. “Do you trust her?”
“No,” he said, and took a long swallow of his wine.
Hero went to the window to watch the Frenchwoman climb into a waiting hackney. After a moment, she said, “Do you think she’s right, that Jarvis is behind this?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
She turned to look at him. “I think you need to talk to Hendon.”
He knew she was right. Not only was Hendon directly involved in the preliminary peace discussions, but no one knew better than Hendon what Jarvis was capable of.
That didn’t make what Sebastian was about to do any easier.
? ? ?
Once, Alistair St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon, had been the proud father of one daughter and three strong sons.
The two older boys were his favorites, a reality the youngest child, Sebastian, accepted even as it grieved him more than he ever let anyone know. Over the years, he had sought endless explanations for his father’s harshness, for the undisguised mingling of anger and bemusement that so often pinched the Earl’s features when his gaze fell on his youngest and least satisfactory son. Was it because Sebastian was so unlike the Earl, in temperament and interests as well as in appearance? Or was it for some other reason entirely? Sebastian could never decide.
And then, one by one, Hendon’s sons died, first the eldest, Richard, and then his middle son, Cecil, leaving only the youngest, Sebastian, as the Earl’s heir. It wasn’t until Sebastian was a man grown that he’d learned the truth: that Hendon’s beautiful, laughing, golden-haired Countess had played her husband false. That Sebastian was not, in fact, the Earl’s own son, but a bastard sired by one of the Countess’s nameless, faceless lovers. As Hendon had always known.
Always.
? ? ?