Jarvis was known for his flawless memory. It was one of his greatest assets, for he could recall conversations and reports, verbatim, long after their occurrence had faded from other men’s minds. At the Viscount’s question, he simply curled his lip in contempt.
Devlin said, “Tell your coachman to pull up.”
“Gladly.”
The Viscount started to jump down, then paused with his hands braced against the doorframe to look back and ask, “Are you by chance familiar with a young French émigré named the Chevalier d’Armitz?”
“Vaguely. Why?”
“Can you describe him for me?”
“Above medium height. Stocky. Dark hair.”
“What do you know of him?”
“Very little. He forms one of that horde of émigrés attached to the Bourbons. He killed a man once—and I don’t mean in a duel. Some captain in the Home Guard accused Armitz of cheating, and later that night was found stabbed in the back.”
“Interesting. He’s tried to kill me twice.”
“What a pity that he didn’t succeed,” said Jarvis.
But Devlin only laughed.
? ? ?
Hero stood at the nursery window, one hand resting on the crest of her belly, her gaze on the dark storm clouds gathering over the city. She had come here often over the past six months, to supervise the workmen preparing the rooms, to indulge in some uncharacteristically maudlin reveries, and, lately, in search of quiet solace.
But tonight she was smiling.
She had spent fifteen to twenty minutes every two hours for the better part of two days on her knees, telling herself she was a gullible fool and yet doing it anyway. And then, when she’d been about to give it up in disgust, she felt a sensation akin to a giant fish doing a somersault in a tight barrel. Over the past several months she’d become familiar with the movements of her child. And so she knew even without being told that Alexi Sauvage’s bizarre suggestion had worked; the babe had finally turned, and her chances of surviving the coming birth with a living child had just soared.
Hero knew no one would ever describe her as a humble woman; she was proud, impatient, and opinionated. But she was also not above owning up to an error. And as she watched the last of the daylight fade from the sky, she knew she owed Sauvage both an apology and a heartfelt expression of gratitude.
Intent on ordering her carriage and setting out for Tower Hill, Hero was about to turn from the window when a movement caught her eye. A man stood in the shadow of a cart drawn up across the street. He was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, dressed in the clothes of a tradesman, with a battered hat pulled low over dark curly hair worn too long. In the gathering gloom, his features were indistinct. Yet she could not shake the impression he was staring at the house with a level of malevolence that was almost palpable.
“Claire,” she said to the Frenchwoman who was folding clothes into a chest in the small room off the nursery. “Do you see that man—there, near the cart? Do you know who he is?”
Claire Bisette came to stand beside her, a chemise held in her hands. “No. I’ve never seen him before. Why?”
But Hero simply shook her head, unwilling to admit to a sense of foreboding for which she had no real basis.
Leaving the nursery, she sent word to the stables to have her barouche brought around, then changed into a carriage dress of green gros de Naples with a vandyked shoulder cape trimmed in black. By the time she left the house, an icy wind had kicked up, the lamplighter and his boy hurrying to touch flame to the last of the oil lamps that stretched in a line toward Grosvenor Square.
They caught her eye as the footman was handing her up into her carriage. And for a moment, she saw the man again, tall and dark, with long black hair and a scar across one cheek, standing near the corner of Davies Street.
Then he drew back, the wind fluttering a torn page of newspaper in the gutter and bringing her the scent of the coming rain.
Chapter 56
By the time Sebastian reached the French chapel on Little George Street, a fine cold rain had begun to fall from out of a heavy black sky.
He paused in the shadows cast by the jutting angle of the nearby stables. The night smelled of wet pavement and fresh horse droppings and hot oil from a distant streetlamp flickering in the wind. A faint light spilled from the church facade’s three high windows and from the carriage lanterns of the lone barouche drawn up before the chapel portal; a coachman wearing the livery of the Comte d’Artois dozed on the carriage’s high seat. But otherwise, the narrow street lay dark and deserted beneath the coming storm.
Settling his hat low against the rain, Sebastian gently tried the front doors of the chapel. They were locked. He glanced again at the sleeping coachman, then slipped around the side of the chapel to the narrow passage that led to the sacristy door. The rain was falling harder now, sharp, needlelike drops with the sting of sleet. He’d almost reached the short flight of steps when he heard the stealthy footsteps of someone entering the passage behind him.