“Oh, Sebastian. You always think you should be able to change things, to make them right.”
“Are you telling me I’m arrogant?”
“You know you are.”
They shared a smile that faded slowly. He said, “How are you? Truthfully?”
“Truthfully?” She raised her chin in a gesture he remembered all too well. “Yates is not a demanding husband. We deal well together. He has his life and I have mine.”
Sebastian had heard something of Russell Yates’s activities, the unorthodox but discreet liaisons that had continued since his marriage. He’d heard no such tales of Kat. “Do you?” he said.
She twitched one shoulder in a shrug. “I have my work at the theater. It’s enough.”
He walked up to her, close enough that he could have touched her although he did not. “More than I want anything else,” he said, “I want you to be happy.”
She gazed up at him. “True happiness is rare.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Paul Gibson tells me you’ve involved yourself in the death of these women in Covent Garden.”
“Yes.”
He was aware of her searching his face, and he wondered what she saw there. The sleepless nights? The months of drinking and dissipation that had brought oblivion if no relief? She said, “In the past, I always worried whenever you found yourself drawn into murder investigations. But I suppose it’s preferable to watching you break your neck on a hunting field or drink yourself to death.”
He swung abruptly away. “You say Hendon is not well. What is wrong with him?”
“The doctors say it’s his heart. He eats too much, drinks too much.”
“That’s not likely to stop.”
“He’s been worse these last months. He misses you, Sebastian. The estrangement between you causes him much grief.”
Sebastian paused beside his desk and looked back at her. It was a moment before he could answer. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready to speak to him yet.”
She nodded briskly, then retied her bonnet strings and pulled on her fine kid gloves. “Just don’t wait until it’s too late, Sebastian.”
Chapter 17
At the highly unfashionable hour of half past nine in the morning, Miss Hero Jarvis was drinking a cup of tea A in the morning room when her father came upon her. “You’re up early,” she said.
He sank into the chair opposite hers. “I wanted to catch you before you left the house.”
“Oh? Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, reaching for the teapot.
“Yes, thank you.” He leaned forward, his frowning gaze hard on her face. “I thought we had an agreement.”
She poured a measure of milk into his cup with a steady hand, then added the tea. “I haven’t violated it. I agreed not to approach the magistrates, and I have not done so.” Of course, their agreement had been more along the lines of an edict, to which she’d had little choice but to concur. He’d warned her that if she did attempt to approach the magistrates about the killings, he would let it be known that her claims to have been present in the house at the time of the attack were motivated by nothing more than a desire to draw attention to the plight of such women and should therefore be disregarded.
She handed him the cup. “I take it you’ve received a report from one or more of your minions?”
“You knew I would.”
“Yes.”
He pressed his lips together in a sour line. “It is you, isn’t it? The gentlewoman who has been asking questions about the Magdalene House?”
“Did you think I would not?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “I know your main concern in all this is that my name not be bandied about in connection with the incident. You needn’t fear that I’ve been anything other than discreet. There is nothing to link my name to what
“Are you telling me I’m arrogant?”
“You know you are.”
They shared a smile that faded slowly. He said, “How are you? Truthfully?”
“Truthfully?” She raised her chin in a gesture he remembered all too well. “Yates is not a demanding husband. We deal well together. He has his life and I have mine.”
Sebastian had heard something of Russell Yates’s activities, the unorthodox but discreet liaisons that had continued since his marriage. He’d heard no such tales of Kat. “Do you?” he said.
She twitched one shoulder in a shrug. “I have my work at the theater. It’s enough.”
He walked up to her, close enough that he could have touched her although he did not. “More than I want anything else,” he said, “I want you to be happy.”
She gazed up at him. “True happiness is rare.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Paul Gibson tells me you’ve involved yourself in the death of these women in Covent Garden.”
“Yes.”
He was aware of her searching his face, and he wondered what she saw there. The sleepless nights? The months of drinking and dissipation that had brought oblivion if no relief? She said, “In the past, I always worried whenever you found yourself drawn into murder investigations. But I suppose it’s preferable to watching you break your neck on a hunting field or drink yourself to death.”
He swung abruptly away. “You say Hendon is not well. What is wrong with him?”
“The doctors say it’s his heart. He eats too much, drinks too much.”
“That’s not likely to stop.”
“He’s been worse these last months. He misses you, Sebastian. The estrangement between you causes him much grief.”
Sebastian paused beside his desk and looked back at her. It was a moment before he could answer. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready to speak to him yet.”
She nodded briskly, then retied her bonnet strings and pulled on her fine kid gloves. “Just don’t wait until it’s too late, Sebastian.”
Chapter 17
At the highly unfashionable hour of half past nine in the morning, Miss Hero Jarvis was drinking a cup of tea A in the morning room when her father came upon her. “You’re up early,” she said.
He sank into the chair opposite hers. “I wanted to catch you before you left the house.”
“Oh? Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, reaching for the teapot.
“Yes, thank you.” He leaned forward, his frowning gaze hard on her face. “I thought we had an agreement.”
She poured a measure of milk into his cup with a steady hand, then added the tea. “I haven’t violated it. I agreed not to approach the magistrates, and I have not done so.” Of course, their agreement had been more along the lines of an edict, to which she’d had little choice but to concur. He’d warned her that if she did attempt to approach the magistrates about the killings, he would let it be known that her claims to have been present in the house at the time of the attack were motivated by nothing more than a desire to draw attention to the plight of such women and should therefore be disregarded.
She handed him the cup. “I take it you’ve received a report from one or more of your minions?”
“You knew I would.”
“Yes.”
He pressed his lips together in a sour line. “It is you, isn’t it? The gentlewoman who has been asking questions about the Magdalene House?”
“Did you think I would not?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “I know your main concern in all this is that my name not be bandied about in connection with the incident. You needn’t fear that I’ve been anything other than discreet. There is nothing to link my name to what
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