happened that night.”
Lord Jarvis pushed aside his tea untasted, his gaze still on her face. “If I ordered you to stop, would you obey me?”
She met his stare without flinching. “Yes. But I would resent it.”
Jarvis nodded. “Then I won’t ask it of you.”
Hero didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she felt it easing out of her in a long sigh.
He pushed to his feet. “It goes without saying that you will be cautious.”
“I will be cautious.”
He nodded again and left the room.
She stared after him in surprise. She had expected him to ask her about Devlin’s involvement, as well, for she had no doubt that by now her father had also learned of the Viscount’s interest in the murders. Jarvis’s reticence puzzled her, but only for a moment. She did not know all the details of the animosity between the two men, but she knew it ran deep. And she realized it doubtless had never occurred to Lord Jarvis that Devlin had involved himself in the Magdalene House murders at her specific request.
At just before ten o’clock that morning, Hero’s carriage drew up before the pylon-shaped facade of Bullock’s Museum at 22 Piccadilly. Giant twelve-foot statues of Isis and Osiris, nearly naked and bewigged à la égyptien , stared down at her. She paid her shilling fee and passed through a papyrus-columned portico styled to resemble the entrance to an Egyptian temple.
For an extra sixpence she was able to acquire a small booklet detailing the wonders of the various exhibition halls. She wandered for a time, studying first the collection of carvings in wood and ivory, then the curiosities brought back from the South Seas by Captain Cook. In the western wing she came upon the Pantherion, which contained—according to her booklet—“all the known Quadrupeds of the Earth.” Stuffed, of course. The Pantherion was reached by way of a basaltic cavern said to be modeled on the Giant’s Causeway of the Isle of Staffa—although her guidebook neglected to mention precisely where that might be.
In the distance, Hero could hear a progression of church bells chiming the quarter hour. It was nearly eleven o’clock. She studied an Indian hut set against the background of a tropical forest complete with glassy-eyed elephants and roaring tigers and a large, coiled snake, and felt a sense of frustration well within her. It had been a mistake, she realized, to set the rendezvous for this morning. She’d been driven by a sense of urgency, but she should have allowed more time for news of her reward to spread. More time for the women of Covent Garden to summon up the courage to step forward.
She climbed the steps to the first floor, where a room styled to resemble a medieval hall displayed an exhibit of historic arms and armor. Here she found a young woman seated by herself on a bench beneath the domed ceiling. Hero eyed the woman with a renewed surge of expectation. She was obviously waiting for someone. She sat with her reticule clutched in both hands, her gaze darting warily around the room. With her demur pink muslin and round bonnet, she looked more like a young debutante than Haymarket ware, but perhaps she had deliberately dressed in a way that would not draw attention to herself. Hero had just made up her mind to approach the young woman when she jumped up from her seat and rushed across the hall toward the stairs.
Looking around, Hero noticed the gentleman in buff-colored breeches and an olive drab coat who had followed her up the steps. Of course, thought Hero; a secret assignation.
Blowing out an ungenteel breath of disappointment, Hero was about to turn back toward the stairs herself when a woman’s lightly accented voice said, “You’re the one, aren’t you? The gentry mort who was at Molly O’Keefe’s, asking questions about Rose and Hannah?”
Hero turned as a tall
Lord Jarvis pushed aside his tea untasted, his gaze still on her face. “If I ordered you to stop, would you obey me?”
She met his stare without flinching. “Yes. But I would resent it.”
Jarvis nodded. “Then I won’t ask it of you.”
Hero didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she felt it easing out of her in a long sigh.
He pushed to his feet. “It goes without saying that you will be cautious.”
“I will be cautious.”
He nodded again and left the room.
She stared after him in surprise. She had expected him to ask her about Devlin’s involvement, as well, for she had no doubt that by now her father had also learned of the Viscount’s interest in the murders. Jarvis’s reticence puzzled her, but only for a moment. She did not know all the details of the animosity between the two men, but she knew it ran deep. And she realized it doubtless had never occurred to Lord Jarvis that Devlin had involved himself in the Magdalene House murders at her specific request.
At just before ten o’clock that morning, Hero’s carriage drew up before the pylon-shaped facade of Bullock’s Museum at 22 Piccadilly. Giant twelve-foot statues of Isis and Osiris, nearly naked and bewigged à la égyptien , stared down at her. She paid her shilling fee and passed through a papyrus-columned portico styled to resemble the entrance to an Egyptian temple.
For an extra sixpence she was able to acquire a small booklet detailing the wonders of the various exhibition halls. She wandered for a time, studying first the collection of carvings in wood and ivory, then the curiosities brought back from the South Seas by Captain Cook. In the western wing she came upon the Pantherion, which contained—according to her booklet—“all the known Quadrupeds of the Earth.” Stuffed, of course. The Pantherion was reached by way of a basaltic cavern said to be modeled on the Giant’s Causeway of the Isle of Staffa—although her guidebook neglected to mention precisely where that might be.
In the distance, Hero could hear a progression of church bells chiming the quarter hour. It was nearly eleven o’clock. She studied an Indian hut set against the background of a tropical forest complete with glassy-eyed elephants and roaring tigers and a large, coiled snake, and felt a sense of frustration well within her. It had been a mistake, she realized, to set the rendezvous for this morning. She’d been driven by a sense of urgency, but she should have allowed more time for news of her reward to spread. More time for the women of Covent Garden to summon up the courage to step forward.
She climbed the steps to the first floor, where a room styled to resemble a medieval hall displayed an exhibit of historic arms and armor. Here she found a young woman seated by herself on a bench beneath the domed ceiling. Hero eyed the woman with a renewed surge of expectation. She was obviously waiting for someone. She sat with her reticule clutched in both hands, her gaze darting warily around the room. With her demur pink muslin and round bonnet, she looked more like a young debutante than Haymarket ware, but perhaps she had deliberately dressed in a way that would not draw attention to herself. Hero had just made up her mind to approach the young woman when she jumped up from her seat and rushed across the hall toward the stairs.
Looking around, Hero noticed the gentleman in buff-colored breeches and an olive drab coat who had followed her up the steps. Of course, thought Hero; a secret assignation.
Blowing out an ungenteel breath of disappointment, Hero was about to turn back toward the stairs herself when a woman’s lightly accented voice said, “You’re the one, aren’t you? The gentry mort who was at Molly O’Keefe’s, asking questions about Rose and Hannah?”
Hero turned as a tall
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