The Devlin Diary (39 page)

He looks over the enclosed page with the symbols and their meanings. So the duc poisoned his wife because she was carrying another man’s child? It seems a plausible explanation, given what he knows about the French court and the duc d’Orleans. But he doubts that the duc would have carried out the murder himself. He is of royal blood, he does nothing for himself. But who, then? And why did Henriette-Anne’s murderer make known the reason and method of her death by way of these markings on his victims’ bodies?

Up until now Edward has assumed, along with Hannah, that the person who murdered the princess has also been responsible for the death of his uncle and the three others. But what if the motive for the murders of the four men was not to conceal Henriette-Anne’s murder but to reveal it? To make known to the world the manner in which she died and take revenge on those who kept it a secret?

He reads over Hannah’s disquieting letter once more. “
All I truly want is to find Montagu and to see for myself if he is guilty. I must attempt to procure some justice for poor Lucy…
” It seems as though she intends to avenge Lucy’s death herself, but she must know that she doesn’t stand a chance against Montagu. A more chilling thought occurs to
him. Perhaps she is not in her right mind; perhaps grief has unhinged her, and she no longer cares for her own safety.

Edward walks to the door and summons the porter. “Tell the ostler to bring my horse at once.”

“But it’s still raining, sir. Would you not prefer the carriage instead?”

“Just my horse. I’m in a great hurry.”

Hugh appears at his side, concerned. “What is it? What’s in that letter?”

“I’ve no time to explain. I must make for Whitehall right away.” He runs upstairs to fetch his coat and gloves. He must hurry. He must find Hannah before she finds Montagu.

M
AITLAND’S VEHEMENCE SURPRISES
her. “You have become a cynic,” Hannah says. “Perhaps you have been at the English court too long.”

“You think Charles Stuart’s court has made me what I am?” he says with a wry but winning smile. “I would never give credit to such a motley bunch of fools. I lost my father before I was old enough to know him, and if my sister and I hadn’t been packed off to relatives in Paris we would have starved along with my mother. Not that it was much of an improvement; we were never allowed to forget that we survived only because of my uncle’s charity. What he called charity, at any rate. I believe his dogs were treated better than we were. It wasn’t until I was taken into Mr. Montagu’s service that I was given anything approaching respect.”

No wonder Maitland is so loyal to Montagu. What will he do, she wonders, when he discovers the sort of man Montagu truly is? “How long have you been in service to him?”

“Since he was first ambassador, nearly six years now.”

She takes a chance. “He was close to certain members of the French court, was he not?”

“Mrs. Devlin, I have already told you, I cannot—”

“What you know of him may turn out to be immensely important.” She leans forward, beseeching him. “There is more at stake than just one death.”

His wariness returns. “What do you mean exactly?”

“Please understand that I cannot tell you all, but what you know of Montagu and his friendship with Henriette-Anne may help.”

“You will not hear any slander of that lady from me.”

“I didn’t necessarily mean slander.”

“She was the best woman ever to grace this earth,” he says passionately.

Hannah carefully settles back into the cushioned seat, keeping her eyes on him all the while. She realizes that she has stumbled across something significant, but what it is she cannot yet imagine. “Perhaps you could tell me about her,” she ventures.

Now that Maitland is assured that she does not intend to denigrate the princess, his amiable manner returns. “The princess possessed the most refined and sensitive nature,” he says. “She knew what it meant to lose one’s father at a young age, to be in exile, to be of high birth but low circumstances. We had that in common. She treated everyone with kindness and charity, and as for me—well, she knew I was a gentleman’s son. She was as pure as an angel and as devout as a saint. Unhappily she passed from this earth much too soon. Though in God’s eyes, perhaps, it makes no difference.
Vivit post funera virtus.
”

Virtue lives beyond the grave, Hannah translates silently. She feels a prickling at the back of her neck, gooseflesh all along her arms.

Maitland speaks Latin.

Of course; he is a gentleman’s son with a gentleman’s education. She feels as if she’s been knocked breathless. Her heart beats in her throat, the metallic taste of fear floods her mouth. She turns her eyes away from him lest her own expression reveal too much. It takes every bit of self-control she possesses to breathe in again slowly, without gasping for air. She stares down at her hands in her lap, willing herself to breathe evenly, her heart to slow down. In spite of her discipline—or
perhaps because of it—a fine sheen of perspiration breaks out over her entire body. She has known fear before, but never like this.

She realizes that Maitland is waiting for her to respond, and if she does not speak soon he will know that something is amiss. “You must have been saddened by her death,” she says as calmly as she is able. She forces herself to meet his gaze, even manages a look of sympathy, amazing herself with her ability to dissemble.
How did he do it?
she wonders.
How did he murder my father and the others? He does not appear particularly strong.

“It was a tragedy,” he replies, his eyes cast down, “and a crime.” She notices the way his long, thick lashes contrast with his pale skin, his downy cheeks. With the right disguise, his face could easily be taken for a woman’s. If he wore a dress, perhaps a vizard, under the cover of night—yes, it would be easy. His victims would be caught off guard by a woman. They would allow her to get closer to them than they might a man, allow her near enough to strike; or, in the case of Sir Granville, even allow her into his bedroom. On the first attempt Maitland would go for the heart, incapacitating his victim so that he could not fight back.

But why? She knows now that he did not kill Henriette-Anne—that much is obvious. His feelings on that subject are too strong. But why her father, Sir Henry, Sir Granville? There must be a reason, but at present she cannot conceive of it. Her fear has clouded her thinking. The only things in her mind are to keep Maitland talking, to make him believe that she suspects nothing, and to leave this carriage as soon as she possibly can.

“You speak as though you cared for her,” Hannah says.

“Cared for her? That is too pallid an emotion. What I felt had nothing to do with something so commonplace.”

“You revered her, then.”

“I worshipped her,” he says, his voice edged with anger. “But do not imagine that you can understand what I felt for her—what I still feel for her.”

For the first time Hannah detects the anguish and rage that fuel
his passionate nature. What did he intend that first night? What she thought was a passing romantic interest may have been something else entirely. If she had allowed him inside her house, what would have happened? Would she have been another of his victims? She shudders to think of it. It crosses her mind that he might have inflicted that cut upon his hand himself to gain her sympathy and trust; what could be less threatening than an injured man? She has misinterpreted so much, from the very beginning.

She berates herself for her foolishness. She should never have gone to Arlington without first being sure of the murderer’s identity. She should have never gotten into this coach with Maitland. The carriage’s window shades are drawn, and she has no idea what part of London they’re in. How will she discover where they are and where they are heading without making him suspicious?

She glances at his hand. “It appears your cut has healed quite nicely,” she says. “May I take a closer look?”

He offers it to her, seemingly undisturbed by this sudden change of topic.

“I need more light. May I?” She nods at the window.

He shrugs. “Of course.”

She unhooks the ring at the bottom of the window shade and lifts it up, fastening it again at the top. They’re crossing the Holborn bridge. Just south of the bridge is a huge construction site. Ravenscroft’s project, Hannah realizes at once. Half the Fleet has been diverted to run along the east bank, with the muddy riverbed on the west side exposed. There appear to be dozens of workers in the Ditch; blurry figures move about purposefully in the rain. She wonders if the philosopher is among them as she turns the back of Maitland’s hand toward the light.

“I’d say it was almost as good as new,” she says. “Do you still harbor such a dislike of doctors?” She hopes to divert him from noticing her true interest: up ahead is a crowded street where the coach may be forced to come to a stop.

“Doctors are charlatans who pretend to know much but in fact do very little. I have never seen a physician save a life, have you?”

“Yes, I have, although not nearly so often as I should like to,” Hannah replies. “Is that why you’re so angry—because no one could save the princess’s life?”

“They pretended that she died from a natural illness, even though they knew otherwise.”

“My father did not pretend. He was banished from court because of it.”

“That’s not what he told me.” He’s defiant and suspicious, as if he has just caught her out in a lie.

Her face flushes with a sudden, overwhelming anger. Maitland has as good as admitted his crime. “When did you speak to him?”

“Near the end of his life, I should say,” Maitland replies without remorse. “I asked him why he did not report what he knew to be true: that the princess died by someone else’s hand. He denied it outright, said it was her own sickness that killed her.”

“He was trying to protect me and my mother,” Hannah says. “And for this you killed him?”

“He knew the truth and yet he refused to tell the world. Now she lies unquiet in her grave. They will pay, I tell you.” He looks at her fiercely. “They will all pay.”

“Who will pay?”

“All of them: Madame Severin, Arlington, the king—”

“You intend to kill the king?”

“I will avenge her even if it means my own death,” he says vehemently. “I can never forget the sight of her in agony, ruined, dying—and everyone standing about as though it was some kind of spectacle for their entertainment. Worse, I had to pretend that I felt as little as they, that I felt nothing.” The break in his voice betrays the depth of his emotion. “She was pure, you understand. A saint. Yet in the French court she was treated like a servant.”

Hannah glances outside. The coachman has turned the horses away from the crowded street ahead, and into a narrow lane barely wide enough for the carriage to pass. She will have to delay her escape a bit longer. “I have heard that the princess cuckolded her husband and was with child by another man,” Hannah says. “Do you still consider her a saint?”

“Do not make light of that lady’s purity. She was above the concerns of those people. They never understood her.”

“You mean the rumors were untrue?”

“I mean that they have no significance.”

“So she was with child?”

“Yes.” His eyes burn with a dangerous fury. “With my child.”

“Yours?” Hannah gasps.

“Do you imagine that it’s impossible for someone like me to win a princess’s love?”

Hannah thinks about Madame Severin’s story of Henriette-Anne’s unhappiness with her husband. The appeal of a younger man who worshipped her so passionately would be strong indeed. “I believe I understand her reasons.”

“The duc was abominable to her,” Maitland continues. “I showed her tenderness.”

“Did the duc kill her?”

“Of course.”

“With his own hand?”

“No. But it was done for him, all the same. The day she died, I witnessed an argument between her and Madame Severin. She said the princess must do something about the baby, that as soon as it was born the duc would know it was not his and she would be disgraced. Madame Severin said she had procured some medicine for the princess to take, that it would bring on her terms and no one would be the wiser. Henriette-Anne refused to do it. She said the medicine was poison. The duc was spying on her, of course. He had one of his minions put the medicine in her barley-water.”

“But why?”

“The duc didn’t want her, but he didn’t want anyone else to have her, either. And he most certainly could not allow her to have another man’s child—a commoner’s child, no less. His minions did whatever he told them to do, and they were happy to see her dead. They hated the very fact of her, that she was young, sweet, beautiful. That she was a woman. That she shared the duc’s bed. Now she is in her grave and her murderer walks free. She is screaming for justice. I can hear her.
Don’t you understand? They keep her murder a secret for a reason.”

Hannah lets her hand sink to the seat, then quietly rummages in the folds of her skirt. Her knife is buried deep inside the pocket. “Who are ‘they’?”

“All of them,” he answers impatiently. “Arlington, Louis, the king.”

“Surely you are mistaken. The king of all people would seek justice for his own sister.”

“But he did not. King Louis would not have his brother slandered, and Charles Stuart went along with it.”

The coach turns into another lane, this one wider than the last. Hannah sees her chance and reaches for the door.

“No, you don’t,” Maitland says, grabbing her hand and pulling it away from the handle; with his other hand he pushes her back onto the seat. Then he lunges at her, going straight for her throat. He’s stronger than she would have thought. His hands grip her neck with such force that she can feel his thumbs against her trachea, feel the dizzying sensation of the lack of blood to her brain. She gasps for breath as she tries to pry his fingers off. She bends one leg and, with as much force as she can muster, knees him in the groin. Maitland gives out a strangled yelp, and his grip on her throat loosens. She pushes him away. For a moment she imagines that she’s free of him, but he recovers quickly and hits her roundly in the face. Her head slams against the coach wall. The impact resounds painfully throughout her head, and the sting on her cheek fills her eyes with tears. The coach lurches forward and Maitland falls on her, his hands finding her throat once more.

Hannah digs deep into her pocket and grabs hold of her knife. Without withdrawing it she takes aim at the nearest target. The knife point pierces petticoats and breeches to sink into his thigh. Maitland screams, and she pushes him away with enough force to send him back to the other side of the coach. She takes the knife from her pocket and reaches for the door. This time when he attempts to stop her she stabs the back of his hand, the same one she mended not long ago. As Maitland cries out, Hannah pushes the door open and throws herself forward, as clear of the coach as she can manage. She lands in a street
that’s more mud than anything else. Her knife goes flying and sinks out of sight. A few pigs run away squealing.

She picks herself up as the coachman reins in the horses. Any moment now Maitland will be coming out after her. She scrabbles in the mud for her knife and finds it just as the door to the coach creaks open. She gathers her skirts and begins to run, hoping to find a way out of this maze of dark alleys and dead-end courts, the very same streets where her father was killed.

The coach must have crossed the Ditch at Fleet Lane or Holborn, Edward explains. Luckily, Arlington’s carriage is as ostentatious as the minister; it hasn’t been difficult to track it from Whitehall. Mr. Ravenscroft has come out from under the minimal protection of a dripping tarp and stands squinting up at him, one hand shielding his eyes as if he’s saluting. Edward is still astride his horse. He hopes to be on his way within minutes.