When Maidens Mourn (3 page)

Devlin was silent for a moment, his forehead furrowed by a thoughtful frown as he continued to stare at that ugly streak of
blood. The Viscount could sometimes be hesitant to commit to an investigation of murder. It was a reluctance Lovejoy understood only too well. More and more, it seemed to him that each death he dealt with, each torn, shattered life with which he came into contact, stole a piece of his own humanity and bled away an irretrievable part of his joy in life.

But surely, Lovejoy reasoned, the connection between this victim and his lordship’s own wife would make it impossible for the Viscount to refuse.

Lovejoy said, “A murder such as this—a young woman brutally stabbed in a wood just north of London—will inevitably cause a panic in the city. And unfortunately, the impulse in these situations is all too often to calm public outrage by identifying a culprit quickly—at the cost of true justice.”

“Are you asking for my help?”

Lovejoy met that strange, feral yellow stare, and held it. “I am, my lord.”

Devlin pushed to his feet, his gaze shifting across the stretch of murky water to where the constables could be seen poking around the piles of fresh earth that edged Sir Stanley’s series of exploratory trenches. In the misty, ethereal light of morning, the mounds of raw earth bore an unpleasant resemblance to rows of freshly dug graves. Lovejoy watched Devlin’s lips press into a thin line, his nostrils flare on a painfully indrawn breath.

But the Viscount didn’t say anything, and Lovejoy knew him well enough to be patient.

And wait for Devlin’s reply.

S
ebastian turned to walk along the crest of the ancient rampart that rose beside the stagnant moat. The shade here was deep and heavy, the blue sky above nearly obliterated by the leafy branches of the stands of old-growth timber that met overhead. A tangle of bracken and fern edged the quiet waters of the moat and filled the air with the scent of wet earth and humus and the buzz of insects.

He’d heard that once this wild tract of woodland to the north of London had been known as Enfield Chase, a royal hunting ground that rang with the clatter of noble hoofbeats, the shrill blast of the huntsman’s horn, the baying of royal hounds. Through these lands had swept King Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth and a host of glittering, bejeweled courtiers, their velvet cloaks swirling in the mist, their voices raised in hearty halloos.

But all that had ended long ago. Briars and underbrush had grown up to choke the forest floor, while commoners from the nearby village had carted away the last tumbled stones of whatever grand manor or castle had once stood here. A quiet hush had fallen over the site, unbroken until a beautiful, brilliant, independent
-minded young woman with a boundless curiosity about the past had come searching for the origins of a legend—and died here.

He could remember meeting Miss Gabrielle Tennyson only once, a year or so earlier at a lecture on Roman London that he’d attended in the company of the Earl of Hendon. Sebastian recalled her as a striking, self-assured young woman with chestnut hair and an open, friendly smile. He hadn’t been surprised to discover that she and Hero were friends. Despite their obvious differences, the two women were much alike. He found it difficult to think of such a strong, vital woman now lying on a surgeon’s slab, robbed of her life and all the years of promise that had once stretched before her. Difficult to imagine the terror and despair that must have filled her eyes and congealed her heart when she looked her last on this quiet, secluded site.

He paused to stare again at the small wooded isle where a castle named Camelot had once stood. He was aware of Sir Henry Lovejoy drawing up beside him, his homely features pinched and tight, his hands clasped behind his back.

Sebastian glanced over at him. “You said she’d been stabbed?”

The magistrate nodded. “In the chest. Just once that I could see, although Dr. Gibson will be able to tell us with certainty once he’s finished the postmortem.”

“And the murder weapon?”

“Has yet to be found.”

Sebastian eyed the murky water before them. If Gabrielle’s murderer had thrown his knife into the moat, it might never be recovered.

Twisting around, he studied the narrow lane where his tiger, Tom, was walking the chestnuts up and down. “How the devil did she get out here? Any idea?”

Sir Henry shook his head. “We can only assume she must have arrived in the company of her killer.”

“No one in the neighborhood saw anything?”

“Nothing they’re willing to admit. But then, the nearest village is several miles away, and there are only a few isolated houses in the area. Tessa Sawyer—the village girl who found her—came upon the body quite by chance, shortly before midnight.”

“And what was Tessa doing out in the middle of nowhere at night?”

“That is not entirely clear, I’m afraid, given the girl’s garbled and rather evasive replies to our questions. However, I understand that yesterday was some sort of ancient pagan holy day—”

“Lammas.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Sir Henry. “Lammas. I’m told Camlet Moat has a reputation as a place of magic amongst the credulous. In addition to the apparition of a White Lady who is said to haunt the island, there’s also the ghost of some unsavory Templar knight who is reputed to appear when provoked.”

“I assume you’ve heard there’s also a tradition that this may be the ancient site of King Arthur’s Camelot?”

The magistrate sniffed. “A fanciful notion, no doubt. But yes, I understand Sir Stanley Winthrop became intrigued by the possibility after he purchased the estate last year and discovered Miss Tennyson’s research on the history of the site.”

“You think her murder could in some way be connected to the legends of the island’s past?”

Sir Henry blew out a long, agitated breath. “I wish I knew. We’re not even certain how long Miss Tennyson’s body was lying here before it was discovered. Her brother, Mr. Hildeyard Tennyson, has been out of town for the better part of a fortnight. I’ve sent a constable to interview her servants, but I fear they may not be able tell us much of anything. Yesterday was Sunday, after all.”

“Bloody hell,” said Sebastian softly. “What does Sir Stanley Winthrop have to say about all this?”

“He claims he last saw Miss Tennyson when she left the excavations for home on Saturday afternoon.”

Something in the magistrate’s tone caught Sebastian’s attention. “But you don’t believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe. He tells us he can’t imagine what she might have been doing up here yesterday. They don’t work the excavations on Sundays.”

Sebastian said, “Perhaps she came up to look around by herself.”

Lovejoy frowned. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible. She may well have surprised some trespasser, and in a panic, he killed her.”

“And then stole her carriage and kidnapped her coachman?”

Lovejoy pulled a face. “There is that.”

Sebastian adjusted the tilt of his beaver hat. “Her brother is still out of town?”

Lovejoy nodded. “We’ve sent word to his estate, but I doubt he’ll make it back to London before nightfall at the earliest.”

“Then I think I’ll start with Sir Stanley Winthrop,” said Sebastian, and turned back toward his curricle.

Lovejoy fell into step beside him. “Does this mean you’re willing to assist Bow Street with the case?”

“Did you honestly think I would not?”

Sir Henry gave one of his rare half smiles, tucked his chin against his chest, and shook his head.

“T
here you are, Jarvis,” exclaimed the Prince Regent, his face flushed, his voice rising in a petulant whine as he clenched a sheet of cheap, ink-smeared paper in his fist. “Look at this!” He thumped the offending broadsheet with one plump, beringed hand. “Just look at it.”

His Royal Highness George, Prince Regent of Great Britain and Ireland, lay beside the fireplace in his dressing room, his heavy legs draped off the edge of a gilt fainting couch contrived in the shape of a crocodile upholstered in scarlet velvet. Despite the heat of the day, a fire burned brightly on the hearth, for the Prince had a morbid fear of taking chill.

Having been stricken while still in the midst of his toilet, he wore only a pair of exquisitely fitted yellow unmentionables and a shirt ruffled with an extravagant cascade of lace. It was a style of linen that belonged more to the previous century, but the Prince still occasionally indulged his taste for it, perhaps because it reminded him of the golden years of his youth, when he’d been handsome and carefree and beloved by his people. These days, he
needed a corset to contain his ever-increasing girth, the people who’d once cheered him now booed him openly in the streets, and shadowy radicals published seditious broadsheets bemoaning the lost days of Camelot and calling for King Arthur to return from the mists of Avalon and save Britain from the benighted rule of the House of Hanover.

So great had been the Prince’s distress at the reading of this particular broadsheet that his valet had sent for the Prince’s doctor. The doctor, in turn, took one look at the offending verbiage and requested the attendance of the Prince’s powerful and infinitely wise cousin, Charles, Lord Jarvis.

“Calm yourself, Your Highness,” said Jarvis, catching the eye of the Prince’s doctor, who stood nearby. The doctor nodded discreetly and turned away.

“But have you seen this?” wailed the Prince. “They want Arthur to come back and get rid of me!”

Jarvis carefully loosed the broadsheet from the Regent’s clutches. “I have seen it, Your Highness.” Personally, Jarvis suspected the caricature accompanying the tract—which portrayed George as a grossly fat, drunken, overdressed buffoon with the ears of an ass—offended the Prince more than anything. But it was the implications of the appeal for Arthur’s messianic return that concerned Jarvis. “Whoever is responsible for this will be dealt with.”

The Prince’s valet and doctor exchanged quick, furtive glances, then looked away. There was a reason Jarvis was feared from one end of the Kingdom to the other. His network of spies and informants gave him an eerie omnipotence, while those he “dealt with” were seldom seen again.

The doctor stepped forward with a glass of cloudy liquid on a silver tray. “Here, Your Highness; drink this. You’ll feel much better.”

“Who gave this broadsheet to the Prince?” Jarvis demanded in a harsh whisper to the Prince’s valet as His Highness obediently gulped the doctor’s brew.

The valet’s plump, sweat-sheened face went pasty white. “I’ve no notion, my lord. In truth, I do not know!”

Frowning, Jarvis tucked the seditious literature into his coat and bowed himself out of the royal presence.

He was crossing the anteroom of the Prince’s chambers when a pimply, half-grown page sidled up to him and bowed low, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to speak. But all he succeeded in doing was pushing out a series of incoherent squeaks.

“For God’s sake, boy, out with it,” snapped Jarvis. “As it happens I’ve already eaten, so you needn’t fear I’ll have you for breakfast.”

The boy’s eyes bulged.

Jarvis suppressed a sigh. “Your message; say it.”

The boy swallowed and tried again, the words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s your daughter, my lord. Miss J—I mean, Lady Devlin. She desired me to tell you that she wishes to speak with you, my lord. She awaits you in your chambers.”

No man in England was more powerful than Jarvis. His kinship with the King might be distant, but without Jarvis’s ruthless brilliance and steady wisdom, the House of Hanover would have fallen long ago and the Hanovers knew it. Jarvis had dedicated his life to the preservation of the monarchy and the global extension of the might of England. Another man might have insisted on being named prime minister in return for his services. But Jarvis preferred to exercise his power from the shadows, unconstrained by either tradition or law. Prime ministers came and went.

Jarvis remained.

He found his daughter standing at the long window of the chambers reserved for his exclusive use overlooking Pall Mall. Once, Jarvis had possessed a son—an idealistic dreamer named David. But David had been lost years before to a watery grave.
Now there was only Hero: brilliant, strong willed, and nearly as ruthless and enigmatic as Jarvis himself.

She wore a walking dress of dusky blue trimmed with moss green piping, and a jaunty hat with a broad brim turned up on one side and held in place with a silk posy. The sunlight streaming through the paned glass bathed her in a warm golden glow and touched her cheeks with color.

“You’re looking good,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”

She turned to face him. “You’re surprised?”

Rather than answer, he crossed the room to where a candlestick stood on a table beside a wing-back chair. The relationship between father and daughter had always been complicated. They were much alike, which meant she understood him as few others did. But that was not to say that she knew everything there was to know about him.