What Angels Fear

Chapter 40

Normally, Sunday was the only day of the week when Charles, Lord Jarvis, spent any time at home. He would shepherd his mother, wife, and daughter to church in the morning, and then he’d sit down with them for a traditional English Sunday dinner before retreating to one of his clubs, or to the chambers set aside for his use in Carlton House or St. James’s Palace.

But a condition his doctors called inflammation of the heart—but which Jarvis himself considered little more than heartburn—had kept him in bed that Monday under the care of his caustic, sharp-tongued mother, who ran his household while his wife retreated farther and farther into her own misty dream worlds and his daughter was off tilting at windmills and meddling in things she refused to believe were none of her affair.

It was one of the ironies of Jarvis’s existence, that his life was filled with women. In addition to his mother, wife, and daughter, who lived with him, Jarvis was far more involved than he would have liked in the lives of his two sisters: weepy, harebrained Agnes, forever needing his help to tow her useless husband and son out of dun territory; and Phyllis, who, while no more intelligent than her sister, had at least had the wit to marry well.

Women, in Jarvis’s opinion, were generally even more profoundly brainless and foolish than most men. True, there were some exceptions—females with astonishingly rational, quick minds who tended to be either embittered and sour, or sarcastic and irreverent, and who irritated him even more than their empty-headed sisters. His deep and abiding hatred of the French notwithstanding, Jarvis had to agree with Napoleon in this, if nothing else: the only two things women were good for were recreation and reproduction.

Which was a thought that brought him back, as it often did, to Annabelle, his wife.

She’d been a fey, pretty little thing when he’d married her, a thin slip of a girl with sparkling blue eyes and a merry laugh and a handsome dowry. But she’d proved a severe disappointment. She’d managed to produce only one living daughter and a sickly, weak son before succumbing to a series of yearly miscarriages and stillbirths that the doctors claimed had ruined her health and overset the balance of her delicate mind. Jarvis knew better. Annabelle’s mind had never been balanced. But whatever hopes he might have had that her precarious health would soon carry her off proved misplaced. She lived on, year after year, forbidden by her doctors from providing him with the release his body still occasionally craved and unable to produce the son he needed to replace David, lying now in a watery, unknown grave.

Yet of all the women in his life, it was his daughter, Hero, who tended to cause Jarvis the most grief. A stubborn, wrongheaded creature, she had dedicated her life, nauseatingly, to good works, while spouting any number of alarming sentiments gleaned from her reading of the likes of Mary Wollstonecraft and the Marquis of Condorcet. Worse, having stubbornly resisted his efforts to contract for her any number of advantageous matches, she was now nearly twenty-five, and well on her way to becoming a spinster for life. Never the pretty, taking little thing her mother had been, whatever good looks she might once have had were in danger of fading fast.

She was off right now, inspecting a workhouse, of all things. Just the thought of it brought a sour burn to his chest so that he was in no good humor when, midway through the afternoon, that fool magistrate, Lovejoy, was finally ushered into his presence.

“You wished to see me, my lord?” said the little man, bowing.

“It’s about time,” groused Jarvis from the sofa beside the fire, where he had set up a kind of temporary office. “I hear Devlin has killed again.”

“We don’t actually know—”

“He was seen there, wasn’t he?”

The little man pressed his lips together and sighed. “Yes, my lord.”

“The Prince is greatly displeased by this entire affair. There are whispers on the streets. Alarming talk. They’re saying it’s reached the point that noblemen in this country can kill with impunity, that common folks’ women are no longer safe even in their own homes. It’s the last thing the Prince needs, with his installation as Regent just two days away.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“The Prince wants Devlin brought in—or dead—within forty-eight hours. Or Queen Square will be looking for a new magistrate. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Lovejoy, and bowed himself out.