Why Mermaids Sing

Chapter 24

The drawing rooms and ballrooms of Mayfair would forever be barred to women such as Kat Boleyn—women who displayed their charms on the stage, who had known a succession of men in their beds. But Kat was a frequent and welcome guest in those salons of Bloomsbury and Richmond, where the entrée depended not on birth or wealth but on possession of a keen wit and a sharp intellect, where conversation turned not so much to fashion, horses, and hunting as to art and philosophy, literature and science.

On the afternoon following her fateful meeting with Jarvis, Kat put in an appearance at the select salon of a general’s daughter named Annabelle Hershey. Miss Hershey was a small woman with pale skin and dark hair, green eyes, and a mind that might have made her an Oxford don had she been born a man.

She greeted Kat with a peal of merry laughter. “Miss Boleyn, you have been sent by the very gods! You find us in desperate need of a Shakespearean expert to solve our dispute. Do tell us, please: in The Merchant of Venice, is Jessica’s father Shylock or Tubal?”

Kat cast a quick glance around the crowded salon. The assembled company ranged from scientists such as Humphrey Davy to the renowned literary hostess Miss Agnes Berry and a moody, brilliant, but little-known poet named Lord Byron. The man Kat sought was not here. “Shylock,” Kat said. “Tubal is his friend.”

Annabelle Hershey threw up her hands in mock surrender. “You were right, Miss Berry! It’s back to the schoolroom for me.”

From there the conversation slipped easily into a discussion of the rebuilding of the Drury Lane Theater. Kat stayed chatting for some fifteen minutes, and was about to take her leave when Aiden O’Connell strolled into the room. Kat flashed him a wide smile, then immediately looked away.

He approached her a few minutes later. A lean man in his late twenties, he had beguiling green eyes and a dimpled smile that made him a favorite with the ladies despite his unfortunate position as a younger son. “Any other man in the room would be in transports to have received such a welcoming smile from the most beautiful woman in London. So why am I filled with trepidation?”

“Because you’re not the fool you would have others think you, perhaps?”

He opened his eyes wide. “Do I play the fool?”

“Very well.” She leaned into him under cover of flirtatious laughter. “I must speak with you. Urgently and alone.”

His gaze met hers, and whatever he saw in her eyes drove the amusement from his. “When and where?”

“I am being watched. Come to my dressing room at the theater. Tomorrow night after the performance.”

He was silent for a moment, considering this. “Very well. Until then.” He moved away from her, to where Sir Thomas Lawrence was entertaining a small group with a tale of the antics of his latest subject’s ferocious pet parrot.

Kat watched the Irishman out of the corner of her eye. It had occurred to her that by warning Aiden O’Connell, she was running a serious risk. If he knew she meant to betray him, he could very well decide to have her killed himself. Yet it was a risk she had decided she must take. She could not betray him to Jarvis without first giving the Irishman an opportunity to escape.

How she would deal with Jarvis’s fury when he discovered his quarry flown was a quandary she had yet to satisfactorily resolve.

That evening, the wind blew in from the northeast, bringing with it the biting chill of the North Sea. Devlin sat in a wing chair beside the fire in Kat’s bedroom, a volume of John Donne’s poetry open on his lap. He was flipping through the pages when Kat came to stand behind him and loop her arms over his shoulders.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Listen to this,” he said, and began to read.

“‘Go and Catch a Falling Star

Get with child a mandrake root,

Tell me where all past years are,

Or who cleft the devil’s foot,

Teach me to hear mermaids singing,

Or to keep off envy’s stinging,

And find

What wind

Serves to advance an honest mind.

“‘If thou be’st born to strange sights,

Things invisible to see,

Ride ten thousand days and nights,

Till age snow white hairs on thee.

Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me,

All strange wonders that befell thee,

And swear,

No where

Lives a woman true and fair.

“‘If thou find’st one, let me know,

Such a pilgrimage were sweet;

Yet do not, I would not go,

Though at next door we might meet.

Though she were true, when you met her,

And last, till you write your letter,

Yet she

Will be

False, ere I come, to two, or three.’”

“Well,” said Kat, “Mr. Donne didn’t like women much, did he?”

Devlin smiled. “He was a clergyman. It’s something of an occupational hazard.”

Kat ran her fingers through the dark curls at the nape of his neck, felt the tension coiled within him. “The young man who was killed down in Kent last April…” She left the rest of the question unsaid.

“Was found with a papier-mâché star in his mouth.”

“Dear God.” She came around to curl up on the rug at his feet, her hands folded together on his knee, her head tilted back so she could see his face. “What does it all mean?”

He closed the book and set it aside. “I wish I knew.”

She rested her cheek against his leg. “Tell me about today.”

He told her in soft, measured tones. When he finished, she lifted her head and said. “‘Get with child a mandrake root.’ It’s the second line of the poem. Why would the killer skip one line of a poem he’s obviously following so deliberately?”

“Lovejoy thinks there must have been a similar killing someplace in England between April and June, a killing he simply hasn’t heard about yet.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

She sat back, her hands trailing down his leg in a gentle caress. Turning her head, she stared into the fire. For a moment she thought of the clergyman’s son in Avery, the lines of Donne’s poem running over and over in her head. But it wasn’t long before her thoughts slid away to her own problems, to Jarvis’s threat and her meeting with O’Connell tomorrow.

Devlin touched her hair, his hand cupping her chin to turn her face to him again. “What is it?” he asked.

She gave a startled laugh and shook her head. “What do you mean?”

“Something’s troubling you. Something you’re trying to hide from me.”

She laid her hand over his and shifted to plant a kiss against his palm. She kept her voice light, her smile in place. “Are you suggesting I’m a poor actress?”

“I’m suggesting I know you.”

“Do you?” She took his hand and placed it on the swell of her breast. “What does this tell you?”

His hand tightened over her breast, caressing her through the thin muslin of her gown. She saw the leap of desire in his eyes and let her own eyes slide shut, her head tipping back as she sucked in a quick, delighted breath.

He slipped from the chair, his knees denting the carpet beside hers, his lips warm against the bare flesh of her throat. His hands found the tapes of her high-waisted gown, loosened them. He eased the gown from her shoulders, taking with it the light chemise she wore beneath it.

Her lips closed over his, hungry now. Pressing her naked body against his clothed one, she drove all thoughts but this from her mind—this man, this love, this moment—and surrendered herself to it utterly.

Later, as she lay naked and spent in his arms, he traced the features of her face with one softly sliding finger and said, “Marry me, Kat.”

A pain swelled in her chest, a pain of want and longing that could never be eased. But she was an actress, and so she was able to summon up a smile, even though her voice shook slightly. “You know why I can’t.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, his fierce eyes glowing in the dying light of the fire. “My aunt Henrietta has found another suitable bride for me. A Lady Julia Something-or-other.” He entwined his hand with hers and kept his tone light, although she knew he was intensely serious. “If you truly loved me, you would rescue me from the matrimonial machinations of my family by marrying me yourself.”

“You need a Lady Something-or-other as a wife.”

“No. I need you.”

“I would destroy you.” Her voice was a torn whisper.

He slid his hands beneath her, drawing her up close so that he could bury his face in her hair. “No,” he said, all hint of lightness gone from his own voice. “Not having you in my life would destroy me.”