Why Mermaids Sing

Chapter 56

SUNDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER 1811

Charles, Lord Jarvis spent as little time as possible in his house in Berkeley Square. But he always attended Sunday-morning services at St. James’s chapel with his harridan of a mother, his half-mad wife, and his determinedly unwed daughter, Hero. After church, it was his practice to pass several hours in his library dealing with affairs of state before sitting down to Sunday dinner with his family. He was very conscious of the need for the better classes to set a proper example for the lower orders, and church attendance and devotion to family were an important part of that example. It was a duty he had sought to impress upon his daughter, although with indifferent success.

On this particular Sunday, he returned from chapel to find the reports of several of his agents awaiting his attention on his desk. Devlin’s interference with his plans to use the actress Kat Boleyn to ferret out the identity of Napoleon’s new spymaster had forced Jarvis to fall back on more traditional means, but so far his agents had proved unsuccessful. He was glancing through their reports when he was interrupted by a cautious knock.

“Yes, what is it?” he said without looking up.

“A Mr. Russell Yates to see you, my lord.”

Jarvis’s head came up. “What the bloody hell does he want?”

“Shall I tell him you are not at home, my lord?”

Jarvis tightened his jaw. “No. Send him in.”

Russell Yates came in, bringing with him the scent of well-bred horses and a cool morning rain. From his manly chest and powerful shoulders to the glint of pirate’s gold in his left ear, he exuded an aggressive form of masculinity not often seen amongst the members of the ton. And it was all for show.

Jarvis had dedicated his life to reading people and manipulating them. He was good at it, and he rarely made mistakes. Yet once Jarvis had underestimated this man. It would not happen again.

Very deliberately, Jarvis leaned back in his chair, but did not rise. “Have a seat, Mr. Yates.”

Yates adjusted the tails of his dark blue morning coat and settled in a leather chair beside the empty hearth. “Please accept my apologies for interrupting you on the Sabbath day, my lord.”

Jarvis merely inclined his head. It was flowery flummery and they both knew it.

“I am here, first of all,” continued Yates, “to share with you the news of my good fortune. The lovely Miss Kat Boleyn has consented to become my wife.”

Jarvis drew a gold snuffbox from his pocket and flipped it open. “Indeed? It was my understanding that Miss Boleyn had consented to become the Viscountess Devlin.”

“Things changed.”

“So it seems.” Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril. “You understand, I assume, that Miss Boleyn has some…shall we say, unfortunate associations in her past?”

“Actually, that is my primary purpose for coming to see you today. While it’s true Miss Boleyn has in the past engaged in certain activities that are better forgotten, the same could be said of many of us.” Yates’s smile widened to show his teeth. “Even you, my lord, have been involved in episodes that would be best left unknown.”

Jarvis closed his snuffbox with a snap. He was not one to bluster or rage, for he had learned long ago to control his emotions. He did at times give vent to anger, but only when it served his purpose. It would not serve his purpose now.

He tucked his snuffbox away and said calmly, “The understanding we reached on these matters still stands. I assume you are here merely to reassure me that as long as Miss Boleyn’s secrets are safe, others are safe?”

“That’s a fair representation of the situation, yes.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

Yates rose to his feet. Jarvis waited until he was at the door to add, “It does seem a waste.”

Yates turned. “How’s that, my lord?”

“Such a beautiful woman, married to a man uninterested in women.”

If he’d been hoping for a rise, Jarvis was disappointed. Yates merely smiled and said, “Good day, my lord.”

Some twenty minutes later, Jarvis was still sitting at his desk when his daughter, Hero, appeared at the door.

“The most vexatious thing, Papa. Grandmama has thrown her chamber pot at the upstairs parlor maid, and now both the maid and Cook have quit.”

“The cook?” Jarvis looked around, his attention caught. “Why the cook?”

“Cook is Emily’s aunt.”

“Emily? Who the deuce is Emily?”

“The upstairs parlor maid.”

“Good God,” roared Jarvis. “And what would you have me do about it? The petty affairs of this household are not in my province.”

“I don’t expect you to do anything about it,” said Hero. “I have simply come to warn you that dinner will be delayed.”

“Dinner? But…who is cooking it?”

“I am,” said his daughter with unruffled equanimity, and closed the door behind her.

Jarvis stared at the closed panel for a moment, then rose to pour himself a brandy. It had been a trying week.

The day might have been overcast, but the light streaming in through Paul Gibson’s kitchen windows was still bright enough to hurt Sebastian’s eyes. He squeezed them shut and ran a hand across his beard-roughened chin. “Remind me why I stayed here, rather than going home? I need a shave. And a bath. And clean clothes.”

Paul Gibson answered him from across the room. “You needed to talk.”

Sebastian opened one eye. “I did? How much did I say?”

“Enough.” Gibson came to stand on the far side of the battered kitchen table. “I’m sorry, Sebastian.”

Sebastian looked away.

“Here.” Gibson plunked a tankard of ale on the boards before him. “This will help your head. You’d best drink it before you hear this morning’s news.”

Sebastian brought his gaze back to his friend’s face. “Why? What’s happened?”

“It’s Felix Atkinson’s twelve-year-old son, Anthony. He’s missing.”