The Devlin Diary (34 page)

“You have not heard?” Arlington inquires calmly, almost breezily. “She is to bear his child.” He looks at Hannah as if daring her to refute him. Madame Severin wears an enigmatic, almost imperceptible, smile.

“The duke’s child? But—”

“Yes, felicitations are in order,” Arlington interrupts again. “Unhappily you will not be able to deliver them yourself. As of tonight, Mrs. Devlin, your presence is no longer required at court.”

E
DWARD’S COACH RATTLES
along London’s dark, rutted streets. The tapers have been replaced, and they shed a warm, pungent light on the carriage’s lacquered walls and satiny brocade seats. Hannah settles back with a sigh. Their meeting with Arlington has left her exhausted.

Edward looks at her with concern. “You seem far away.”

She shakes her head. “No. I am only thinking on this strange affair of Jane Constable.”

“Who is she?”

“A maid to the late Duchess of York. A while ago she asked for my help, the kind of help only a physician or an apothecary could give her. She was with child, and desperate. She said the father would not marry her.”

“That’s not surprising, surely. I don’t imagine that the Duke of York intends to take a commoner as his second wife.”

“But I do not believe that the Duke of York is the father of her child. I am quite certain she would not have sought me out if he were. I remember clearly a remark she made about how only the king’s mistresses are allowed to have bastards, who are then made dukes. Something that is equally true for the Duke of York’s mistresses.”

“You think that this maid has somehow tricked the duke into believing the child his own?”

“With Severin’s and Arlington’s assistance, I am sure. At the dance, Madame Severin told me to forget Jane Constable entirely—she implied that the girl had been mistaken, and wasn’t with child after all. I didn’t believe her; I thought instead that Severin was going to procure a remedy for Jane. Although I was concerned for her, I must admit that I felt some relief to be left out of it.” She pauses, her brow wrinkling. “Strange, that what I thought the madame had done for Jane she had actually done for Henriette-Anne. And with such terrible consequences.” She shakes her head sadly. “If Arlington and Severin have convinced the Duke of York that Jane Constable bears his child, when the child is born he will acknowledge it and it will be made a duke, or a duchess. Jane and the child will be forever in their debt. It is nothing more than a political ploy, meant to extend their power.” She remembers her unsettling dream of Arlington and Severin looming over the courtiers on the dance floor. “They move everyone about as if they were pawns. Even us, though you would think we were not so important.”

Something tugs at her memory, a tiny, glimmering thing, something she knows is meaningful. Something to do with Madame Severin. Hannah recollects their earlier encounter: Severin dabbed at her eyes, Hannah saw a glint of light, and then the tears. All at once she understands what she saw. The audaciousness of it makes her gasp.

“She was lying,” Hannah declares.

“Who?”

“Madame Severin. The story she told about Henriette-Anne was entirely false.”

“Not entirely, surely. I think we can be certain that the princess was poisoned.”

Hannah leans forward with passionate conviction. “But she’s lying about all the rest. It did not happen as she said.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“Her tears. She wiped her eyes and
then
there were tears on her cheeks. There was something, a small flagon, I think, concealed in her handkerchief. She put water in her eyes. She faked her tears.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, completely,” she says, amazed. “They’re trying to lead us astray. I do not think we can credit her story at all. Which means it’s still possible that Madame Severin is exactly as I thought: not to be trusted and very dangerous. What’s more, they intend for us to believe that Ralph Montagu is involved—perhaps even that he is the murderer.”

Edward’s expression darkens. “Or they know it to be Ralph Montagu.”

“You are quick to believe in that gentleman’s culpability.”

“Gentleman,” he scoffs. “He does not deserve to be so called.”

“Why are you so eager to believe the worst of him?”

“Because he is nothing but a rogue with pleasant manners.”

“That does not make him a murderer,” she points out.

“As ambassador, Montagu was intimately involved with the French court. A more scheming band of cutthroats is not to be found anywhere on the face of this earth. The French make the goings-on at Whitehall look like child’s play.”

“So he is to be condemned by association? You have said nothing so far that has convinced me of his guilt.”

“I have not had the opportunity,” he protests. “There are any number of reasons why someone like Montagu would be involved in this affair. He is perennially short of money and seems willing to stoop to the basest means in order to get it. Because of his position, he was well acquainted with the princess. Some said very intimately acquainted. Perhaps it was he who the Chevalier de Lorraine paid to place the poison in her cup.”

“And since then he has murdered everyone who knows or suspects him of this dreadful crime?”

“Precisely.”

“There is a flaw in your logic. My father was killed over a year ago. Ralph Montagu did not return from France until a few months ago.”

“Perhaps he did not return to stay; but that does not mean he was not in London when your father was murdered. As ambassador, I expect he often traveled between here and Paris. Indeed, I am certain that
with little effort we could make a connection between Mr. Montagu and every one of the four men who were killed.”

Hannah’s face flushes with anger. “You are ready to attribute to Mr. Montagu every evil for reasons I believe have little to do with your philosophical principles. He is a charming man, with many attractions to his person, and I am willing to believe that there may be some indiscretion in his past attachments. But a murderer? If you knew him as well as I do you would know this to be impossible.”

Edward’s eyes smolder with resentment. “Exactly how well do you know him?”

She rings the coachman’s bell with a sharp pull on a braided rope, and the carriage comes to a halt. “I shall walk from here,” she says brusquely, gathering her skirts and pushing the door open.

“You don’t even know where we are!”

“It doesn’t matter. I know how to find my way home.” Hannah steps down to the street, slamming the door behind her, furious and confused. She can’t recall ever being so angry that she’s walked out on someone before. She stops to get her bearings—Portsmouth Street is only a few blocks to the south—and realizes that the coach remains in the street behind her. She hears the door open and shut again, hears Edward’s footsteps quickly approaching. She ducks into a narrow alley lined with brick buildings. It’s so dark that she can barely see two steps ahead.

“Hannah!” Edward calls. “Wait, please.”

She turns to face him. He’s a shadowy silhouette outlined in the faint orange glow from the coach lanterns.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “The last thing I want to do is to offend you.”

“You had no right to say that.”

“I know. Please forgive me.” He moves so close that she can feel his chest rising and falling, each warm breath grazing her forehead before it dissipates into the star-filled sky. “And allow me to take you home. This is no place for you to be walking alone.”

He’s right—these murky, deserted alleys near Lincoln’s Inn Fields are unsafe, especially on a moonless night, but neither of them makes a move to return to the carriage. They look into each other’s eyes, and
neither seems able to break away. It feels like the first time they’ve truly been alone. Perhaps it’s the engulfing darkness of this place, its forlorn silence, but as Hannah gazes at Edward she feels as if they are the only two people in the world. Everyone else is a figment, a shade, a fleeting ghost. The world itself is, perhaps, imaginary. Only they are real and warm and alive. She fights an overwhelming longing to touch his face; the obstacles that divide them are too great. Edward is engaged, he is an aristocrat, he cannot marry her—all of this should persuade her to put her feelings aside. And yet she finds herself wishing,
Just this once. If only I could have him just this once.

“Hannah,” Edward says. In his voice she hears both a plea and a confession. “I cannot deny my feelings for you.”

“Though you should.”

“I do not know anymore what I should or should not do—I only know what I want.” His eyes search hers. “You have bewitched me.”

“That was not my intent,” she says softly. “But whatever I have done to you, you have done to me, too.”

Her admission makes him bolder. He grips her shoulders and pulls her closer. It seems to take an eternity for his lips to touch hers. When they do, Hannah feels surprised by their frank, simple warmth, the scratchy reality of his stubbled chin and cheek brushing against her own softer skin. Surprised by how a kiss can mean so many different and conflicting things: longing, desire, hope, regret, the sad awareness that their first kiss may be their last. She is surprised by her own desire, a sudden, ravenous presence in every part of her body: in her hands that reach to touch him, in her breasts that strain against the confines of her dress, in her mouth that returns Edward’s kisses in a delicious delirium. Surprised by his passion that equals her own.

Edward breaks away, then embraces her to speak softly into her ear. “Please, let me take you home.”

They take the coach to the north end of Portsmouth Street and, like figures in a dream, slip through the street’s indigo shadows to her front door. Inside, Hannah lights a candle and holds it aloft as they creep quietly up the stairs, past the closed doors of Hester and Mrs. Wills and
her mother. Stepping lightly, they enter her attic bedroom. She carefully shuts the door and sets the candle down on her desk.

They face each other solemnly. “Are you sure?” Edward asks softly.

She understands what his question implies: he has obligations, there is nothing more for them than this one night, no consequences, no ties.

“Yes.” It’s a bargain she’s already made.

“But I regret that I cannot—”

“Shhh.” She places a fingertip against his lips. She can accept tonight for what it is, but she does not want to hear him say the words.

First the gloves, then coat and cloak, his cravat, her neck scarf. Slowly, silently, they remove their clothing: shoes are slipped off, his waistcoat unbuttoned and tossed aside. Carefully, quietly, Edward unfastens the clasps on Hannah’s bodice, five hooks in a straight line from her breastbone to her navel. He helps her shimmy out of her dress, which settles in folds around her ankles, like a shed skin. There’s nothing left to remove except for their blousy cotton undershirts and Hannah’s pale stockings, gartered at the thigh. The room is so quiet that when the candle suddenly gutters and sizzles, it startles them.

Edward reaches out and delicately traces the dark areoles of her breasts, visible through the sheer gauze of her undergarment. “May I?” he asks. Hannah nods and he takes hold of her undershirt and pulls it up. She raises her arms, and as the blouse is whisked away over her head it feels like freedom and release. She stands naked before him, shivering a little in the attic’s chill air. Edward’s gaze roams freely and appreciatively over her small but shapely breasts; the tight curve of her abdomen; her generous, firm hips; and well-turned legs.

“I knew you would be beautiful,” he says, “but I did not know you would be this beautiful.” He tilts his head down to kiss her, gently at first, then more passionately, and wraps her in the warm safety of his arms. They break away just long enough for Edward to remove his shirt—it falls haphazardly over the chair and then to the floor—and move to the bed, still kissing. Beneath the flickering shadows that play among the rafters, they lay together silently, carefully learning each other’s bodies,
two musicians inspecting new and wondrous instruments. Edward has a muscular build and strong, elegant, capable hands: a surgeon’s hands. Hands that explore Hannah’s body with a sureness and sensitivity beyond what she expected.

Sensation leads to sensation. Edward’s warm lips on her lips, then on her throat. His lips move slowly down her chest, stopping briefly to take one caramel nipple into his mouth, then travel lower still, teasing, tantalizing. His hands caress her thighs, then gently press her legs open. Edward bows his head, brushing his lips against her most secret and sensitive part, and Hannah shivers with pleasure. He slips both hands under her buttocks and hugs her body to his mouth for a deep kiss that she feels as wave after wave of pleasure, pleasure so intense that she must bite her own fist to silence herself. It is too much,
it is too much,
she shudders violently from the pleasure of it,
it is too much.
Edward tightens his hold on Hannah as she struggles underneath him,
it is too much.
Just when she thinks she must tell him to stop, that it is too intense, that she cannot withstand any more, the little death overtakes her and she is spinning, lost, free, unable to stifle her own cries. It seems an eternity before she is stilled and calm; but even then, the merest touch could set her off again, spinning away, out of control.

Edward looks with solemn delight upon her heaving chest, her flushed face. He kisses her mouth, then carefully lowers himself onto her. Flesh to flesh, arms and legs entwined, he fits his body to hers. She arches to meet him.

“I will be gentle,” he whispers.

“Do not spare me,” she replies.

Fifth week of Michaelmas term

A
S THE CANDLES
on the High Table burned lower, Andrew listened attentively while Claire related the newly transcribed events of Hannah’s diary: the death of Hannah’s patient, Mr. Henley, and her second meeting with Edward Strathern; her encounter with Jane Constable; Montagu’s attentions; the dance and its aftermath. She told him about the growing intimacy between Hannah and Edward, and their search for Lucy. Then on to Sir Granville’s shocking murder, and Hannah and Edward’s subsequent visits to Dr. Sydenham and Lord Arlington.

“What happened after they left Arlington’s?” Andrew asked.

“Edward took her home in his carriage,” Claire replied. She could feel her cheeks burn and was thankful that the lighting in hall was dim.

“That’s all?”

“I didn’t have time to transcribe all my notes,” she replied. She felt a bit cowardly for evading his question, but she thought it better to save Hannah’s most private revelations for another time.

Andrew and Claire’s dinner together was a sort of first date, albeit an unusual one, as they sat at a long table surrounded by more than thirty of their peers. Claire scanned the faces and discovered a few that she recognized: Carolyn Sutcliffe, thankfully sitting some distance
away, who was pretending not to watch them; also Radha Patel, Toby Campbell, and Elizabeth Bennet, who sat next to an elderly man she seemed to be doting on. An unusual first date in that Claire was not, by any stretch of the imagination, wearing something seductive but was attired in her dark blue Trinity gown, with the appropriate sub-fusc underneath: a long black skirt worn with black tights and a white, long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to the throat. An unusual first date in that she suspected Andrew had distinct reasons for meeting in this particular public place: to show that he harbored no suspicion toward Claire, and to help put to rest some of the rumors that Derek’s death had engendered. And perhaps to put to rest any other rumors: everyone could see that they were just two colleagues who happened to sit next to each other in hall.

Claire swallowed the last sip of wine in her glass, and a waiter instantly appeared to fill it up again. The unexpected luxury of Formal Hall still felt foreign to her. At the hall’s eight o’clock dinner, everyone was required to wear gowns, and everyone, including the students, was served at table, unlike breakfast, lunch, or the seven o’clock dinner, which were buffet-style. The meal began with grace, recited in Latin by the master (or the vice-master, if the master was absent), and ended with tea, coffee, sherry, or port and a pudding, as they called dessert. In between was a multicourse affair of a much higher standard than Claire had ever associated with college kitchens. Tonight’s cauliflower soup, stuffed chicken breast, pine nut and goat cheese tart, roast potatoes, and
haricot verts
were a long way from the fare she remembered from her undergraduate years, even a long way from what she was accustomed to eating at home. That they were dining in a candlelit medieval hall with everyone in academic dress added even more luster to the experience.

“There are two things we’re trying to deduce from this diary, correct?” Andrew said, bringing Claire back from her wandering thoughts.

“Two?”

“As I see it, yes. One, what is the significance of the copied diary page Derek had on him when he died? Two, who killed Roger Osborne, and why?”

“Not just Roger Osborne,” Claire added, “but Sir Granville, Sir Henry Reynolds, and Hannah’s father, too. The suspects seem to have been narrowed down to two: Madame Severin and Ralph Montagu.”

“I’d put my money on Montagu. He was also at Henriette-Anne’s bedside the night she died.”

“Are you sure? Hannah doesn’t mention it.”

“Perhaps she didn’t know.”

“But Edward tells her exactly who was present in Henriette-Anne’s bedchambers. He doesn’t mention Montagu at all.”

“Maybe it’s a simple oversight. There were a lot of people there that night.”

“But Edward suspects Montagu of being the murderer. Don’t you think he’d remember if Montagu were there?”

“Maybe he left him out on purpose.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. How much do we know about Edward Strathern, except that by his own admission he was at the princess’s that night, too? I’m certain that Ralph Montagu was there. In fact, he was the one who came back to London to inform the king of Henriette-Anne’s death, and told him her last words.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I spent more than five years researching that period. Montagu told the king that Henriette-Anne’s last words were of Charles—that her ‘only regret was in leaving her beloved brother.’ I’m certain I’ve read it somewhere.”

“Montagu came all the way from Paris to tell the king that Henriette-Anne had died?”

“Yes.”

“Then it must be as Edward said: Montagu often traveled between England and France. He could very well be the man who killed Hannah’s father and all the others.”

“Yes, he very well could be,” Andrew replied, lowering his voice. “I suspect this is exactly what Derek was considering—that Ralph Montagu was a serial killer. A gripping story, all right. Big enough for
a book, and not a bad conclusion, I might add. The more I think on it, the more likely it seems.”

“What do you know about Ralph Montagu?”

“In a time when honesty, chastity, piety, and caring for the welfare of your fellow men was all but extinct, Montagu—”

“Was a shining example of goodness?” Claire offered.

“Just the opposite, I’m afraid. He was a shining example of just how low a man could go. He was never honorable, charitable, and most certainly not chaste. He never made a move without first determining how he would benefit from it. Even during the early Restoration period, a time when men like Montagu flourished, it would be difficult to find a more scheming and despicable man than he.”

“But Hannah didn’t think so.”

“She doesn’t have the benefit of hindsight, as we do. When Ralph Montagu discovered that he couldn’t earn enough in bribes from his position as the master of the great wardrobe, he married the heiress Elizabeth Wriothesley. From all accounts, their marriage was troubled from the start. He freely spent her money and made her miserable until the day she died in 1690. Then, still not rich enough for his taste, Montagu decided to court the daughter of the Duke of Newcastle, who was also the widow of the Duke of Albemarle and fabulously wealthy. There was only one problem: the Duchess of Albemarle was completely insane. She insisted that she would not marry again except to a person of royal blood. So Montagu got himself up in exotic garb and presented himself at her house as the emperor of China.”

“He showed initiative, at least,” Claire said with a smile. “You can hardly blame a guy for trying.”

“He not only tried, he succeeded. The duchess married him, and he went through her fortune like sand through an hourglass. He built a grand house in Bloomsbury that was designed by Robert Hooke. About sixty years later, the government bought it to house the country’s collections of antiquities, and later still it became the site of the British Museum. While he was married to the duchess, Montagu had affairs too numerous to count. At one point, while in Paris, he was sleeping with
the Countess of Castlemaine, King Charles’s former mistress, and her daughter—the king’s daughter—simultaneously. He blackmailed people, was involved in devious and underhanded political plots, succeeded in framing the Earl of Danby, the then secretary of the treasury, for something Montagu himself had done, and generally sowed discord wherever he went. If he were alive today he would be called a sociopath.”

“Unless he was a fellow, and then he would be called ‘difficult.’”

Andrew harrumphed.

“Something I don’t understand in all this,” Claire said, “is why, in a city so crime-ridden, Hannah makes almost no mention of any sort of police. Even the King’s Guards don’t appear to enforce the law.”

“There was no police force, as such, at that time. The English people didn’t want one—they associated policing with France and with tyranny. There were night watchmen, but they were usually old and not at all interested in putting themselves in harm’s way, and there were constables, usually three or four to a parish, but none of them truly fought crime, although they might testify in court if they’d seen a crime being committed. The King’s Guards were only trotted out at the king’s behest, usually for crimes of treason.”

“I think I can understand why Derek Goodman took the diary,” Claire continued, “if he thought that this revelation about Ralph Montagu could be the basis for a book, but it doesn’t answer the question of what the note was about. Jane Constable hardly comes into Hannah’s story at all. She’s just a subplot, a bit player.”

“I don’t understand it, either.”

“Oh, no—I just thought of something. Derek Goodman has mapped out the location and the order of the murders: the first was Dr. Briscoe, the second Roger Osborne, the third Sir Henry Reynolds, the fourth Sir Granville Haines.” Claire set down her wineglass and stared at Andrew. “What if the fifth and sixth are Hannah and Edward?”

“Oh, dear,” Andrew said as the thought sank in. “How long will it take you to transcribe the rest of your notes?”

Claire stood up and put her napkin on the table. “I’ll start right now. Be at my set first thing in the morning.”