Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(28)
Jarvis was in no hurry for her to leave.
She was so tiny that even when she stood on tiptoe, her kiss didn’t quite reach Hero’s cheek, and she laughed good-naturedly. “What a pleasant surprise. You’re joining us for breakfast?”
“Sorry, no,” said Hero, reaching for her hat. “I can’t stay.”
“You and Devlin must come for dinner. Perhaps one evening when this wretched cold snap has passed?”
“Yes,” said Hero. “That would be lovely.”
After she had gone, Victoria came to stand behind Jarvis’s chair and slip her arms around his neck. “Does she know?”
“Not all of it,” he said, and smiled when she playfully bit his ear.
Chapter 16
Long the haunt of booksellers and literary men, Paternoster Row was an ancient, gloomy thoroughfare lying just to the north of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The narrow gable-fronted residence of Jane’s brother, Christian Somerset, stood not far from Ave Maria Lane. Its ground floor was given over to Somerset’s bookstore and bindery, while his printing press operated from a workshop that opened onto a small court at the rear. Sebastian found the shop busy, with several men working two modern, iron-framed presses while young apprentices leapt to ink the blocks and then peel off the fresh, wet pages and hang them to dry. A slim, quietly dressed man stood near the front window, frowning as he held a proof sheet up to the light. When Sebastian pushed open the door from the snow-filled courtyard, the man glanced up and said, “May I help you?”
Sebastian closed the door against the icy cold and breathed in the thick atmosphere of linseed oil, lampblack, and sweat. “You’re Mr. Christian Somerset?”
The man’s hand trembled slightly as he set the sheet aside. “I am, yes.” The family resemblance was there in the finely drawn features and elegant bone structure Somerset shared with his dead sister. But if Sebastian hadn’t known the man was younger than Jane, he never would have guessed it, for Somerset’s dark hair was already laced with gray, and life had etched early lines of strain and disillusionment in his gentle face.
Sebastian held out one of his cards. “I’m Devlin.”
“Ah.” Somerset nodded as he took the card. “Liam Maxwell told me you might be paying me a visit.” He cast a quick glance at the men working the presses and said in a lowered voice, “Please, come this way.”
He led Sebastian to a small, untidy office warmed by a rusty stove and filled with stacks of invoices, reams of paper, and crates of unbound books ready to be shipped. Most publishers sold their books in plain paper wrappers with temporary sewing, for permanent bindings were typically left to booksellers or to private buyers who took the books to their own binders and had them covered in leather to match their personal libraries. But Sebastian could also see stacks of inexpensive guidebooks bound in plain cloth covers, which was something of an innovation.
Somerset nodded to the bench of an elegant pianoforte, which stood like a calm in the midst of a storm. “Have a seat. Please.”
“I should probably stand,” said Sebastian, swinging off his greatcoat. “I’m rather wet.”
Somerset pressed one splayed hand against the top of his cluttered desk as if bracing himself for what he was about to hear. “Is it true, then? Jane was murdered?”
“It’s either murder or manslaughter. It’s difficult to say which.”
“Oh, dear God.” His voice cracked, and he swiped a hand across his mouth and looked away, blinking. “Poor Jane.”
Sebastian said, “When was the last time you saw your sister?”
Somerset sighed. “I’m afraid it’s been some time—perhaps as much as ten days. She came here.”
“For any particular reason?”
Somerset nodded. “I publish her music. She brought a collection of new ballads she’d written.”
Sebastian glanced at the piano. “You play?”
Somerset gave a wry, self-deprecating smile. “I do—for my own pleasure. But I’m nowhere near Jane’s level, if that’s what you’re asking. Growing up with Jane and James ahead of me was rather intimidating, I suppose. Besides, I always wanted to be a writer.”
“Do you still write?”
“Oh, yes. Although I’m careful these days what I say and how I say it. I spent two years in prison for the sin of speaking my mind, and it’s not an experience I care to repeat.”
“Did Jane share your political views?”
“Jane?” Somerset gave a huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “She taught piano to Princess Charlotte—and to Princess Amelia before she died. What do you think?”
“I think one can take advantage of the prestige afforded by instructing members of the royal family and still quietly nurture radical ideals.”
“Not Jane. Oh, there’s no denying she loathed the Regent—a free Englishman can still say that, can’t he? But she was a firm believer in the institution of monarchy.”
“Did she ever talk to you about the Princess?”
“I know she had a genuine affection for the girl.”
“She didn’t say anything to you about Charlotte’s betrothal?”
“Is she betrothed? I hadn’t heard that.”