Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(36)

“That’s why you’re writing this article.”

She felt tears sting her eyes. “I fear it won’t do any good.”

“Not right away, no. But it’s a start. If no one criticizes or even questions the wrongs of our society, it will never change.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m simply tilting at windmills.”

“Only sometimes?”

She gave a soft gurgle of laughter and turned in his arms to hug his naked male body close. “You’ll catch cold,” she said, sliding her splayed hands over the now icy flesh of his back.

“I’m tough.”

She lifted her head to meet his gaze. He had the most beautiful eyes, a rich tawny gold, with an animal’s ability to see clearly in the dark and over great distances. Strange, feral eyes that had captivated her from the moment she first saw him.

She said, “Make love to me.”

Wordlessly he took her hand and drew her to the fire’s side. There, in the warm glow from the coals, he cradled her face in his palms. Tenderly he kissed her eyelids, kissed cheeks wet with tears she hadn’t even realized she’d let fall. Then his mouth took hers, gentleness giving way to a growing hunger and carnal urgency. She was dimly aware of the shawl slipping from her shoulders as his hands swept over her. She pressed herself against him, one leg coming up to wrap around his thigh.

With a groan, he bore her down before the fire, his body covering hers. Her world filled with firelight gleaming golden over hot sweaty flesh, catching breaths, and an exquisitely tightening spiral of pleasure. It was a desperate affirmation of life in the face of death, of love in the face of selfish indifference and greed.

And afterward, as he cradled her in his arms, she slept.



Sunday, 30 January

The next morning dawned clear and calm but paralyzingly cold.

Hero ate a simple breakfast, then took refuge with Simon beside the fire in the morning room. “Who’s the birthday boy?” she cooed, bouncing the baby up and down on her lap.

“Mm-ga-ga-gee,” he gurgled, reaching out a hand toward the big black cat that sauntered up to sit tantalizingly just out of the boy’s reach.

“Shame on you, Mr. Darcy,” said Hero as the cat flicked his magnificent tail back and forth, his slitted green eyes on the child. “You are a heartless tease.”

“Mm-ga-ga-gee,” said Simon again.

Hero stared at the cat as enlightenment dawned. “Good heavens. Mr. Darcy. He’s ‘Mm-ga-ga-gee’?”

“Mm-ga-ga-gee,” agreed the boy, squirming now to get down.

“One year old and beyond brilliant,” said Devlin, joining her with a cup of tea in his hand and the look of a man whose morning ablutions had been less than satisfactory. “Calhoun tells me the water pipes to the house have frozen. I suppose we should be thankful they didn’t break.”

“Not yet.” Hero set Simon on his feet and watched the boy totter over to the cat. “According to the footmen who went out this morning to fetch water, the river has frozen so solid that some brave souls are venturing out onto the ice and the bridges are packed with people watching them. Unfortunately, they told this tale within the hearing of the scullery maid, who immediately fell into hysterics, convinced it’s never going to warm up and we’re all going to die.”

“Lovely,” said Devlin, his eyes narrowing as Simon plopped down beside the cat. Mr. Darcy stretched to his feet and butted his head against the baby’s hand with an uncharacteristically loud purr.

Mr. Darcy virtually never purred.

Hero’s gaze met Devlin’s, and they both laughed.

She watched as he set aside his teacup and pushed to his feet. She said, “You’re going to ask the Princess of Wales about Jane?”

“I am.” Swooping down, he swung his squealing, laughing son high in the air. “Hopefully with the better part of the city’s population ogling the river, there will be no one to see me put myself beyond the pale by paying a visit to Her Ostracized Highness.”





Chapter 21

A new bank of heavy white clouds was beginning to roll in over the city as Sebastian drove the sleigh out to Connaught House, the current residence of the Prince of Wales’s estranged wife.

She’d been born Caroline of Brunswick, daughter of the late Duke of Brunswick—an enlightened Continental ruler who was also a famous and respected German general—and his somewhat silly wife, Princess Augusta, sister of Britain’s own George III. At the age of twenty-seven, Caroline had been sent to England to marry her first cousin, whom she had never seen.

Things had gone badly from the very beginning.

In a move that was surely deliberately calculated to humiliate his bride, the Prince had sent his mistress, Lady Jersey, to meet Caroline’s ship. He’d further shown his contempt for his new wife by taking Lady Jersey along on their honeymoon and forcing the Princess to accept his mistress as her Lady of the Bedchamber. Simple, good-natured Caroline—homesick and lonely and not particularly wise—was no match for the exquisite, brilliant, and thoroughly nasty Lady Jersey. Sebastian thought it a tribute to Caroline’s fortitude that she’d not only survived her husband’s mistreatment but managed to win the love and support of the British people. Of course, the more they loved Caroline, the more the people hated the Prince of Wales. It became one more thing her royal husband held against her.