Page 22 of What Cannot Be Said

Veronica swallowed hard. “He said he’d given her a chance to back off and she’d refused to do it. So now she was going to pay.”

?It was an hour or so later that Hero received an unexpected visit from her father, Charles, Lord Jarvis.

She was seated on the flagged terrace at the rear of the Brook Street house, enjoying the first stirrings of a cool evening breeze and watching the two little boys prowl through the shrubbery of the garden in pursuit of their long-haired black cat, when their majordomo, Morey, showed the Baron out to her.

“Grandpapa! Grandpapa!” shouted Simon, pushing himself up from beneath a holly bush to run up the broad, shallow steps to the terrace and fling himself against his grandfather’s legs.

“Simon! Simon!” mocked Jarvis with a laugh, catching the sweaty, dirty little boy around the waist and holding him at arm’s length. “Good heavens, how grubby you are. Vegetation in your hair” —he raked a twig from the boy’s dark curls—“and what, if I’m not mistaken, is mud ground into the knees of your dress.” He glanced over at Hero as he set the boy back on his feet. “You’re going to need to breech him, you know.”

“Yes, both of them. Very soon,” agreed Hero. She was aware of Patrick coming slowly up the stairs to stand quietly at a distance, watching them. Jarvis adored his grandson and now had his head bent, studying the caterpillar Simon held cradled in one grimy palm for his inspection. But as far as his lordship was concerned, Patrick didn’t exist.

“A lovely specimen,” Jarvis told Simon. “But I suggest you put him back where you found him while I talk to your mother.”

Simon gently closed his fist around his treasure with a laugh.

Jarvis stood for a moment, watching the boys run off together; then he tossed his hat on the glass-topped terrace table and settled in the chair opposite Hero. “I can only stay a moment,” he told her. “But I thought you’d like to know we’ve received confirmation that Napoléon did indeed surrender to the captain of one of our ships last week—the Bellerophon, off the western French port of Rochefort. They reached Devon this morning—Torbay, to be exact. One of the captain’s lieutenants has arrived at the Admiralty with dispatches and a letter from Napoléon for the Prince Regent.”

Hero was aware of a strange sense of light-headedness, so that for a moment she could only breathe. “So,” she said at last. “It truly is over. What will be done with him?”

“For the time being, he’ll be held on the ship, although I’d like to see the Bellerophon moved as soon as possible to Plymouth. It’s a much safer harbor, and the presence of the Navy there should preclude any possibility of him being rescued—or seized. But what happens to him after that has yet to be decided. According to his letter, Napoléon is seeking political asylum and wants nothing so much as to buy a small estate somewhere in England and settle down to the quiet life of a country gentleman.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Needless to say, there are more than a few who’d like to see him turned over to the Bourbons to be hanged.”

Hero studied her father’s impassive features. “But not you?”

Jarvis pressed his lips into a tight line and shook his head. “It sets a dangerous precedent, executing a deposed head of state. And even if one sees Bonaparte as a general and not as an emperor, the fact remains that he wasn’t captured. He surrendered to us voluntarily, and one does not execute generals who surrender.” He paused, then added, “Or at least, one should not.”

Hero said, “Apart from the stain it would be on our honor, it’s also basically a bad idea.”

“Undoubtedly. If the last hundred days have shown us nothing else, it’s how popular Bonaparte still is with the people of France and how unpopular King Louis XVIII and his family are. I can’t think of a better way to make Napoléon a martyr than for the Bourbons to hang him—especially if he were turned over to them by the very nation the French people have been fighting off and on for the last century and more.”

“So you favor—what? Sending him into exile again? Where?”

“A number of places have been suggested, from Malta and Gibraltar to the Cape of Good Hope. Personally, I favor St. Helena. The disgrace of exile—at a safe distance from Europe this time—would make him a far less dangerous figure than one who found glory in death. Thank God he didn’t die at Waterloo. They say he tried to poison himself at Fontainebleau after he was defeated last year, but the poison was old and only made him ill. I’m surprised he didn’t try again after Waterloo.”

“That might have been better.”

“Perhaps.” Jarvis heaved himself to his feet with a grunt. “At least he didn’t manage to escape to the United States, which we’re told was his plan. Ironically, if he’d set off for the coast immediately after he abdicated, rather than dithering at Malmaison for the better part of a month the way he did, he probably would have made it.”

Hero rose with him. “When will it be in the papers?”

“Tomorrow morning. Needless to say, the Prince is pleased. He can now go ahead with his plans for another grand celebration on the anniversary of the accession of the Hanovers to the throne of Britain.”

“Another one?”

“Another one. Combined with a celebration of our recent victory at Waterloo and the final defeat of Napoléon.” Jarvis reached for his hat, then paused. “I’m told Devlin has involved himself in these ghastly murders out at Richmond Park.”

“Did you think he would not?”

She was surprised to see a shadow of concern flit across Jarvis’s normally controlled, impassive features. “It’s disquieting, someone going around killing mothers and their children.”

“It is disquieting, yes. Which is why Devlin is determined to see whoever is responsible brought to justice.”

Jarvis fixed her with a steady look. “You will be careful.” It was not a question.

Hero smiled at him. “Of course. I’m always careful.”

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