Page 32 of Who Cries for the Lost

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but I’ve put Lady McPherson in the drawing room. I told her you were not receiving, but she is quite distraught, and—”

“Thank you, Morey,” she said. “Please tell her I’ll be down in just a few moments.”

She found Isabella McPherson pacing before the fire, her reticule clutched tightly in both hands, her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks flushed. The hem of her simple muslin gown was wet and mud splashed; her rain-splattered pink spencer buttoned askew; the brim of her fashionable straw hat bent and one of its pink ribbons torn. But even haphazardly dressed and with her face marred by crying, she was still a stunningly beautiful woman, tall and willowy, with enormous velvety brown eyes, a perfectly sculpted nose, a full, short upper lip, and a small square chin. The only daughter of a comfortably situated Kent baron, she had married Sir Montgomery in her first season. It was said to be a love match, for with her beauty she could have aimed much higher than a mere baronet.

“Ah, there you are,” she exclaimed, drawing up sharply at the sight of Hero. “I’m told Lord Devlin is looking into the death of Miles Sedgewick; is that true?”

“It is, yes,” said Hero. “Won’t you please have a seat?”

Isabella tore the wet, crumpled hat off her dark hair and tossed it aside. “No, thank you; I can’t, I’m too wound up.”

“You knew Sedgewick?” said Hero as the younger woman resumed her pacing, a distraught cauldron of grief mingled with rage.

“Yes, of course. He and Monty were in the Peninsula together.”

“Yes, I understand they—”

Isabella drew up abruptly and whirled to face her again. “I’m here because Lord Devlin must know that I’m quite certain it’s Bonaparte who’s done this—or rather, his agents. Miles had just been to Vienna, you see, and he brought back a list of a dozen or so names—people in London who used to secretly pass information to Napoléon.”

Hero stared at her. “How do you know this?”

“He told me.”

“You saw him? After he came back from Vienna?”

“Yes, yes. He came to see me Saturday—or rather, he came to see Monty, of course. Only Monty wasn’t there, so Miles stayed and visited with me for a time.”

“And he told you about this list?” It struck Hero as profoundly strange for a man to divulge such sensitive information to a woman he supposedly knew only as his friend’s wife...

“Yes,” Isabella was saying. “He was excited about it—you know how he could get.” Her lips trembled, her chest jerking as her breath caught on a sob. “He said it would make quite a stir if it ever came out, and that he suspected there were some people in high places who would like to see him dead, if they only knew.”

“Did he mention anyone in particular?”

“Not by name, no. But he did say there’s someone in the cabinet who would be utterly disgraced, thanks to his association with some actress who passed information to Paris for years.”

Dear God, thought Hero. Hendon. Hendon, whose Irish-born natural daughter had once used her position as London’s most celebrated actress to acquire information she then passed on to the French—not because of any love for Napoléon but in the spirit of “my enemy’s enemy is my friend.” It had been years since Kat worked actively to help the French, even though she was still passionately devoted to her dream of an independent Ireland free from the onerous, oppressive boot of Britain. But Hero was quite certain that if such a list existed, Kat’s name would be on it.

“When was this?” Hero said sharply.

Isabella’s eyes widened. “That I saw him? I told you—Saturday.”

“I meant, what time did he arrive? It could be important in determining what happened to him that day.”

Isabella stared at her a moment, then blinked and looked away. “I truly don’t see how it could be, but...” She thought about it a moment, then said, “He came just as I was sitting down to a nuncheon, so I suppose it must have been about one or shortly thereafter. I asked him to join me, and he did—said he’d just finished some tiresome meeting and was famished.”

“How long was he with you?”

Isabella made a fluttering gesture with one hand. “I don’t know precisely. Four hours? Something like that.”

Good heavens, thought Hero. But all she said was, “Do you know how he was planning to spend the evening?”

“No, he didn’t say.”

Hero studied the younger woman’s beautiful, tear-ravaged face. “Have you considered contacting Bow Street? They—”

“Oh, no. No!” Isabella took a quick step toward her, then drew up. “You can’t tell anyone that this information came from me.”

“Why not?” Hero knew precisely why not, but she asked the question anyway, simply to see her guest’s reaction.

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