Page 42 of Who Cries for the Lost

He walked around the table to pick up the cards and fan them open in his hands. It was a Marseilles deck, an Italian version of the tarot that had been popular in France for hundreds of years. “It’s an interesting occupation for a woman with your talents—reading cards and studying natal charts, I mean.”

Her nostrils flared on a quick intake of air. “I am very good at what I do. Or were you referring to my acting talents? What precisely would you have had me do after someone did this to me?” One hand flashed up to touch her scarred face. “Hmm? Dwindle into some pitiful wardrobe mistress, condemned to stand in the shadows and watch while other women play the roles I once loved? Or perhaps become a madam, finding protectors for the young women who have no real hope of ever succeeding on the boards?”

“Actually, I hear you do that, too.”

That obviously surprised her. But then she huffed a soft laugh and twitched one shoulder in a shrug. “Men have appetites. I help them find the women to fill them.”

“Is that why Sedgewick came here?”

“Hardly. From what I hear, he had more than enough success filling his own appetites. I told you before: He came for the readings.”

He closed the deck of cards, then cut it in two. “So he believed in the cards?”

She watched him shuffle the deck. “I don’t know if he believed in them, or if he was simply fascinated by the process. Does it matter?”

Sebastian cut the deck again, then turned over the first card. It was the nine of swords. “I was attacked by two men after I left here the other night. One of them was obviously French-born; the other didn’t speak, but he could make a good living exhibiting himself at the local fairs as a giant. You wouldn’t happen to be familiar with them, would you?”

“I did tell you it’s a rough neighborhood.”

“You did. Except the men who attacked me weren’t after my purse; they were delivering a message—a warning, actually—to stop asking questions.”

“A warning you don’t appear to be heeding.”

He turned over the next card: the four of cups.

She said, “Are you accusing me of sending them after you?”

“The possibility did cross my mind.”

“If I had a message for you, I could have delivered it myself.”

“Perhaps.” He turned over the eight of swords. “I hear you collect information to send to Artois. That you were once his lover and you still work for him.”

“Now, where did you hear that?”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed in a slight smile. “The implication was that your interest in Sedgewick—or should I say Artois’s interest?—might have led to his death.”

“You’ve surely discovered by now how Sedgewick amused himself when he wasn’t wooing his friends’ wives into his bed. Everyone from the Prince Regent and Lord Jarvis to their minions in Downing Street wants to see the Bourbons restored in Paris; why would Artois harm someone who was working with them toward that end?”

Sebastian turned over another card: the two of swords. “I don’t know. If I had it figured out, I wouldn’t be here.”

She didn’t smile. “Perhaps you should be directing your inquiries toward one of Napoléon’s creatures in London.”

“Now, there’s an interesting idea. Do you have any names to suggest?”

“Me? I only tell fortunes.”

“Of course.” He laid one last card on top of the others, only facedown this time, then set the deck on the table and turned toward the door.

“Did they ever discover the identity of the man found without a head?” she asked, stopping him.

He paused to look back at her. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Suggestive, don’t you think?”

“Is it? Do you have any idea who he might be? Perhaps you could try reading his cards. It might tell you something.”

“Not really. We already know how his story ends.” Reaching out, she turned over Sebastian’s last card. It was the ten of swords. She stared at it a moment, then looked up. “Who were you reading for?”

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