Page 56 of Who Cries for the Lost

“No one really knows; she was found dead one morning in her bed by her maid. The inquest accepted the opinion of Stamford’s physician that she must have had a bad heart. Except that the Marquis had refused to allow anyone to perform a postmortem examination, and everyone said she had never exhibited any signs of heart problems in the past, so naturally there were rumors that she must have been poisoned. But nothing was ever proven.”

“How old was she?”

“Twenty-five. It struck me as odd at the time, for Miles Sedgewick to go off to war like that when he’d only been married a year and had a new baby. But while the rumors do seem an obvious explanation, that doesn’t mean they are true.” The Duchess pushed to her feet. “And now I really must go.”

Sebastian walked with her into the entrance hall. But at the door she paused and turned to him, her lips pursing with worry. “I don’t like this, Devlin—what you’re involved in here, I mean. And it has nothing to do with the sort of objections Hendon invariably raises to this sort of thing. It’s because whoever is killing these men is evil. I generally see the use of that word as overly melodramatic, but in this instance I don’t think there is any other way to describe it. And I’m not convinced that we can touch evil without somehow being contaminated by it.”

“Someone was just telling me that he thinks of evil as the ultimate selfishness—the elevation of one’s own needs and desires above all else.”

She considered this a moment, then shook her head. “It’s more than that, I think. It’s a deliberate, conscious rejection of all that is good and right.” For a moment her face seemed to go oddly slack, her eyes becoming cloudy as if she were gazing at something both private and deeply disturbing.

Then she shook it off and turned away. “And now I must be off. Do try not to get yourself killed, will you?”

Later that evening, Jarvis was standing at the windows of his chambers in Carlton House, his thoughtful gaze on the shadowy forecourt below, when Major Drake was ushered into his presence.

The major was a tall, trim former hussar with hard gray eyes, sweeping blond military mustaches, and numerous talents that combined nicely with a grim willingness to kill when necessary. He’d been with Jarvis now for several years.

“So,” said Jarvis, reaching for his snuffbox. “Does he suspect?”

Major Drake bowed. “I don’t think so, my lord.”

Jarvis nodded. “Good. And the other matter?”

“We’re still working on that, my lord.”

Jarvis raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?” He flipped open his snuffbox, his lips tightening into a thin line. “Work harder.”

A faint flush rode high on the other man’s cheekbones, and he bowed again. “Yes, my lord.”

Chapter 34

That night there was a strange quality to the air, a heaviness that had nothing to do with heat but was nonetheless oppressive. The moon was almost full, a fat silver orb ringed by a ghostly shadow. It was caused by mist, but it reminded Sebastian of the drifts of smoke that obscured both sun and moon after battle, and it added to the sense of urgency that stayed with him as he prowled the gentlemen’s clubs of St. James’s Street in search of the Marquis of Stamford.

He finally came upon Miles’s brother crossing the vestibule of White’s. Stamford’s face hardened at the sight of him, and he was pushing past Sebastian without any acknowledgment when Sebastian stopped him by saying, “If I might have a word with you in private, my lord?”

“I have nothing further to say to you,” snapped the Marquis and kept going.

“If you prefer,” said Sebastian, raising his voice loud enough that one or two other men turned to stare, “I can ask my questions here and now. But for the sake of the late Lady Stamford, I thought—”

“You bloody son of a bitch,” hissed the Marquis, turning back to him. “Keep your voice down.”

Sebastian met the man’s blazing gaze. “Shall we go for a walk?”

Stamford stared at him for a long moment, his face tight, his breath coming hard and fast. Then he pressed his lips tightly together and gave a curt nod.

They turned downhill toward the ancient brick palace of St. James’s that lay at the base of the street. The pavements were crowded with boisterous well-heeled gentlemen of various ages and the laughing, richly gowned, considerably less-well-born females who hung on their arms. The scents of roasting meat and fine wine and spirits hung heavily in the air; golden light and music spilled from elegant windows and open doors.

“Say what you have to say and be done with it,” snapped Stamford. “But I give you fair warning: Insult the memory of my dead wife and I swear to God, I’ll call you out for it.”

Sebastian studied the older man’s cold, hard face. “I’m told you had a rather spectacular rift with your brother some years ago. You obviously don’t need me to repeat the rumors it generated.”

The Marquis stared straight ahead. “Family members quarrel. Sometimes brothers, sometimes fathers and sons.” A gleam of malice showed in his eyes as he threw Sebastian a knowing look. “I doubt you need me to remind you of that.”

“True. Although it becomes more of a concern when one of those family members turns up dead.” Sebastian paused, then said, “Seven years ago I was in the Peninsula. I only know of the past rift with your brother because people are talking about it again. It might behoove you to set the record straight.”

“Damn you all to hell,” snapped Stamford, drawing up again. “If you must know, the quarrel was over Miles’s debts. You know what young men new on the town can be like. He was bored and looking to amuse himself in any way he could, and I saw where things were going. So I called him on it, and then I bought him a pair of colors. It’s what he’d been wanting for years—he’d been Army-mad from the time he was a young lad. I was the one who’d been standing in his way—he’d been my heir, you know. But by that point I had a son of my own who was a year old, and I realized I’d been making a mistake, stopping Miles from doing what he’d always wanted to do. So I let him go.... The rumors about my wife that followed were ugly and baseless, and damn your eyes for reminding me of them.”

He drew a quick, angry breath. His face was stony, but fury had turned the flesh a dark, almost purple hue. “Why the hell are you poking your nose into something that occurred years ago, anyway? If you want to know what happened to my brother, I keep telling you to look at that French whore—the one who calls herself Alexi Sauvage.”

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