Page 7 of Who Cries for the Lost

Laughing, Sebastian caught the boy around the waist and swung him high. “Have you, now? And did you see any cannons?”

“Yup,” said the older boy, Patrick, hanging back slightly, his eyes alive with excitement and wonder. Unlike Simon, Patrick was not in fact Sebastian’s own child but the orphaned son of a man whose uncanny resemblance to Sebastian had never been adequately explained.

“Patrick is now torn between the artillery and a career with the light horse,” said Hero, unbuttoning her dusky blue spencer as she came to stand in the doorway. She was a handsome woman just under six feet tall, with a Junoesque build, dark hair, and her father’s aquiline nose and fine gray eyes.

Sebastian reached out to rumple the little boy’s dark hair. “Your father was a rifleman, you know. I never knew a better shot.”

“He was better’n you?” said the boy in wonder.

“He was.”

“Alors, mes enfants,” said Claire, the boys’ French-born nurse, coming to stand beside Hero. “Let’s go see the parrot, shall we?”

“I thought we were finding a new home for that decidedly foul-mouthed bird,” said Sebastian as the boys whooped and turned to tear off up the stairs.

“I’m working on it,” said Hero with a laugh, untying the ribbons of her broad-brimmed feathered hat and tossing it aside as she walked into the room. “So, did you ever make sense of this morning’s strange note from Paul Gibson?”

Sebastian reconsidered his decision not to have another drink and went to pour himself more brandy. “I did,” he said, easing the stopper from the cut-crystal carafe. “The dead man is the Honorable Miles Sedgewick, younger son of the late Third Marquis of Stamford and brother to the current holder of the title. Up until three or four years ago he was an exploring officer with Wellington.”

She peeled off her spencer and tossed it, along with her blue kid gloves, after the hat. “So you knew him?”

“I knew him,” said Sebastian, and left it at that. “Most exploring officers simply ride around the countryside drawing maps and such, always being careful to stay in uniform so they don’t get shot as spies if they’re caught. But some have been known to undertake more clandestine assignments. It’s frowned upon, of course, for a gentleman to engage in such underhanded skullduggery. But a few have been known to do it.”

“As did you.”

“As did I,” Sebastian acknowledged.

“And Sedgewick?”

“He was a natural at it. His mother was Parisian, so his accent was impeccable. One of the aliases he used was the name Sauvage—with the French pronunciation. Miles Sauvage.”

He watched as comprehension flooded Hero’s face, her eyes widening before narrowing shrewdly. “Dear God,” she whispered. “Not Alexi’s Miles Sauvage.”

“The very one.”

“Did she know? I mean, did she know he was still alive?”

“She knew. It seems he went through a marriage ceremony with her—a bigamous ceremony, although she didn’t know that at the time—while they were in Portugal, and she didn’t find out the truth about him until weeks after they’d come to London.”

“Good heavens. I always thought he was a bit of a bounder, but I don’t think I realized just how bad he was.”

“You’ve met him?”

She came to lift the brandy glass from his hand and take a sip. “Several times over the years, but never more than casually. His wife, Eloisa, is a year or two younger than I am. They have two—no, three children now. When was he killed?”

“Gibson says he thinks it was probably Saturday or Sunday.”

“And they’ve kept it out of the papers? Why?”

“Because he’s only just been identified—by Alexi. Whoever killed him mutilated the body.”

“How?”

He told her. Another man might have sought to spare his wife the gory details, but Sebastian knew better than to even try.

“Why would someone do such a thing?” she said when he had finished.

“Revenge? Bloodlust? A desire to prevent the body from being identified, perhaps.”

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