Page 79 of Who Cries for the Lost

“Meaning no offense, to be sure.” Setting aside his empty glass, the Reverend went to stand at the window, his gaze on the slowly fading day. “It’s hard to think that somewhere out there, at this very moment, the future history of the world is being decided, is it not? And yet here we are and we don’t even know what’s happening now, let alone what the eventual outcome will be.”

Sebastian studied the man’s handsome, chiseled profile. “You never thought of rejoining your old regiment when you heard about Napoléon’s return? As a chaplain, perhaps?”

Palmer turned toward him with a self-deprecating smile. “No. Sadly, my responsibility now is to my congregation here. But ‘they also serve who only stand and wait,’ hmm? May I offer you more brandy? Ah, I see you’ve hardly touched yours.”

Sebastian set aside his half-empty glass. “Thank you, but I must be going.”

The Reverend walked with him to the door. “You still think the same killer murdered all three of the men whose bodies were pulled from the Thames?”

“Actually, I’m not sure what to think at this point.”

Palmer nodded, his lips tightening into an upturned grimace even as his eyes wandered elsewhere.

That evening, Hero worked at mending the torn flounce of one of her gowns while Devlin stood by the drawing room window, his gaze on the darkness beyond. There was a tension about his shoulders, mingled unmistakably with an air of profound sadness.

“You’re afraid it’s Monty who killed Sedgewick, aren’t you?” she said quietly, watching him. “Because of what Palmer said today?”

He turned his head to meet her gaze. “It isn’t as if the possibility hadn’t occurred to me before. I can’t see Monty killing Hamilton Evans or Astrid Wilde or whoever that unidentified corpse might be. But he would hardly be the first to kill a man who was cuckolding him.”

“You’re back to thinking the deaths are the work of two different killers?”

He scrubbed his hands down over his face. “Half the time, yes. The other half of the time...”

“Did you ever ask Monty how he knew even before you did that Sedgewick had been stabbed?”

“No. He’d probably claim it was just a lucky guess—and then never talk to me again for thinking he’s a murderer. And while I won’t hesitate to turn him in if he is the killer, I’ve no desire to lose an old friend if he’s not.”

She tied off her thread and set the mending aside. “If it were me, I’d put my money on the good Reverend Palmer of Marylebone. He eliminates the philandering husband, excuses it by telling himself he’s doing the Lord’s work in removing someone with a satanic interest in witches and werewolves, then marries the rich widow and thus leaps far, far higher up the social and economic ladder than he could otherwise dream of.”

Devlin smiled. “That’s because you don’t like him.”

She gave a soft laugh. “No, I don’t. But then, I have an ingrained aversion to hypocritical churchmen.”

“Oh, he’s nothing if not hypocritical,” said Devlin. “All three of the men from the 40th Foot I spoke to today told me Palmer was infamous for having twice executed French prisoners—put the muzzle of his pistol against their heads and blew their brains out.”

“Dear Lord,” she whispered. “So we know he can kill.”

“Oh, he can kill, all right. But then, so can Monty.” He paused, his head lifting, then said, “I wonder who that is.”

“What—” she started to say, then broke off as a knock sounded at the front door below. “The acuity of your hearing is unnerving.”

“Still?”

“Still.”

Their gazes met as the sound of Hendon’s voice mingled with Morey’s drifted up from the entry hall. A moment later the Earl himself appeared at the entrance to the drawing room, his face set in unusually grave lines.

“What is it?” asked Hero.

“The Palace has received news from Wellington,” said the Earl. “Napoléon has attacked the Prussians at Ligny. Seems he managed to put his army in the gap left between Wellington’s men in the west and Blücher’s to the east.”

“And Wellington?”

“Was at a ball given by the Duchess of Richmond when word came through—as were many of his officers. They’re saying some of them headed to the front in evening dress.”

“When was this?” said Devlin.

“The first skirmishes started on Thursday. Then Napoléon absolutely routed the Prussians on Friday, while Wellington was forced to fall back before Marshal Ney from a place called Quatre Bras. According to the messenger he sent, our troops have retreated to some little village halfway back to Brussels. The city is in a full-blown panic, with the French expected to overrun the place at any moment and everyone who can scrambling to find some way to get to the coast. It will be in the morning papers that the fighting has started, but the government is being careful not to release just how bad things are looking.”

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