Page 80 of Who Cries for the Lost

“Have you told Aunt Henrietta?”

“Not yet, but I will. I know she’s anxious.”

“And you say this messenger left Wellington on Friday?”

“That’s right.”

“That was days ago,” said Devlin as Hero quietly reached out to take his hand in hers. “Whatever the outcome, it’s surely happened already. We just don’t know about it yet.”

Chapter 44

Buffeted by an eerie wind, a bank of clouds scuttled fitfully across the almost full moon overhead, casting shifting, ominous patterns of light and shadow across the haunted recesses of Alexi’s garden. Paul Gibson stood on the small back stoop of his ancient stone house and breathed the cool night air deep into his lungs. His chest and arms were bare, but he still felt hot, his body riven by pain and burning with a shameful need. Wrapping his fists around the railing, he gritted his teeth, his body shaking as he fought against the hellish siren call of desire he was determined to resist, at least for tonight. He was dimly aware of the door opening softly behind him, Alexi’s presence only on the periphery of his consciousness until she slipped her strong arms around his waist and pressed her warm body close to his.

“Hurting?” she said.

“A bit.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, and I admire you for it. But trying to stop the opium while you still have the pain is...” She paused.

He gave a ragged laugh. “Torture? Foolish? Doomed to failure? All three?”

She didn’t answer. A silence fell between them, a silence filled with the night wind and the echoing memories of all the harsh, accusatory words they’d spoken to each other in anger over the years.

She said, “I also know why you don’t want to let me try to fix your phantom pains.”

He turned to look at her. It never ceased to amaze him how small and delicate she felt in his arms, and yet she was so fierce, so strong and capable. “How can you?” he said hoarsely.

A sad smile lit up her eyes. “Because I know you. You’re afraid my mirror trick will actually work, only then you won’t be able to stop taking the opium. And without the pain as an excuse, you’re afraid I’ll despise you for being weak and turn away from you in disgust.”

He sucked in a ragged breath, and then another, and still he found he couldn’t seem to say anything.

She said, “It will be easier for you to get off the opium if you don’t have the pain from your leg to deal with at the same time. But I know that doesn’t mean it will be easy. It’s going to be god-awful.”

He pressed his hot forehead to hers, their breaths mingling together. “You’re right,” he whispered, his body trembling. “I am afraid. I’m afraid I won’t have what it takes to stop. And I’m afraid you’ll leave me once you realize that.”

“I won’t leave you.”

He gave a faint shake of his head. “I understand now why you would never agree to marry me. But I’ll never understand why you’d want to stay with some broken-down one-legged Irish opium eater.”

“You don’t? I can tell you why. It’s partially because you’re brilliant and truly amazing at what you do. But you’re so much more than that. You’re good and kind, funny and giving, but also courageous and honorable and everything that’s noble.” She bracketed his face with her hands, her palms pressing flat against his cheeks as she smiled into his eyes. “And as it happens, I also really, really like the way you look.”

Tilting her head, she kissed his lips slowly and lovingly. “Now come to bed, and let’s take your mind off that pain.”

Chapter 45

Tuesday, 20 June

The next day dawned cloudy and sullen. Sebastian awoke early, aware of a strange lassitude, a sense of palpable anxiety that seemed to hang in the air, as if the inhabitants of the city were collectively holding their breath, waiting for word from across the Channel.

He was in the midst of shaving when an urgent message arrived from Sir Henry Lovejoy. A wherryman on his way home at the end of his shift had discovered another body, this one at Rotherhithe.

Sebastian could see Lovejoy standing at the water’s edge, his features grim, his hands thrust deep in his pockets as a cold, briny wind lifting off the Thames whipped at the hem of his greatcoat. A constable and two men from the deadhouse waited nearby with a shell, their gazes, like that of the magistrate, on the dead man sprawled on his back at their feet, the gray waters of the river lapping against his legs. As he drew closer, Sebastian could see the man’s dark, wet hair and the pale, waxen flesh of his vaguely familiar face. His clothing was sodden and disarrayed by his time in the water, but otherwise intact. If the killer had mutilated this victim in some way, it wasn’t visible.

“My lord,” said the magistrate, turning as Sebastian worked his way down the steep, slippery bank toward them. “My apologies for disturbing you so early.”

“I was afraid we weren’t finished with this,” said Sebastian, a cascade of small stones rolling beneath his feet as he slid to a halt at the water’s edge.

Lovejoy drew a deep breath. “At least this time there doesn’t appear to be any mutilation. But his purse is still in his pocket, so it’s obviously not the work of footpads.”

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