Page 98 of Who Cries for the Lost

He nodded, his eyes narrowing as he turned to gaze out over the cheering crowds. “Look at them, celebrating the restoration of a bunch of crowned tyrants who value their lives and those of their children less than those of the sheep and goats of the field.”

“Are they celebrating the restoration, do you think? Or simply the end of a war that has bled us all for so long?”

“That I could understand,” he said, his jaw tightening as a roar went up from the crowd. “What a useless tragedy it has all been.”

Kat nodded, conscious of an ache pulling across her chest. “Napoléon was an imperfect vessel for anyone’s hopes and dreams, let alone entire nations.”

“That he was, indeed.” He fell silent for a moment, the air filling with music as a band on one of the barges below struck up a rousing march. Then he said, “The theater season will be ending soon. What will you do?”

She turned her face into the cool wind rising off the water, letting it buffet her cheeks and grab her hair to stream it out behind her. “Travel, I think. I’ve always wanted to see Rome and Venice. I might even go back to Paris once things sort themselves out there.” She looked over at him. “Have you ever been?”

“To Rome or Venice? I have not. Nor have I been to Paris.”

“I suppose the existence of Fouché’s list might make Paris problematic,” said Kat.

“That it might. I doubt Sedgewick’s copy was the only one.”

An eddy of wind billowed her hair around her face, and she flung up both hands to catch it back again. “So perhaps not Paris,” she said. Then her gaze met his and they shared a smile. “At least not yet.”

Shortly before ten that morning, Sebastian and Hero took the boys to St. James’s Park to watch a grand victorious display of cavalry and infantry organized by the Prince Regent’s brother the Duke of York, who was also the commander in chief of the Army. Bathed in a rich golden light, with a faint breeze that stirred the bright green leaves of the plane trees and ruffled the sky-blue waters of the canal, the park was crowded with men, women, and children from all walks of life, laughing and passing the morning editions of the city’s papers from hand to hand, the loose pages flapping in the breeze.

“I somehow can’t quite bring myself to believe the wars are finally, truly over,” said Hero as Sebastian hoisted Simon up onto his shoulders so the little boy could see better. “What do you think will happen to Bonaparte?”

“I suspect he’ll try to abdicate in favor of his son, but I doubt the Allies will accept it. If Marie-Thérèse has her way, he’ll be shot—or hanged. Of course, they’ll need to catch him first—”

He broke off as someone shouted “Fire!” and the thunderous booms of a double salute sounded from the guns, the clouds of smoke drifting across the grass.

“Wow,” said Patrick, his eyes bright, his cheeks ruddy with the morning chill. “Ain’t that something?”

“Boom!” said Simon, and Hero laughed.

From their position at the head of the canal, a military band broke into “See, the Conquering Hero Comes,” and the crowd roared.

But there was a somber edge to the celebrations, for while Wellington had won an undeniable victory, it had come at a terrible cost. The morning papers all carried a long list of the dead and wounded from two battles they were calling Quatre Bras and Waterloo. And as horrible as those lists were, everyone knew they would only grow longer in the days to come. Amongst the dead was the Duke of Brunswick, first cousin to the Prince Regent and uncle to his daughter, Princess Charlotte. Also dead was one of the Duchess of Claiborne’s favorite grandsons, Alexander, although his cousin, Peter, had escaped with only a minor shoulder wound. He was one of the lucky ones.

For a time Hero and Sebastian stood side by side in silence, the boys in their arms as they watched the cavalry wheel and charge. But Sebastian could tell Hero’s thoughts were elsewhere, and after a moment she said quietly, “I find it strangely disturbing that Tiptoff discovered the part Sedgewick played in the tragedy of Cabrera as a result of a philosophical discussion on the nature of evil.”

Sebastian glanced over at her. “Monty said Sedgewick wasn’t ashamed of it. He probably used Cabrera as an example of something that otherwise might be classified as evil, but wasn’t since it was for a ‘good’ cause.”

“Except he didn’t know the man he was saying it to had lost a brother there,” said Hero.

Sebastian nodded. “And who was both willing and able to exact a terrible revenge. Another evil act justified as good.”

“How did he find out that Hamilton Evans was fathered by one of the Wellesley brothers?”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed as he watched the cavalry thunder back toward them. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Sibil Wilde knew that. It’s exactly the sort of thing she would be likely to learn and tuck away as potentially useful. But I have no idea how he learned about Francisco de la Serna.”

“So why kill Sibil?”

“I could be wrong, but I suspect he must have decided she’d become a threat to him in some way. After so many killings, what’s one more?”

Hero was silent for a moment as the infantrymen cheered and tossed their caps into the air. “How many have died, do you think?” she said. “In the last twenty-five years of war, I mean.”

“Altogether? I’ve heard estimates of between five and seven million. But I don’t know if that includes civilians or simply the military.”

“Good Lord,” she whispered as the crowds around them cheered. “And for what? Here we are, back exactly where we were before, with the same spoiled, dissolute crowned monarchs once more on their thrones. Except that millions of men are dead or broken and millions more are grieving.”

“At least, hopefully, we’ll now have peace.” He reached out to take her hand in his and hold her tight. “For a time.”

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