Page 26 of Who Cries for the Lost

The man laughed.

Clenching his jaw, Sebastian arched back against the giant’s massive torso, jerking his head away from the knife at the same time as he swung up both knees and kicked out to drive the heels of his boots into the Frenchman’s gut.

The Frenchman stumbled back, his breath leaving his body in a whoosh as the overgrown oaf, thrown off-balance, staggered, momentarily loosening his grip on Sebastian.

Twisting to one side, Sebastian broke the oaf’s hold and threw himself toward the mouth of the alley, landing in a roll. Snatching his walking stick from the muck, he brought the sharp double-bladed sword hissing from its sheath as he surged to his feet.

“Non,” said the Frenchman to his overgrown companion, reaching out to catch the man’s arm when he would have surged forward.

The oaf drew up, his big hands dangling at his sides, his nostrils flaring and his jaw set hard.

“Non,” said the Frenchman again, swiping one crooked elbow across his wet forehead. “Our message has been delivered.” To Sebastian, he said, “Be wise, monsieur, and remember: all that you hold most dear.”

The two men backed away from him down the alley, the Frenchman watching him carefully, the knife still in his hand.

Sebastian stayed where he was. His wounded leg on fire, the sword stick still gripped in one hand, he leaned back against the alley’s soot-stained brick wall and felt the rain course down his bare face as he drew a long, shuddering breath.

“Calhoun might be a genius of a valet,” said Hero, eyeing Sebastian’s muck-smeared hat, “but I doubt even he will be able to salvage this.”

Sebastian sank deeper into the water of the steaming bathtub set up before the fire in his dressing room. “You never know. The muck might help me to blend in better the next time I need to visit St. Giles.”

She made an incoherent noise deep in her throat and tossed the hat atop the pile of filthy clothes near the door. “You’re lucky Jeeper the wherryman isn’t at this very moment fishing you out of the Thames—minus a few strategic body parts.”

Sebastian tilted back his head and closed his eyes. His leg really hurt like hell now. “No, this was just a warning. They won’t try to kill me until next time.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

He opened his eyes and looked over at her. But all she said was, “Your leg is hurting, isn’t it?”

“A bit.”

She muttered what sounded suspiciously like an oath, then said, “You think the Weird Sisters sent those men after you?”

“It’s possible. Except why would they?”

“Why would anyone?”

“I wish I knew. My friend with the knife was definitely French.”

“A Bonapartist, a monarchist, or a Republican?”

“He didn’t say.”

“And the giant?”

“Who knows? He didn’t actually say anything, although the Frenchman spoke to him in English, which rather suggests that he is not French. And the truth is, they could be working for anyone. One need not be English-born to hire oneself out as a thug to an Englishman.”

“True.”

He shifted his weight in a futile attempt to ease the pressure on his thigh, the movement sending the water sloshing against the copper sides of the tub. “Have you ever met Monty’s wife, Isabella McPherson?”

“I have, yes. And Sibil Wilde is right: She is quite beautiful.”

“She is indeed. Although I can’t help but wonder why Sibil so very deliberately set out to make me suspect Isabella’s husband.”

“Well, McPherson did say the sisters have excellent sources of information. And I can see a cuckolded husband murdering and castrating the man who seduced his wife.”

“Or a betrayed woman hiring a knife-wielding Frenchman and his large friend to kill and castrate her unfaithful lover?”

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