Page 27 of Who Cries for the Lost

“That, too.”

“The problem is,” said Sebastian, “Sedgewick was involved with too damn many women, any one of whom could be holding a lethal grudge against him. If Sibil is telling the truth—which is unarguably an ‘if’—we now know of three: Eloisa, Isabella, and Alexi. And there may well be more. Who would know?”

“Well, Isabella and Eloisa might,” said Hero. “But no,” she added quickly when he raised his head to look at her, “I am not going to ask either of them if they know who else the man they loved was sleeping with. I seriously doubt they’d be honest with me anyway.”

“Probably not,” said Sebastian, wrapping his hands around the edge of the tub to stand up, streaming hot soapy water. “I suppose I could try asking Aunt Henrietta. If there’s been any gossip, she would know about it.”

Born Lady Henrietta St. Cyr, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne was Hendon’s elder sister and thus not technically Sebastian’s aunt. But she was definitely one of his favorite people. Bright, acerbic, and inquisitive, she knew everyone—and remembered every tidbit of gossip and rumor that had ever passed her way.

Hero reached for the towel that had been kept warming by the fire. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.”

“Huh. You just don’t want to have to ask Eloisa who else her husband was screwing,” said Sebastian, then laughed when she threw the towel at him.

Chapter 16

Thursday, 15 June

Agrande dame now in her seventy-fifth year, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne still lived in the sprawling Park Lane town house to which she had come as a bride many years before. Technically the house now belonged to her middle-aged son, the current Duke. But she had never surrendered it to him, and he knew better than to try to wrest it from her. He simply lived elsewhere.

The Duchess was famous for never leaving her bedchamber until twelve or one, for her regular attendance at the most fashionable of Society’s balls, routs, and card parties meant that she rarely made it to her bed before three or four in the morning. But when Sebastian arrived on her doorstep the next morning shortly after ten, it was to find her already dressed in an elegant gown of dark blue peau de soie and seated at her breakfast table. A slice of half-eaten toast lay abandoned on the plate before her, and her tea was going cold. She had a copy of the Morning Post spread out on the table and was studying it carefully through the quizzing glass she wore on a gold chain around her neck.

“Devlin,” she said, looking up when her butler ushered him into the room. “Have you seen the papers?”

“Not today, no,” said Sebastian, going to pour himself a cup of tea.

She leaned back in her chair, her lips pursed, her face pinched with an uncharacteristically worried frown. Like Hendon, she was stockily built, with a broad, slablike face enlivened by the brilliant blue St. Cyr eyes. She had never been pretty, even when young, but she’d always had a stately manner, a regal presence, and an unerring sense of style. Sebastian was convinced she’d been born to be a duchess.

“Why?” he asked, coming to pull out the chair beside her. “What is it?”

“Napoléon has left Paris and is headed for the frontier!”

“Yes, I know.”

She stared at him. “You knew? Since when?”

“Yesterday sometime.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

He took a quick sip of tea and scalded his tongue. “I’m sorry; it didn’t occur to me.”

She folded her paper, then folded it again into a neat square, her attention seemingly all for her task. “You must know that both Alexander—Claiborne’s middle son—and Peter—he’s Emily’s second... or is it her third? At any rate, they’re both with the Army in Belgium. Alexander is one of Wellington’s aides-de-camp. And it didn’t occur to you that I might be interested in the fact that virtually the entire French Army is now marching against two of my favorite grandsons?”

“I truly am sorry,” he said again.

She brought up a hand to rub her eyes with a spread thumb and forefinger. “Hendon tells me you’ve involved yourself in this ghastly murder of Miles Sedgewick.”

“I take it he’s displeased?” said Sebastian, wondering why the Earl—who must surely have known of Bonaparte’s move—hadn’t seen fit to notify his sister about that, rather than grumbling to her of his heir’s shortcomings.

“What do you think?”

Sebastian simply took another sip of his tea.

“Frankly, I’m not surprised Sedgewick met an unpleasant end,” she said. “He was a sordid man.”

“But from a good family.”

Henrietta sniffed. “The family is ancient enough, I’ll give you that, even if the title is of fairly recent origin. And they’ve managed to hold on to their wealth better than many. But they’ve always been a bit off, if you know what I mean?”

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