Page 6 of Who Cries for the Lost

“Have you seen him since?”

“No. Why would I?”

Sebastian wasn’t sure he believed her. “Why did you tell us your husband was dead?”

She twitched one shoulder in a shrug. “Because he was dead to me. But—” She cast a quick sideways glance at Gibson, who sat silently beside her, his head bowed, his gaze fixed on their entwined hands. “But I couldn’t be really, truly certain our marriage actually was bigamous. I mean, Miles was such a liar. I’ve never known anyone who could lie as easily and smoothly and without conscience as he. What if his marriage to the woman everyone considered his wife was somehow not valid? Then his marriage to me would be.” Her hand was gripping Gibson’s so tightly that her fingers turned white. “I knew I could never marry again, not as long as he was still alive.” And then the blood drained from her face, as if she’d suddenly realized the implications of what she’d said.

Sebastian had a niggling feeling she was leaving something out, something important, but he couldn’t begin to fathom what it was. He said, “As soon as they know who he is, the Thames Police will hand the case to Bow Street. And once Bow Street knows about you, you will in all likelihood be their prime suspect. You do realize that, don’t you?”

It was Gibson who answered, his breath easing out in a long, pained sigh. “Aye, we know it. If it were up to me, we’d be keeping quiet about who that bloody bastard lying in there is. We’d just hand his mangled corpse back to the River Police and let them bury him in the local poor hole. But Alexi won’t hear of it.”

“Why not?”

Something blazed in the Frenchwoman’s eyes. “Because he has a wife and children who have no idea what has happened to him. His father is dead now, but he still has a brother. They all deserve to know he’s dead. How could I let them go on forever, wondering and hoping against hope that someday he might come home? Apart from which...” Her gaze drifted again to that open doorway and the mangled body that lay within. “It doesn’t matter what manner of man Miles Sedgewick was. Whoever did this to him needs to be stopped before they do something like it again.”

Sebastian looked at Gibson. “What can you tell me about how he died?”

The Irishman swiped one shaky hand over his unshaven face. “Not a great deal at this point. About all I know so far is that he was probably in the water a good forty-eight hours or more, and that the shot to his face didn’t kill him. In fact, I’d say that in all likelihood it was done after he was already dead.”

“You think it was done to prevent anyone from identifying his body?”

“Perhaps,” said Gibson. “Although the scars on his chest and arm would be pretty telling to anyone who knew him. And why castrate him, too? I’d say it’s more likely both were done in anger. Or maybe bloodlust.”

Sebastian nodded. Their years at war had taught them both about the primitive, brutal urges aroused in some men by the act of killing. To Alexi, he said, “Where were you Saturday night?”

“Bloody hell,” yelped Gibson, pushing up from the wall so fast he staggered slightly when his weight came down on his peg. “You can’t be serious.”

Sebastian met his friend’s flaring, angry gaze. “It’s a question Bow Street is going to ask, and you know it.” He studied the Frenchwoman’s seemingly calm, emotionless face. “So where were you?”

“Here,” she said, her voice cracking unexpectedly. “I was here.”

“All night?”

She nodded.

“Did anyone see you here besides Gibson?”

She shook her head, her face suddenly white, her nostrils pinched. “No. No one.”

“And you have no idea who might have wanted Miles dead?”

“Besides me, you mean?” she said with a wry curling of her lips. “His real wife, perhaps? But beyond that, no; I have no idea at all.”

After Devlin had gone, they stood silently side by side—Gibson and this awe-inspiringly tough, baffling, and sometimes infuriating woman he loved so fiercely. They listened to his friend’s receding footsteps, to the rattle of harness and the clatter of hooves and iron-bound wheels over ancient cobblestones as the Viscount drove away.

It was only then that Gibson turned to look at her and said, “You didn’t tell him everything.”

She met his gaze squarely. “I can’t. You know why.”

Chapter 5

An hour or so later, Sebastian stood at the window of his library, a glass of brandy cradled in one hand, his gaze fixed unseeingly on a team of snowy white shires pulling a heavy brewer’s wagon up Brook Street. Thanks to his morning ride, his leg hurt like hell. He knew he should sit down, and yet he stayed where he was, lost in a succession of uncomfortable thoughts. Somewhere out there, far across the Channel, the armies of Europe were massing for what would in all likelihood be one of the most decisive battles in history. He could not agree with Britain’s war aim—the restoration of the repressive Bourbon monarchy against the will of the people of France. But the pull of his allegiance to his old regiment was powerful. And it annoyed the hell out of him to know that they needed every last experienced officer they could get, while all he could do was stand here, drinking brandy, nursing a bad leg, and stewing in a toxic but ultimately useless brew of frustration and rage and endless regrets.

Draining his drink, he reached for the brandy carafe that rested on a table near the fireplace. Then he thought better of it and set aside his empty glass with a muttered oath. It had been some five years now since he’d sold out and returned to London, haunted by the things he’d seen as much as by the things he’d done... and not done. And it occurred to him as he turned back to the window that almost everyone associated with the tragic, blood-soaked events of those days in the mountains of Portugal was now dead. The innocent nuns and orphans of Santa Iria. The French major Rousseau and his men. The treacherous, conscienceless British colonel who’d set it all in motion. Of them all, only two still remained alive: Sebastian himself, and the Frenchwoman who called herself Alexi Sauvage.

A patter of light, quick footsteps on the front steps and a child’s ringing laughter jerked Sebastian’s attention to the entry hall. He heard the door open, heard the stately tones of his majordomo, Morey, and Hero’s cheerful response. Then the library door burst open and two dark-haired, hot, and slightly grubby little boys catapulted into the room, bringing with them all the smells of London on a sunny June day. One was slightly taller and older than the other, but otherwise they looked enough alike to be twins.

“Papa!” shouted Simon, the younger lad, startling the big black cat that had been sleeping in one of the chairs by the hearth. “We been to see the soldiers paradin’ in Hyde Park!”

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