Page 68 of Who Cries for the Lost

“God willing,” said Sebastian.

It was when Sebastian was working his way through the crowd toward Hero that he came upon his father-in-law.

“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Jarvis, stepping in front of him.

“Everyone keeps asking me that,” said Sebastian. “Why are you here?”

“You mean instead of staying home with my wife and newborn son? It was Victoria herself who urged me to come.”

She would, thought Sebastian. Jarvis and his new wife were very well suited to each other.

Jarvis frowned. “Why were you talking to the Spanish Ambassador just now?”

Sebastian cast a quick glance toward the door, where something—or someone—was causing a commotion. “He invited me to visit Spain again.”

There was a loud thump, followed by a curse.

“What the blazes is that racket?” demanded Jarvis, just as a small, skinny lad dressed in a tiger’s striped waistcoat wiggled his way through the jeweled throng of silk-and-satin-clad ladies and their gentlemen.

“A message come for ye from Bow Street,” Tom said breathlessly as he skidded to a halt beside Sebastian. “It’s one o’ them Weird Sisters. She’s been murdered!”

Chapter 39

Astrid Wilde lay slumped behind the counter of the room that had once, in its former life, housed a tavern. Her hands were curled limply at her sides, her head lolling awkwardly against one shoulder. The narrow cord that someone had used to kill her was still tight around her neck, embedded deeply in the flesh of her throat. Her wide-open eyes were bulging and bloody, her tongue so swollen it protruded from her mouth in a horrid grimace. A thin trickle of blood ran from one ear, and her bowels and bladder had let loose, soaking the skirts of her elegant old-fashioned gown of gold satin.

“Ghastly, isn’t it?” said Lovejoy, holding his handkerchief to his nose and mouth.

Sebastian let his gaze drift around the shelf-lined room, ablaze now with light from the lanterns of the constables who stood huddled together in groups of two and three, their shoulders hunched and their faces wary. There seemed to be an extraordinary number of them. “Any idea when this happened?”

“Her sister says she found her just after ten.”

“Which sister?”

“The Jamaican one.”

“Ah. And the other one—Sibil?”

“Says she only came in shortly before we arrived.”

“No one saw anything?”

“Nothing they’re willing to admit to.”

Sebastian jerked his head toward the somber groups of men crowded into the room. “Why all the constables?”

Lovejoy sighed. “It was the only way short of getting someone to call out the Army that I could convince anyone to accompany me here.”

“St. Giles does have a nasty reputation.”

Lovejoy dropped his gaze to the body at their feet. “It is well deserved.”

While Lovejoy was supervising the loading of Astrid Wilde onto the shell that would carry her body to Gibson’s Tower Hill surgery, Sebastian walked down the shadowy passage behind the counter to find Sibil Wilde seated in her ornately carved high-backed chair. A glass with a healthy measure of brandy stood at her elbow and her tarot deck lay strewn across the surface of the table as if she’d thrown it down in anger or disgust. Tonight she wore a gown of dark green velvet that looked like something from the days of Charles II, with slit sleeves joined loosely with ribbons and a full skirt with a satin underdress. The small chamber was lit only by the candelabra she had set in the center of the cloth-draped table, its flames leaping up golden and bright but leaving the corners of the room in shadow. She had her rich dark hair flowing loose around her shoulders, and she looked both beautiful and, somehow, very, very dangerous.

She had been simply staring down at the spilled cards. But she looked up when Sebastian came to stand in the doorway, and for a long moment her gaze met his. Then she said, “You’ve seen her?”

“I have,” said Sebastian, leaning against the doorframe. “Tell me what happened.”

“You think I know?”

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