Page 8 of Who Cries for the Lost

“So how did Alexi recognize him?”

“By his scars. She—”

He broke off as a fierce peal sounded at the front door.

“Expecting someone?” said Hero as Morey moved to open the door.

Sebastian shook his head. “No.”

“The Marquis of Stamford,” an imperious voice announced. “To see Lord Devlin.”

Sebastian’s gaze met Hero’s as they heard Morey say, “Do come in, my lord. If you’ll just—”

Quick, heavy footsteps sounded on the entry hall’s marble tiles as the Marquis brushed past Sebastian’s manservant. “Where the devil is he?”

“My lord! If you’ll just allow me to—”

“In the library, is he?” growled the Marquis. “Never mind; I’ll announce myself.”

“But, my lord—”

Benedict Sedgewick, the Fourth Marquis of Stamford, drew up abruptly just inside the room, with Morey at his heels. “You know why I’m here,” he growled, his gaze meeting Sebastian’s across the room.

“I suppose I can guess,” said Sebastian. “That will be all, thank you, Morey.”

The majordomo hesitated a moment, then bowed and withdrew.

Sebastian studied the man who stood before them, his eyes narrowing as his gaze went from Sebastian to Hero. He was an older, paler, plumper, less handsome version of his dead younger brother, probably somewhere in his early forties, his straw-colored hair laced with gray, his silk waistcoat fitting snugly across the soft swelling of his belly. It was as if each of Miles’s features was exaggerated in his brother, the Marquis’s jaw too square, his nose too big, his eyes a pale, washed-out blue.

“If you’ll excuse us, Lady Devlin?” he said gruffly, sketching the briefest of bows in her direction.

She raised one eyebrow in a way that reminded Sebastian forcefully of her father. “Thank you, but I rather think I’ll stay.”

The Marquis’s full cheeks sagged, his nostrils flaring, as if the idea of a mere female setting her will against him was new to him. Then his face hardened. “As you wish.” He swung back to Sebastian. “I’ve just come from seeing what’s left of my brother lying naked and bloody on the stone slab of some common Irish-born surgeon in Tower Hill, of all places.”

Sebastian leaned his hips back against his desk and fought really, really hard to keep a rein on his temper. “One must make allowances for the recent loss of your brother, Stamford, but I’ll be damned if—”

“That’s right,” shouted Stamford. “Miles was my brother, and now Bow Street tells me you’ve taken it upon yourself to interfere in this. What the devil? I told them I want Miles moved elsewhere for whatever examination they require, that under no circumstances should he remain where he is. But that damned little upstart magistrate—Sir Harold or Sir Henry or whatever his name is—refused. Refused. Me! Claimed no one was better at what he did than that bloody Irishman.”

“Sir Henry is right,” said Sebastian, the desire to gather what information he could from this arrogant, abrasive man at war with the urge to slam his fist into that dark, angry face. “There is no better anatomist than Paul Gibson.”

“The devil you say. He lives with that woman.”

“You know Alexi Sauvage?”

Stamford snorted. “She’s still calling herself that, is she? Let’s just say I know of her. She’s the little French doxy Miles brought back from the Peninsula to nurse him. Then, when he was better and went to dismiss her, she tried to claim he’d married her! Raised quite a ruckus over it some three or four years ago. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she’s the one who murdered him.”

The words twisted the knot of worry in Sebastian’s gut, but he kept his voice low and even. “So was she his wife?”

“Of course she wasn’t! It was all a ridiculous lie—just an ugly scheme to get money out of Miles.”

“And did she? Get money out of him, I mean.”

“Of course not.”

“How do you know it was a lie?” said Hero.

Stamford glanced over at her, his heavy jaw tightening. “Of course it was a lie! He’s been married to Eloisa these past eight years and more.”

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