Page 81 of Who Cries for the Lost

“I didn’t think it was,” said Sebastian, going to hunker down beside the body. The man was young, probably no more than thirty, his clothing that of a gentleman of fashion and tailored in a style popular with the French. A neat slit was just visible on the left side of his waistcoat, the white silk marred by what looked like a watery bloodstain.

“He was stabbed?” said Sebastian.

“So it appears. Presumably an autopsy will tell us for certain.”

Sebastian nodded, his gaze drawn back to the man’s face. “I’ve seen him before, although I couldn’t put a name to him. Any idea who he might be?”

“We’ve no official identification yet, but a French émigré by the name of André Ternant was reported missing yesterday morning by his wife. The description she gave fits.”

Sebastian nodded. “Yes, that’s who it is; I’ve met him. He fled Paris with his family in the first years of the Revolution, as a child.” He stared down at the dead man’s even, bloodless features. “Hopefully you can find someone besides his poor wife to officially identify him.”

“Surely there must be someone,” said Lovejoy with a sigh. “Do you know if he returned to France last year when the Bourbons were first restored?”

“No. He stayed here.”

“Ah. It makes sense, I suppose. If he’d lived here most of his life, one would suppose London felt more like home than Paris.”

“Perhaps,” said Sebastian, although he could think of another reason for Ternant’s decision not to return to France with the Bourbons.

Lovejoy said, “You saw the news in this morning’s papers?”

“About the fighting in Belgium?” Sebastian pushed to his feet. “Yes.”

“I suppose it was only a matter of time. Now the question becomes, how will it end?”

Sebastian turned his head to stare off across the wind-churned gray waters of the river. “It sounds as if the French caught Wellington and his men absurdly flat-footed, but I think we still have the advantage. If ever Napoléon needed his best commanders, it’s for this fight. But most of his old marshals are honoring their oaths to the Bourbons and simply sitting this out.”

Lovejoy nodded. “Yes, I was surprised to hear just yesterday that Maréchal McClellan is still in Vienna.”

Sebastian drew a deep breath that did nothing to lessen the sudden constriction in his chest. “Yes, a surprise,” he said, although he was careful to keep his face turned away when he said it.

Kat Boleyn was at her breakfast table when Sebastian was shown up to see her. She was wearing a simple white jaconet muslin gown, embroidered up the front with delicate double rows of entwined ivy, and had a cup of tea growing cold beside her as she bent her head over the newspaper she had spread out across the tablecloth.

“You’ve heard about the fighting in Belgium?” she said, looking up.

“Yes.”

She was silent for a moment, her gaze searching his face as she waited for her maidservant to withdraw. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

Sebastian shook his head. “The body of a young man was pulled from the Thames a few hours ago. It’s André Ternant.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered, her lips parting on a quickly indrawn breath.

“How well did you know him?”

“Well enough.”

“So tell me this: Is his name likely to be on Fouché’s list?”

She hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Was he mutilated, like the others?”

“Not that I could see.”

“I wonder why the difference.”

“I suppose that would depend on why the bodies of the others were mutilated.”

She stood abruptly, her back held painfully straight as she went to stand at the window overlooking the rear garden. He watched her, watched the way her hands clenched against the sill and her throat worked when she swallowed. After a moment, she said, “I’m told there are two other people—one an older man, the other a woman—who have disappeared in the last week and whose names could very well be on that list.”

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