Page 87 of Who Cries for the Lost

“No one ever knew for certain. Why does it matter so much?”

Sebastian shook his head. “Perhaps it doesn’t.”

Chapter 49

Suspicion is an insidious thing.

Sebastian knew he could be wrong; in fact, he had no doubt that he surely was wrong in some way. But the pieces of this complicated puzzle were finally beginning to align in a clear pattern, and he didn’t like where it was pointing.

He had three sets of victims. It now appeared conceivable that the first set—Miles Sedgewick, Hamilton Evans (because of his connection to the Wellesleys), and the headless possible Spaniard—were linked to what had been done to the prisoners of Cabrera. The second set—Ternant and the two missing people presumably named in Fouché’s list—had passed information to Napoléon, while the third set—Astrid and Sibil Wilde—were known associates of the Bourbons’ London assassin. The first set of victims had been horribly mutilated; the others were cold, professional kills.

That could mean two different killers: one the Bourbon assassin, the other someone determined to wreak his own personal revenge on those he held responsible for the horrors of Cabrera. But the role played in all this by the Fouché list made that doubtful. Sebastian found it far more likely that the Bourbons’ assassin had lost someone he loved on Cabrera and set out to exact a brutal revenge on those he held responsible. Was it only by chance that in the process of mutilating Sedgewick’s body he’d discovered Fouché’s list of names? It seemed increasingly likely. But however it had come about, Gabriel had then set about eliminating the people whose names were on that list. He killed Astrid because she was threatening to reveal his identity, and then he killed Sibil because...

Why? Because she objected to his murder of Astrid? Because she was beginning to find him dangerously unstable? Both?

Neither?

Sebastian had been trying without success to uncover the identity of the Bourbons’ assassin for the better part of a year now, and yet he still knew frustratingly little about the man beyond a few simple facts:

He was comfortable with killing, preferring to use a garrote or dagger but more than capable of employing a pistol or rifle.

He was skilled at adopting disguises.

He spoke French and was, surely, a man who’d lost someone he loved on Cabrera. Yet he was capable of speaking English without a trace of any accent.

The latter was not particularly surprising. England was full of émigrés who’d fled France twenty-five years before as children and were now indistinguishable from the native-born. There were also any number of Englishmen who were at least half French.

It was about the only thing we had in common, Monty had once said of Sedgewick. Beyond what we did in the Army—well, that plus the fact that we both had French mothers...

Suspicion could be an insidious thing.

Monty McPherson was in the stables of Tattersall’s inspecting a fine gray hack when Sebastian walked up to him.

“Devlin,” said Monty with a wide grin. “So what do you think of her? She’s showy, but I know someone familiar with her, and he says she’s a sweet goer with good bottom.”

“She’s a fine mare.” Sebastian smiled as the gray nosed his pockets for carrots. “Is there another auction this week?”

Monty nodded. “The last Thursday auction until fall, I suspect.” He ran a hand down the gray’s near shoulder. “You’re looking rather grave this morning. You don’t believe the reports the papers are all carrying from that fellow who’s supposed to have just arrived from Belgium? He’s saying our lads won a grand victory last Friday and have already chased Boney back to France.”

“You mean Sutton?” Sebastian shook his head. He’d seen the breathless reports and quickly dismissed them. “I’d like to, but it contradicts the official report we’ve already received from Quatre Bras and Ligny—which said that Wellington had been forced to fall back toward Brussels and that the Prussians were soundly defeated.”

“Well, hell. I was hoping you’d heard something official that would confirm it.” His face pinched and drawn, Monty stared off across the courtyard to where a black-and-white cat was rubbing against one of the columns of the pump house. “Do you think this new battle—however it has actually turned out—will end it all? For good, I mean.”

“If Bonaparte has been defeated, yes. Otherwise... probably not.”

“Damn,” he said softly. “I guess I should have taken Isabella to Paris last year when she was pestering me to go. I thought we had all the time in the world to see France.”

“Your mother was French, wasn’t she?”

“She was, yes. From Avignon.”

“Do you still have many relatives there?”

“Some, although I can’t say we’ve kept in touch.”

“Any of them fight in the French Army?”

“Probably. Why do you ask?”

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